The Judas Glass Page 6

  I wanted to tell him, just then, how I had really cut my finger. Not just a vague story of a package—tell him what had arrived, unexpectedly, after so many years. But for some reason I didn’t.

  I kept it secret.

  10

  Half the house was still there.

  The brown-shingled walls were charred, the shiny black of graphite. The brick chimney towered out of sodden wreckage. But some of the upper windows remained unbroken, and wisteria clung to some of the unburned portions of the house. A cushion leaned on the front step, the remains of the sofa. A rain gutter dangled.

  Yellow police tape spun and straightened slowly in the light breeze. An official notice had been stapled to the charred front door, declaring the dwelling sealed. The lawn was flattened, trodden.

  I didn’t hear a step until someone was beside me, and when I was aware of him he had already spoken.

  Simon gave me a sad smile. “The chief of police was here about twenty minutes ago. Getting his picture taken.”

  His round spectacles reflected the morning light. He wore a v-necked gray sweater, and carried a large manila envelope.

  “Chief Timm thinks he’s running for mayor or state senator or maybe Secretary of Defense next year,” I said. “On the Public Hanging ticket. I like Joe, but he thinks every homeowner should have a neutron bomb.”

  “He gave me these.” They were mug shots, serial killers, police composites, a coloring book of police failure. There are good reasons why I’m not a criminal lawyer. I didn’t even want to take these pictures from Simon’s hands, but I did.

  “They have no idea, do they?” I said.

  “They say it was probably someone she knew,” said Simon.

  “Let me guess—male, furtive, a red can with inflammable in yellow lettering.”

  “They say it could possibly be one of these people.”

  He selected a large glossy from the array in my hands, a man with a narrow face and thick eyebrows, a child’s memory of how almost all adult males look.

  “He wanted to know if Mom or Dad or I had seen one of these men, hanging around, stalking her.”

  “These must be people who specialize in burning after they kill,” I suggested. I thought: people like this look human, but they aren’t.

  Simon could not speak. His shoulders were trembling.

  “They’ll find out who did it,” I said. “They start with no idea, and then little by little they put together a case.”

  “They don’t care, really. It’s just another dead body to them.”

  “The police hate this sort of thing as much as we do,” I said. It was true, but it sounded false. Why was I defending the cops?

  “That makes it even worse, doesn’t it?” Simon said. “That they care and still can’t stop him.”

  “If anything can make it worse.”

  He dropped all the pictures onto the lawn, the top photo edging out so the top of the man’s head was visible, dark hair combed back, a 1940s movie idol. Simon was up the steps, into the ruined house.

  I called after him, but he was moving too fast.

  I caught up with him just as he was removing a strip of Police Line—Do not Cross tape that had wrapped across his chest.

  He did not say a word. He was far into the house, and I heard something break, wood, part of the floorboards. It smelled dank, evil, and something inside me could not stand to hear the soft, steady tune of water trickling in the darkness. There were splashing sounds, his footsteps.

  “Simon, it’s not safe,” I called. The sound of my voice unsettled something. There was a tinkle, a vague thud. Something broke under my shoe, a white porcelain knob.

  “I’m looking for something,” he called.

  “This is a bad idea,” I said, feeling logic go stupid in me. Why was it a bad idea? If the police showed up, I would deal with them. There was a crash, wood splintering. It was dangerous—that made it a bad idea. I didn’t move another step. The ceiling was a wasteland, black, peeling.

  All of this could come down. The floor sagged under my feet, something in the timbers giving way. But I felt that I was in collusion with Simon now, trespassing for some important reason.

  It didn’t take long before a flashlight probed the dark, illuminating puddles, twists of naked wire, nailheads in the walls studs. I was standing out of the splash of morning sunlight, and I stepped carefully to where I could be seen. “I’m Richard Stirling,” I said. “I’m the attorney of the deceased.”

  Why did I say that? Why didn’t I say I’m the lover of the deceased?

  “This is all off-limits, Mr. Stirling,” said the broad-shouldered silhouette. The cop relaxed a little, leather creaking.

  “I know that,” I said. Dazzling rebuttal. “We thought we smelled fire,” I said.

  Actually, agreeing with your opponent is a good idea. But before the cop could reflect that no police procedure in the books required him to argue with a trespasser, Simon was there with me. The cop studied both of us. “Step out here,” he said, uninvitingly. The police can be nice at times like this. They were more than nice—they were apologetic. They would have to take us into custody. I was apologetic, too. I kept my tone light, and my message clear.

  More police came, an audience, and I was in my element. A few neighbors dropped by, and I was recognized, the lawyer, the would-be hero. I could see why they might mistake their duty, I told them. I gave them my best smile.

  After a few minutes of that the cops were relieved to ask us to leave, please, and not come back. They didn’t want us to hurt ourselves.

  As I walked Simon to his Honda Civic he slipped something into my hand. “I found what I was looking for,” he said.

  I kept my hand closed. I looked away, unable to respond.

  “She liked it very much,” he said. “She could feel them with her fingertips, the sea otters. It was the only jewelry she ever wore.”

  It was a nugget of silver. Unrecognizable. My gift to Rebecca was distorted, destroyed. But at the same time it still existed, was still what it always had been. Only the craftsmanship, the hand-worked echo of nature, was gone.

  “I want you to keep it,” I said.

  I wondered if this was something he would understand. Some people would be greedy for a lump of precious silver, others indifferent to it.

  “She was nervous about the recording studio,” he said at last. “She said she had a friend who would be there to give her confidence.” He opened the car door, and got in. He put the gnarl of silver on the passenger seat beside him.

  The Berkeley Police Department is housed in what looks like a prefabricated office building with dozens of windows. You can look in and see nothing of interest, and the cops can look out and see the busy traffic of Martin Luther King Junior Way. In the park across the street there were so many drug arrests the police had almost surrendered, turning to handing out leaflets warning about the dangers of dirty needles.

  Chief of Police Joe Timm was coming down the stairs, laughing. When he saw me he walked toward me, his arms spread. He hugged me, hard. The man had been a quarterback for Cal, and had played twelve years for Saskatchewan in the CFL. He squeezed most of the breath from my body.

  “Thank God you’re all right,” said Joe.

  “Tell me everything you can about the Pennant case,” I said, aware that I sounded like someone in a detective movie. Just the facts.

  “We’ll find him. And I’m sorry about your personal bad news. I was reading her obituary—”

  “He’ll do it again,” I said.

  He crinkled his nose dismissively. “We think he was probably someone she knew—”

  “Maybe her brother. Maybe her father. Maybe I’m still a suspect.”

  Joe shook his head. “Someone from her past,” he said.

  “It’s not a matter of building more gas chambers, Joe. And it’s not a matter of making sure everyone has an AK-47 under their bed, either.”

  He turned to gesture to his two companions: this woul
d only take a minute. Then he turned to me, and his full attention was a little fearsome. “What do you suggest, Counselor?”

  “Tell me what I can do,” I said.

  He spoke without any conviction. “You can sit down with a detective and tell us everything you know about her past. Old boyfriends, maybe even an ex-husband.”

  There was so much I didn’t know about Rebecca, and would never know. “This is just going be another open case, until nobody cares about it any more.”

  “What are you going to do, Richard?” he asked gently. “Find this guy all by yourself?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We both laughed, without any humor. Timm had a Ph.D. in Criminology, and as a former athlete had an undeniable macho edge over me. “Was that why you were tampering with the site of the crime?”

  “How is that patio of yours?” I asked. There is nothing quite so effective as an oblique response.

  He leaned against the banister. “Cracked.”

  “Of course it’s cracked. Why do you think most people put in redwood decks? You put in concrete slab patio and the earth’s movement jams the patio against the foundation. You get cracks, you get spalling. You still have a lawsuit, Joe. The contractor should have known all the real estate in the hills is slowly moving northwest, maybe an inch every three years. That patio is just a big unreinforced pudding. You were what we call in legal terms cheated.”

  “Maybe, but what are they going to do, tear up all that cement?”

  Why not, I nearly said, but then I thought about it. I imagined jackhammers in the Chief’s Japanese garden, boots and hard-hats among his bonsai maples. “If that’s what you want.”

  “My wife wears a defibrillator,” said Chief Timm.

  I told him I was sorry to hear that, but that it was wonderful what doctors could do.

  “Yeah, doctors,” he said, meaning: not lawyers, not cops.

  It was almost noon, and I had that harried, all-too familiar feeling of running late. It was almost a relief, work as painkiller.

  But I did believe in justice. A bridge is a symbol of faith, and a concrete manifestation of human will, and so is the body of law we have inherited, as alive as any other legacy. I half forgot this, but I was always rediscovering what I really felt, like a man surprised into tears or laughter in a movie theater. It happened to me more and more frequently, a feeling of outrage.

  As I drove across the Bay Bridge toward San Francisco my finger was numb, my entire hand losing feeling. When I rested it on my pantleg I could feel it through the wool fabric, cold and lifeless.

  11

  My parking place had my name on it, black on a white background. The space was clean, with freshly painted lines, bright yellow. There was a new security setup, little video cameras replacing the old ones which had done so little good.

  San Franciso could be like this, warm sun appearing suddenly, barely smoggy blue overhead. I welcomed the sunshine, taking my time, knowing I was going to be late for lunch with Stella. A man was breaking down cardboard boxes, flattening them. A woman laughed, and someone somewhere above me in a building was whistling a tune.

  My entire arm was without feeling, and I would have sought medical advice except for the attitude Dr. Opal had encouraged me to adopt, that the cut beneath the white bandage was, after all, only a nick. Blood always looks vivid against a white sheet, I found myself thinking. Surely it was not as bad as it looked. I swung my arm, flexing my fingers. The muscles worked, the thumb wiggled back and forth.

  There was a step beside me, and I turned.

  “I thought I’d come see your new office,” said Connie.

  She was dressed in clothes I had never seen before, battleship blue skirt, matching jacket. She was wearing more makeup than usual, a new shade of lipstick. She had put effort into her starring role here on the sidewalk.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “How do I look?”

  She looked great, but I had no desire to pay her a compliment. I took a certain satisfaction in the thought of her sitting in the car, wondering if I would ever show up. “I always wondered what it would be like to separate from you. How ugly it would be. How hard we would be on each other.”

  She said nothing, looking serene.

  Without being aware of it, I had anticipated talking to her, and been a little anxious about it. It was a relief to have our first words spoken, behind us, the conversation underway. I found myself asking where she had spent the night.

  “A hotel,” she said.

  I also deserved a vague answer. “I was a little worried.”

  “You must be joking.”

  The elevator was unoccupied except for the two of us, the doors quietly sliding shut. I pushed the button for the nineteenth floor. The elevator was fast, making me feel a little light-headed.

  “I popped by the house,” she said. “I thought you might still be there. Who did you murder? The bed is a mess.”

  I held up my forefinger, and made it take a bow, like a fingerpuppet.

  “What did you do, cut it off?”

  The elevator slowed and stopped, and there was that briefest moment that so often occurs in elevators. I thought: the elevator door won’t open, and we’ll be trapped. It takes place on a preconscious level, but you know in one part of your mind that what closes might stay shut.

  The door opened to busy people hurrying back and forth in the halls. Handsome people, suits, briefcases were reflected in the floor. Their feet made sounds I had never registered before, squeaks and patters along the waxed surface. We approached the door to my office. I pushed the buttons of the security code with my bandaged finger and nothing happened.

  “That’s very impressive,” said Connie.

  “The office is totally impervious to any intruder, even me.”

  “Completely safe, I can see that.”

  I stepped to one of the red phones next to the fire alarm box and asked if someone from security would be so kind.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Richard,” said Connie.

  “I’m not embarrassed.”

  “You bring me here to see your new office, and then you can’t remember your code. What was it? Your junior high locker combination?”

  Connie had a way of holding out one hand as she talked and not quite looking me in the eye. It meant she could say almost anything and you were to take it as a joke.

  The security man was quick as a track star, a young man with a steel tooth. “Good morning, Mr. Stirling.”

  “I punched in the right numbers,” I said. But I felt the potential chagrin—maybe I’d made a mistake.

  “Computer’s out all of a sudden. It’s a new system they put in after the man with the gun. But right now no one can get in if they aren’t already in. I’ve been running.” He said running with a long upward lilt, so you had to imagine it in italics. “It’s got a manual override.” The tooth was bright.

  “I know the feeling,” said Connie.

  Inside, she made a show of touring the place, running a finger over Matilda’s desk like someone inspecting for dust. I led her into my office and showed her the view, Bay Bridge, bay, buildings.

  “I don’t see any bullet holes,” she said.

  I didn’t want to talk about bullets. “Steve Fayette gave me a call and said it was the chance of a lifetime to get a place like this. I got a break on the lease because of—what happened. I don’t feel happy about it.”

  She put a hand to one hip. “You said you could see the bullet holes.” You could hear the country girl in her voice, someone who had been raised shooting ground squirrels.

  “If you stand here,” I said, “and tilt your head like this you can see where they spackled them in. See? Maybe fifty holes.”

  “I don’t see them.”

  “Feel.”

  I ran her fingers over the spot where a hole had been patched. She withdrew her hand quickly.

  “He killed nine people,” I said. “Three right here. People sitting at des
ks, paralegals.” It proved, I thought, that rooms are not haunted. Imagine the terror—and all of it here, where I was standing now, an ordinary office. I tried to put the images out of my mind.

  Connie was silent, looking down at the new carpet, Viking gray, one-hundred percent wool. “You ought to put up some pictures.”

  “I’ll get around to it.”

  “Tell me where it came from. That mirror.”

  I turned to look at her. “I thought you would know.”

  With Connie I often felt myself slowing down, laying down the retort carefully so she could serve it back over the net. I had almost wanted her to criticize the new office, just so I could show her the built-in safe, and the new oak filing cabinets. I didn’t want to discuss the mirror.

  “It’s big,” I said. “It has a handsome frame. It’s old, a little damaged. In myths, the unicorn could be captured only by a virgin holding a mirror. The animal fell in love with its own reflection.”

  “It’s priceless. There was one like it in the Christie’s catalog last September—”

  “So it can’t literally be priceless.”

  “We can’t even afford to keep it,” she said. “The insurance will kill me.”

  “You better update your alarm system.” I made a point of saying your, not our. I pulled open one of the new oak drawers. It was empty except for a trace of sawdust.

  “You have no idea where it came from?”

  “It showed up,” I said. “All kinds of things show up. Maybe it was stolen from a museum.”

  “Three months ago,” said Connie, to change the subject, gazing at a shiny spot in the plaster, a row of spots. “I imagine they couldn’t get the blood out of the carpets.”

  “It’s a major misreading of the Constitution, letting people walk around with weapons like that.” I was about to say more when I reached deep into the manila folders and started. “Jesus!” I stood straight, kicking at the desk and missing.