True Crime (26 page)

In intimate, hushed, husky voices, the couple spoke steadily. They didn’t have to think about what to say, it simply came out of them.

“Thing I worry about,” Frank murmured into his wife’s eyes. “Thing I worry about more than anything in all this is Gail.”

“She loves you, Frank. She loves her daddy,” Bonnie said.

“I don’t want her ever to think, you know …”

“She wouldn’t think that. She knows you.” “Don’t ever let her think it. You tell her, okay?”

“I’ll tell her, sweetheart, I swear.”

“You keep telling her.”

“I will.”

“I worry, you know,” said Frank softly, pressing her hands between his on the tabletop. “People get bored sometimes hearing something. Even if it’s true. They get tired of hearing the same old thing.”

“She’d never believe …”

“Kids especially. You tell em something …”

“I know.”

“…  and just cause they keep hearing it, they think it isn’t so.”

“I know. But she would never think you’d hurt anyone, Frank. She loves her daddy more than anything.”

He nodded to himself. He fought the urge to glance at the clock. It would be soon, that was all he needed to know. They would be coming to get her soon. He kept his eyes on hers.

“I wrote her …” He swallowed. “What’s that?”

“I wrote her a letter, you know. Something … I thought maybe she’d want something to have. I wanted to give it to her while she was here but …”

“It’ll be precious to her. It’ll be her most precious thing.”

“It seemed like nothing, you know. Way she looked at me when they took her. Just a damn letter.”

“…  precious …” was all his wife could manage to say.

“Because I wanted to be there for her, you know.” “I know.”

“I wanted her to know that.”

“She will.”

He pressed his lips together. “Wishes and horses,” he said. “Thing is to just get through this now.”

“Don’t be afraid, sweetheart. I’ll be right there. And Jesus’ll be with you.”

“Hate to make you see this.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He nodded. “If I can see you, you know …? If I can see your face …”

“You’ll see me.”

“That’ll help.”

“I’ll make sure.”

He held her hands tighter. He didn’t glance at the clock. It would be soon. Looking into her eyes, words welled up out of him. “I sure didn’t mean this to happen to you, Bonnie.”

“I know, I know.”

“This sure wasn’t what I had planned, you know, for us.”

“It’s all right, Frank.”

He shook his head a little. “Man. Man. This life. I tell you. It sure didn’t go right, did it? Hard to make out, I swear, Bonnie. Hard to make out what it was all for, you know, in aid of. Only thing ever made sense to me was you, you and Gail. That made sense of everything. It was too short. You know? Maybe all you can ask for, I don’t know, maybe I should be grateful probably, I don’t know. Sure seemed like, you know, like I just got it figured. I just had it figured out. Then this damn thing.”

“Nothing ever mattered to me either, nothing but you and Gail. I never loved anybody until you, the first time I saw you,” Bonnie said.

“Damn thing. And what’s the
point
, you know?”

“You gotta have faith, Frank. You gotta have. I just know God has some plan. I know he means something in this.”

“Hard to see, you know. Hard to make out. Wish I had time, more time. Doesn’t seem like there was hardly any time for us.”

“No. No. But I love you so, Frank. I love you so much. We’re gonna be together forever, I swear.”

“Damn thing. Like some kind of joke or something. Hard to figure.”

“You gotta have faith. Jesus won’t desert you.”

“I know.” He sighed.

And the door to the cell opened.

Bonnie’s breath caught. She clutched his hands tightly. She didn’t take her eyes away from his. He tried to hold on to her, to her look, but finally, he turned away and saw Luther Plunkitt standing just inside the cell. Benson came in behind him.

The superintendent lifted one hand in a gesture of apology. His smile was apologetic too. “Sorry, Frank, we’re gonna have to ask Mrs. Beachum to leave now.”

Frank nodded. “Give us a minute, okay?”

And Luther nodded. “Sure,” he said.

Frank turned back to Bonnie. Her eyes were filling now, her lips trembling.

“Oh God,” she said.

“No, no, no,” he whispered.

“I swear I don’t know how I’m gonna …” She didn’t finish. She held his hands tightly.

“I won’t get a chance later, you know, to say goodbye,” he said.

She could only shake her head.

“You take care of our girl, Bonnie.”

“I will. You know I will.”

He took the letter he had written out of his pocket. He pressed it into his wife’s hands. “You give her this. When she’s older, you know. I don’t know what good it is …”

“I’ll give it to her. It’ll mean everything to her.”

“Take care of her, Bonnie.”

“I promise.”

“And yourself. Take good care of yourself.”

She sobbed, the tears streaming down her cheeks. Frank did not think he could bear it.

“We’ll meet again, baby,” he said. “This time forever. We’ll meet again.”

Bonnie tried to say, “I know.”

“You talk to me, you hear,” he said. “I’ll be there. I’ll be listening. You tell me how my girls are.”

“I will. I promise.”

He stood up, still holding to her hands, pushing his chair back with his body. He drew her up too. They stood looking at each other, holding their hands together between them.

“Oh God, Frank,” Bonnie said. “How did this ever happen to us?”

Frank felt himself losing control so he drew her into his arms and held her tightly against him so she wouldn’t see his eyes go damp.

“God bless you,” he whispered in her ear. “God bless you, Bonnie. You gave me the only life I had that was worth a damn.”

She whispered over and over that she loved him as Frank held her head against his shoulder and stroked her hair.

Outside the cage, Luther nodded to Benson and he came forward. He placed his key in the wall switch, then the mechanical, and the bars of the cage slid back.

Frank released his wife. Crying, she studied his face, ran her eyes over every inch of it. Frank bit his lip to keep it steady. Then he took her by the arm, guided her toward the bars. He felt her sleeve slip from his fingers as she passed through. The bars rattled shut between them.

Luther and Benson stood aside respectfully to let Bonnie pass. She walked with her head down to the cell door. When she got there, she looked back at him. But she couldn’t say good-bye.

“Good-bye, Bonnie,” he said.

Luther and the white-haired weight lifter followed her out.

Benson stayed behind. He looked at Frank a moment and then quietly turned his back on the cage.

Frank stared through the bars at the cell door. He felt a wild, terrible anguish of relief. It was finished, he thought. He had done for her what he could.

He bowed his face into his hands and began sobbing, loudly, painfully, his body shuddering uncontrollably.

I
meanwhile broke into Michelle Ziegler’s apartment.

It wasn’t an easy job. I’d been there a few times before and I knew it wouldn’t be. Michelle’s theories about male violence made her nervous. She’d turned the place into a fortress. Three deadbolts, a chain and a police bar on the loft’s heavy door. After I parked outside the old
Globe
building, I popped the Tempo’s trunk, and armed myself with a tire iron for the attempt.

The outside door alone—the windowed wooden door that led into the big white brick warehouse itself—held me up for long minutes. I tried the buzzers first. I’d seen that trick on TV. There were five buttons besides Michelle’s and I pressed them all. Unfortunately, if anyone else was home, they’d seen the trick on TV too. No one buzzed me in.

So I tried pressing back the latch with a credit card. Working it between the door edge and the jamb. Checking through the door’s top window and glancing back at the boulevard traffic over my shoulder all the while. Checking all around like some sort of sneak thief, which I suppose is what I was. The street was beginning to darken now, maybe the heat was faltering a little, but the humidity remained dense and my shirt was doused from within as I waggled the plastic rectangle into the wood. Finally, I heard a click. It was my Visa card snapping in half. I drew it out and examined
its chewed edges before stuffing it into the pocket of my slacks, disgusted.

Breathing hard, I glanced back over my shoulder again. Then I put the tire iron through the top window. The idea was to punch out a neat little wedge of glass but the whole pane shattered, disconcertingly loud, like an orchestra of xylophones tuning up before the big show. My heart booming, I reached in and turned the inside knob. I was in. The glass crunched under my feet as I hurried through the small entryway to the stairs.

I went up them two at a time. Three flights. And now, despite my thrice weekly workouts at the gym, my breath was sawing in and out of me and the tar of ten-year-old cigarettes was bubbling harshly in my lungs. When I reached Michelle’s door, I collapsed against the wall beside it, gasping. Gripping the tire iron in my sweat-greased palm, I glowered balefully at the column of stalwart locks. The police bar was on the bottom and I knew there wasn’t much chance of breaking through that. But I was ready to pry the whole door off its hinges if I had to. Anyway, there was nothing for it and no time to waste.

My chest still heaving, I pushed myself off the wall. With a grunt, I fit the wedge of the iron into the jamb. The door swung slowly open.

I stumbled a step across the threshold and stood amazed. Michelle would never have left the place unlocked like that. She was too sure that violence was lurking everywhere: she read the newspapers too much. Standing on the brink of the room, the tire iron still in my fist, I could only stare wondering into the shadowy expanse.

It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. On the big windows all along the walls, the venetian blinds were closed against the light. The smell of dust came to me through the gray shadows, through the stultifying heat. Then came the shapes of boxes and stacks of paper on the floor all around,
everywhere. Then the rickety table with her laptop against one wall. An open kitchen with a sculpture of dirty dishes and pan-handles rising out of the sink. A miniature TV in a far corner. A bathroom door. Her bed—against the wall to my right—a huge circular mattress covered with enormous pillows.

And sitting on the edge of the bed, a man. An old man.

I could make him out plainly, framed as he was against the blinds, etched in the dying light that seeped in through the slats. I could see his drooping head and his slumped shoulders, his arms dangling between his knees, his hands clasped. His presence explained why the door was unlocked, at least, but for a moment, I could squeeze no other sense out of his being there.

Then he looked at me. Slowly. Without lifting his head, he turned it in my direction. Slumped, bent, dejected, he peered at me through the dark.

“So steal,” he said.

Oh shit!
I thought, as the answer came to me. “Mr. Ziegler?”

There was no reply. The man sighed and let his chin fall to his chest again. I took another step into the room, gently pushing the door shut behind me. The loft’s stifling atmosphere surrounded me, clung to me, gummy and foul.

“I’m not a thief, Mr. Ziegler,” I said, still breathing hard, pouring sweat now, trying to get a fresh breath. “I’m a friend. A friend of Michelle’s. I work with her at the paper.”

His shoulders rose and fell once. “It was an easy mistake to make,” he said thickly. “My friends always knock.”

“Right. Sorry.” Bending, I set the tire iron down on the floor. I stood looking at him, scratching my head.
Now what?
I thought. “I’m sorry about Michelle,” I said. “I liked her—like her—very much. Can I, uh …?”

I went to the wall, found the light switch in the gloom. A naked bulb, hanging down on its wiring, went on above us.
A circle of glare shone on the old man’s bald head. The shadows receded from around him to the borders of the room.

Mr. Ziegler turned his head again to get another look at me. Impossible to tell how old he was—seventy, eighty maybe, or maybe younger and made ancient by the last twenty-four hours or the last twenty-four years. His hair was mostly gone except for a scraggly fringe. His small, round face was shriveled behind its grizzled moustache. Sweat—or tears—pooled and ran in the deep furrows of his cheeks. His eyes were rheumy and sallow. His body was small, slender, frail like Michelle’s.

“You were …” he said roughly, “…  a friend?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” I said. “We worked together. At the paper. Is she …? Is there …? I mean, has anything happened?”

Again, he sighed, his small frame rising, deflating. He shook his head. “The machines. They keep her …” His voice trailed off.

“Right,” I said. “Right. That’s very sad.”

He looked across the room now, at the pile of dishes in the kitchen. He didn’t say anything else for a long time. I resisted an urge to check my watch. I was about to say something, I’m not sure what, when the old man spoke again in a distant, ruminative tone, as if to himself.

“Now … we have to decide—her mother and I have to decide—whether to turn them off. The machines.”

Good God
, I thought. “Ah. Yes,” I said.
I’m never going to get out of here
.

“So I’m deciding,” said Mr. Ziegler. “I’m sitting here and I’m deciding.”

He went silent again, staring off into the kitchen like that. Even as I waited, I seemed to see the daylight go dimmer in the cracks of the blinds. My gaze went to the floor, over the floor, and I saw the stacks and stacks of papers
rising from the layers of dust, boxes overflowing with papers and notebooks. They were everywhere, in every corner, against every wall. Five hours, I thought. To find a single page, a single name that might not even be there. And in this goddamned heat.

With my head tilted, the sweat ran onto the lenses of my glasses. I took them off, dried them on the loose cloth of my pants pocket.