Hanging Time

18

I never went out with her,” Bill Hadgens insisted for the third time, eyeing April uneasily. “I can’t tell you anything about her.”

He lived in a filthy one-room apartment overlooking Second Avenue above an old-fashioned plumbing supply store. The furnishings consisted of a nasty-looking bed and a wooden chair. Dust balls had collected around piles of dirty clothes on the bare wood floor. Four or five years of grime clung to the windows, long since replacing the need for curtains. One window boasted a rasping fan that didn’t have enough power to stir the dust.

Bill Hadgens sat on the edge of his bed with his hands on his grubby bare knees. He had not bothered to pull himself together in anticipation of a visit from the police. After April’s call he had clearly gone back to bed. He was wearing cut-off jeans and no shirt. The side of his long, horsey face was sheet-creased and didn’t appear to have been troubled by a razor in some time. His shoulder-length brown hair was tangled and dirty. He didn’t look sullen so much as completely unconcerned, as if people he knew got knocked off every day.

“Why bother with me?”

“I told you. She’s a murder victim. We bother with everybody. Maggie had only a few male names in her telephone book. Yours was one.” April took a look around as she spoke. Guy looked like he didn’t eat much and hadn’t been out of bed in days. How many days—since Maggie’s death?

It had taken him a while to get to the door when she rang the bell. Then he looked surprised to see her there. He was grumpy and seemed to have forgotten she was coming. Guy was really whacked. She made a note to herself that she could always come back and take him in for possession if he didn’t want to cooperate.

“Yeah, well, we went to the same school. I knew her years ago is all.”

“What was she like?”

He shrugged, pursing his lips in a show of contempt. “She was kind of a dog, know what I mean?”

April shook her head. “Explain it to me.”

He shrugged again. “A dog. You know what a dog is.”

“If you thought she was such a dog, how come you’re in her phone book?” April crossed the room to the window and looked out. Not much to see. She wondered where the stuff was. His eyes were pretty dilated. Must be around somewhere.

“Who knows.”

“Then how’d she get your number?”

“Fuck if I know. Maybe somebody gave it to her.”

“You have any idea who that might be?”

“No—hey, what’re you doing?”

She took her hand away from the pile of clothes on the chair. “You have a problem with my sitting down?”

“Don’t touch anything, okay?”

April moved away from the chair and changed tack. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Hadgens?”

“Huh?”

“I asked how you support yourself.”

“I, uh, freelance—I’m a writer.”

“Oh, yeah? What kind of writing do you do?”

He stared at the chair. She figured the stuff was there.

“I’m working on a novel.”

“No kidding.” She didn’t see a typewriter. “When was the last time you saw Maggie?”

“I don’t know. Long time. Months, maybe years. I lose track of time.”

“I bet you do. You want to tell me about Maggie’s other friends? She have a boyfriend?”

“No way. Maggie was lunchmeat.”

Okay. “Mr. Hadgens, where were you last Saturday?”

“Nowhere near Maggie Wheeler. I can tell you that. I don’t go to the West Side.”

“Thanks.” April moved toward the door. She didn’t think Hadgens was telling her the whole truth, or even half the truth. Guy was a druggie and a liar. No point in pursuing the subject now. She’d try him again later.

It stuck in her mind that he had described Maggie as lunchmeat. Nice. The girl was dead. Why make such a point of her lack of attractiveness in the distant past when he claimed to have known her and they went to the same school? Was the real story the reverse—that he liked Maggie Wheeler a lot and got rejected by her? Did he go visit her in the boutique last Saturday, have a fight with her, and fix her up for all time? April tried that scenario out, played it through as she descended the grimy stairs to the street.

Nah, this guy didn’t look organized enough to do all that with the dress many sizes too big and the makeup on the victim’s face. That was really weird stuff. This guy looked whack, but not particularly weird. Still, he wasn’t telling the truth. Maybe he didn’t do it, but had some idea who did.

Out on the street the temperature was climbing steadily. It had to be close to eighty-five. April decided to go over to the police labs on Twentieth Street and find out what Sanchez was up to.