Victims (20 page)

“But I—I couldn’t. I know I should’ve helped him, but I couldn’t. So I—I split.”

“You went out through the garage,” I said. “You went out the way you came in—the same way Kramer went in.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Right.”

“The gun,” Friedman said. “Your gun. It was the Kramers’ gun. Marie Kramer’s gun. Right?”

“Yeah. Right.”

“You took the gun with you,” I said. Then, mindful of the microphone concealed in the room’s ceiling fixture, I said, “When you left Guest’s house, you took the gun with you—the .38 Smith and Wesson revolver.”

He shook his head in a slow, exhausted arc. “No. I left it there. In the hallway.”

Friedman and I exchanged a quick, significant glance.

“You didn’t take the gun outside the house?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I’m sure. I left it on the floor. I remember because I bent down, and put it on the floor, instead of dropping it. I—” His mouth twitched in a grotesque shadow of a smile. “I didn’t want it to go off, I guess.”

“But you wiped the gun,” I pressed. “You wiped off your fingerprints, before you put the gun on the floor.”

He shook his head. “No. I thought about it, afterwards. I knew I should’ve done it. But it was too late, then. And, sure as hell, I wasn’t going back.”

Friedman and I exchanged another glance. Frowning thoughtfully, Friedman said, “You thought the figure in the hallway was Kramer. Is that right?”

“Yeah. Right.”

“And he—Quade, actually—fired first.”

“Right.”

“Then you fired.”

“Yeah.”

“Then he fired again.”

“Yeah.”

“Three shots, altogether.”

“Right. Three shots.”

“You’re positive about all this,” I said. “He fired, and you fired, and then he fired again.”

“Right.”

I nodded. “Then you put the gun on the floor, and you went out through the garage, the way you came in—the way Kramer came in.”

“Yeah.”

“So you thought it was Kramer that you’d hit.” Friedman spoke softly. “It was dark and you couldn’t recognize whoever it was on the floor. But you thought it was Kramer.”

Durkin nodded. “I didn’t even know who Quade was until I read it in the papers the next day.”

“You knew that Kramer was arrested, though.”

“Sure. But that’s all I knew.”

Both Friedman and I sat silently for a moment, studying the suspect. Was this the time to question Durkin on the inconsistencies in his answers? Or should we get his whole story first? I gestured to Friedman, inviting him to take a turn.

“We know what happened after you got to the Guest house,” Friedman said. “Why’d you go there in the first place?”

Durkin frowned, looking at Friedman. “What’d you mean?”

“Did you know Kramer was there, intending to take John?”

Durkin nodded; he understood the question. “When he hired me, Mr. Guest told me why he was doing it, that he expected Kramer to make a try for the kid. He showed me pictures of Kramer. Lots of pictures, even a videotape. And then he told me what he expected me to do. He took a long time, told me about the divorce agreement, and everything. He told me, several times, that Kramer couldn’t see John without his mother gives her permission. So if Kramer comes to town and sees John without checking with Marie—Mrs. Kramer—then he’s in contempt of court. He’s breaking the law.”

Friedman nodded. “That’s probably right.”

“And Mr. Guest also said that if Kramer tried to take John out of the state, that was even worse. But he said that the police couldn’t stop him without an order from a judge. And that’d be too late. He’d already be long gone, Mr. Guest said, by the time the judge got around to putting out a bench warrant, or whatever they call it.”

Friedman frowned again. “He was right. No question.”

Durkin hesitated, looking at Friedman with obvious calculation, deciding what to say next—deciding how much to tell, and how much to hold back. Finally, tentatively, Durkin said, “Mr. Guest said—other things, too.”

Even though it was obvious that Durkin might be about to reveal something important, Friedman spoke casually as he asked, “What other things?”

“He said that if Kramer should come inside the house—Mrs. Kramer’s house—and try to take John away, then he’d be just like a criminal. A housebreaker. And he said that if that should ever happen—” Durkin licked nervously at his lips, then said, “If that should ever happen, and I should—” He swallowed. “He said, that if I should shoot him, then the law would be on my side. And, what’s more—” Once again, his uneasy eyes sought ours. “What’s more, he said that he’d be grateful, if that happened. It was—you know—like he was offering a reward.”

“You’d use Mrs. Kramer’s gun,” Friedman said. “If Kramer ever tried to break in, you’d use Marie Kramer’s gun.”

“Right.” He hesitated, then asked, “Is that really true? Is it really the law, that you can shoot someone who breaks into your house?”

“That’s the law,” Friedman answered. “It’s meant to favor the owner of the house, of course. But, if you’re employed to guard the house and an intruder enters, then you can shoot him, no question.”

“Yeah—” Slowly, he nodded. “That’s what he said. Mr. Guest, I mean.”

“Did you keep the gun in your room?” Friedman asked.

“No. It was always in her room. Marie’s.”

“So you went to her room and got the gun, Friday night.”

“I got it in the afternoon, when I saw Kramer. He was parked down the hill. I saw him there, when I drove John home from school. I recognized him from all the pictures I saw of him.”

“Did John see him?”

“No. But he saw John. I saw him looking at John—looking hard. So, when we got inside the house, I got the gun.”

“Was Mrs. Kramer home?” I asked.

“No. She went out for lunch—and stayed out.” He looked at me aside, plainly trying to decide how much to tell about Marie Kramer’s habits. Finally he said, “That’s what she usually does, on Fridays. She leaves for lunch—and doesn’t come back, usually. At least, not until late.”

“And Mr. Guest comes for John Friday afternoons.”

He nodded.

“When Guest showed up,” Friedman said, “was Kramer still parked outside?”

“I didn’t see him. But I figured he was.”

Remembering the geography of Telegraph Hill, I said, “From inside the house, you couldn’t see him. You figured he was parked around a curve in the road, watching. Is that it?”

Durkin nodded. “Yeah. That’s it.”

“You didn’t tell Guest that you’d seen Kramer.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I guess I figured—you know—that I’d see what happened.”

Friedman frowned. “What’d you mean by that?”

“Well—” Defensively, Durkin shrugged. “You know—I was remembering what Mr. Guest said, about how grateful he’d be, and everything, if I could help him out. So, what the hell—” He shrugged again.

“You figured Mr. Guest would be grateful. If you helped out, you thought he’d reward you. So you thought you’d let matters develop to the point where you could help.”

“Yeah. Well—” Plaintively, he spread his hands. “What’s wrong with that?”

“So when Guest left with John, about 4:30 Friday afternoon,” I said, “you waited for Kramer to follow them. Then you followed Kramer. Is that right?”

“Yeah. Right.”

“And you took the gun,” Friedman said. “You figured that, if Kramer tried to take the boy, you’d stop him.”

Wearily—hopelessly—Durkin sighed, dropping his eyes. Once more, fear had deflated him. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“If you got the chance, you’d kill him.”

“No.”
Sharply, he shook his head. “No, that’s not the way it was. I—I just—”

“Go ahead with the story. Tell us what happened. Exactly what happened.”

“Well, it’s like you said. I took the car—the Mercedes—and followed Kramer. I’m surprised he didn’t see me, but he didn’t. I followed him until about eight o’clock, when Guest and John finally went home.”

“Were you supposed to drive Mrs. Kramer’s car? Was it all right with her?”

“Sure. I drive it all the time. Not for pleasure, or anything. But she doesn’t drive, see. She’d had her license lifted.”

“So you waited until Kramer went inside the Guest house,” I said, visualizing the scene as I spoke. “You waited until one o’clock, when he went down the driveway, and entered the garage. You gave him a minute, then you followed him. You had the gun. You went in through the garage, and then into the house, from the garage—the same way Kramer went in. Am I right so far?”

He nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Just right.”

“But you’d never been inside the house,” Friedman said. “So you were confused about the layout. You didn’t know there was another way out—the way Kramer and John took. So when you saw Quade, you thought he was Kramer. So you shot him. You remembered what Guest said, about being grateful if you shot Kramer. And it’d be legal, too—you thought. Because Kramer would be housebreaking, you thought the law would protect you. So you shot him. You didn’t just shoot him once, either. You shot him twice, just to make sure. But then you saw that you’d made a mistake. It was a stranger lying there. A perfect stranger. So you panicked. You took your gun, and you ran. Then you realized that you had to ditch the gun. So you—”

“No.” Suddenly he threw himself back from the table, threw his arms out wide, as if he were on stage, extravagantly acting out his plea for innocence. His eyes were wild, his lips were drawn back from his teeth. His handsome beach-bum’s face had suddenly become a death’s head of terror. “No. You’re—Christ—you’re lying. You—you’re like all of them, all the rest of them. I—I made a mistake. One mistake, years ago. And so all my life, my whole life, I’ve got to—” His words choked him. His arms fell slack at his sides. His head fell forward, chin on chest, as suddenly as if his neck had snapped.

I looked at Friedman, who moved his head toward the door. It was time to take a break—to compare notes.

F
RIEDMAN HANDED THE MENU
to the waitress, nodded his thanks and said to me; “Let’s suppose, just for argument’s sake, that Durkin’s telling the truth.”

“Why would you assume that he’s telling the truth?” The question had been sharper than I’d intended. I knew why. The time was almost midnight, and Friedman was still expansively theorizing, indifferent to the clock. Ann was probably already in bed—without me. Once again, without me. Twice during the past four nights, without me.

“Wait—” Friedman raised a pudgy, pontifical hand. “Hear me out. Make your mind a blank. Okay?”

Resigned, I shrugged.

“The reason I’m wondering whether he’s telling the truth,” Friedman said, “is that his story and Kramer’s story and John’s story all match. Now, you may say that they’re all lying. That’s possible, I guess. Kramer and his son could be lying, which would account for the fact that their stories match. But how do we account for Durkin’s story matching Kramer’s? There’s no way Kramer and Durkin could’ve gotten together, to fix up a story. None at all. So it seems to me that we’ve got to at least try and figure out why—how—their stories match. And the most obvious explanation—the easiest one—is that they’re telling the truth. All three of them.”

“Except that—”

“Wait—” Once more, he raised his hand. “I know what you’re going to say. Their stories might agree, but they don’t fit the facts, the physical evidence. Namely, none of their stories, separately or added together, account for either the number of shots that were actually fired or the location of the murder weapon in the shrubbery in front of Guest’s house, or the fact that the gun was wiped clean. That’s what you were going to say. Am I right?”

“You’re right. Absolutely.”

“Okay—” Obviously enjoying himself now, he settled more comfortably in his chair across the table. I recognized the smug, self-satisfied look in his eyes, and the comfortably complacent note in his voice. He’d developed a new theory. This was Friedman’s favorite sport: trying out a new theory on me. “If we assume,” he said, “that the three stories we’ve gotten are true, and if we also assume that Guest’s testimony is true, then there’s only one set of circumstances that’d make everything add up.” He paused one last long, playfully portentous moment before he pronounced: “Someone else got into the house after both Kramer and Durkin left. He—or she—picked up the gun Durkin had dropped. He fired the gun into Quade’s neck, killing him. Then he—or she—wiped the gun, ditched it in the shrubbery, and disappeared.”

“She …You mean …?”

“Talk to her,” Friedman said. “Talk to her tomorrow morning, in the cold light of day. Before she starts drinking. Okay?”

“Yes—” I spoke absently, thoughtfully, struggling to fit Marie Kramer into the puzzle as a reasonable suspect. “Yes. Okay.”

The next morning at 9:15
A.M
., back on Telegraph Hill, walking slowly toward the Kramer house along the same sidewalk Durkin had taken, trying to escape, I was still struggling to imagine a scenario that would make Marie Kramer a murderer. No question, she’d had the opportunity—or, at least, the potential opportunity. By her own statement, she’d been out on the town, barhopping. She’d arrived home “about 1:30,” probably alone, doubtless drunk. Between midnight and a few minutes after 1:00
A.M.
, she probably couldn’t account for her whereabouts. She’d been in a bar—any bar—drinking. Going from bar to bar, and going from the last bar to her home, she’d taken cabs, her usual practice.

Could she have discovered that Kramer was in town, that he intended to steal John?

Could the knowledge have enraged her?

Looking for Kramer, could she have taken a cab to her father’s house, entered the mansion through the garage? Drunk, confused, could she have found Quade, found the gun lying close by? Could she have killed him? Could she have wiped the gun, ditched it, and taken another cab home?

It was possible. It would account for the fourth shot, account for the gun in the shrubbery, wiped clean. It would also fit perfectly with Durkin’s story—and with the three other stories: Kramer’s, John’s, Alexander Guest’s.

The time frame would fit, too. Guest could have heard three shots, could have seen Kramer on the driveway while Durkin was still inside the house. Guest could have left his post at the window and gotten his revolver while Durkin was leaving the house, unseen. Guest could have been going downstairs when the fourth shot sounded—the fatal shot. He could have looked outside again, seen his daughter leaving. When he’d found Quade dead, he could have reconstructed the sequence of events, realized what must have happened. Since Guest hadn’t seen Durkin, he would have assumed that Marie had fired the fourth shot. At all costs, he would have wanted to protect his daughter, protect the Guest name. So he’d accuse Kramer of the murder. Understandably. If Kramer were indicted for murder, Guest’s fondest, most malicious dreams would come true. Kramer would be out of his life, possibly forever.