Heartstone

1

Bobby was in the village again and he was afraid. There were no stars and, like a Hollywood backdrop, the solid black sky seemed to have no dimensions. Mist snaked its way around the circular, grass-thatched huts and shrouded the bodies, creating the eerie illusion that their moans and screams were emitted by the fog.

Bobby looked for the rest of his company, but he saw no one. There was a sound like a spider scuttling in the dark. Another, like Witch’s Wind rustling the trees. Bobby clutched his carbine to his khaki-clad chest. He crept forward, bent at the waist, his eyes darting into the ebony mist.

The toe of his boot struck an object and he jumped back, startled. The fog cleared around a patch of ground. There was an old man lying in the dust. He was obviously dead, yet undead. His eyes pleaded with Coolidge and Bobby was seized by an unreasoning terror. He leaped on the old man, stabbing, screaming. His knife struck repeatedly and there was blood everywhere. Fountains of blood, spraying in red streams high into the night sky, as the ancient, sorrow-filled eyes pleaded with him and he listened to the cacophony of his own screams.

“Shut up, goddamn it!”

“What?”

There were several voices yelling for quiet. Bobby’s eyes were wide open and he was in his cell and not in the jungle.

“I said, ‘Shut up or I’ll shut you up,’” someone yelled down the stone corridor.

Bobby mumbled an apology. He was soaking wet. He ran a hand across his face. His heartbeat was rapid. At least he was not in the jungle. He realized that the blanket was clutched around his throat. He released it. He swung his legs over the side of the bunk and let his head fall heavily into the palms of his hands. He could not relax. Deep breathing did not help. Inside was a vacuum. When they had read him the charge, everything that he had been or dreamed had evaporated.

He had been in isolation since his arrest yesterday afternoon. There had been no visitors, except the detectives, and he had refused to talk to them. He wondered why Sarah had not come to see him.

The jail cell was small. There was a bunk bed and a toilet, nothing else. He had enough room to pace, but he had no desire to move. For the last eighteen hours he had been like a rag doll. Every movement was an effort. It was as if his bones had become fluid and his heart a fluttering bird, afraid of the slightest whisper. When they had turned out the lights last evening, he had cried, not out of anger, but in desperation. He was lost.

He wanted someone to hold him and assure him that it was not all going to end. He wanted to bury his head in Sarah’s lap and let her stroke his hair and talk about their future together. He wanted to believe.

After he sat on the edge of his bed for some time, his breathing became more regular and he felt very tired. He let himself fall back onto the bed and he covered himself with the blanket and shut his eyes. As soon as he did, a great fear gripped him. It was Vietnam again and even before that. To sleep was to dream. Oh, God, let me rest. Please! But there was a roaring in his head. Wakefulness was the dam that blocked the flood of dreams, sleep the lever that released it. There was no liquor here and no Sarah. Slowly he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He could hear movement in the darkness. The scratching of rat claws on the dry cement floors.

There was an attractive young woman and a man who looked vaguely familiar seated in his waiting room when Mark Shaeffer arrived at his office.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” the man said. “I’m George Rasmussen. You helped me out of a scrape a few months ago.”

The name brought back the event. This was the college student who had been arrested for drunk driving. He wondered if the girl was Rasmussen’s wife. He had trouble taking his eyes off her. She was very tense and so was George. He ushered them into his private office.

“What’s the problem?” he asked when they were seated. His eyes strayed again to the girl. She was wearing slacks and a tight sweater that showed off her figure. There was a disturbing quality about the girl that struck a sexual chord. She seemed soft and lost and her nearness awakened a desire to protect and to touch. His relations with Cindy had been sporadic lately and he found that he was becoming aroused.

“My boyfriend was arrested yesterday,” she said. Her voice quivered when she spoke. Mark took out a yellow note pad and a pen.

“Is he in jail now?”

“Yes. They won’t let us see him. I called George and he said that we should see you.”

“Have you tried to bail him out?”

“There isn’t any bail. We asked.”

“There has to be bail. Who did you talk to?”

“I don’t remember the name. He was a sergeant.”

“Where? At the county jail?”

“Yes.”

“He should know better than that.”

Mark swiveled his chair and picked up the phone.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Bobby. Bobby Coolidge. It would be under Robert, I guess.”

“They said there isn’t any bail on a murder charge,” George added.

Mark put down the phone. There was a tingling at the base of his scalp.

“Your friend is charged with murder?”

The girl looked nervously at George.

“That’s what they told Sarah when they arrested him and that’s what they told me when I called.”

“I know he couldn’t have done anything like that. We’ve been together almost constantly for the last few months. When could he have done it? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Who do they say he killed.”

“Two people. A man and a woman. I don’t remember the names.”

The word “murder” has mystical qualities for those who practice criminal law. The sound of it causes a subtle change in the atmosphere. The level of electricity in the air rises. Mark forgot about the girl, for the moment, and dialed the county jail.

“My name is Mark Schaeffer. I understand you have a prisoner named Robert Coolidge in custody.”

Sarah watched Mark as he spoke, looking for any sign. He seemed too young to entrust with Bobby’s safety, yet George had spoken highly of him and he seemed intelligent and concerned. She heard him repeat a date, 1960, and saw a look of puzzlement cross Mark’s face.

“Yes, I’ll be out to see him at once. Can you arrange for me to use one of the private interview rooms, instead of the general attorney’s room. Thanks, I appreciate that.”

Mark hung up and swiveled around to face Sarah.

“Miss Rhodes, do the names Elaine Murray and Richie Walters mean anything to you?”

Sarah could sense a change in Mark. He was tense now too. She began to feel uncomfortable.

“I think those are the names of the people that the police say Bobby killed.”

“Yes, but do you know who they are and when they were killed?”

Sarah looked at George. George looked puzzled, as if the names meant something to him, but he could not recall what they meant.

“I…No, they don’t sound familiar.”

“Do you live in Portsmouth? Are you from here?”

“No. I live in Canada-Toronto.”

Mark took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. He was thinking very fast. This could be the case that could make his reputation. In Portsmouth, the Murray-Walters case was like Lizzy Borden and Leopold and Loeb combined. It would mean TV and headlines and enough free advertising to maybe make his business go.

“Miss Rhodes, approximately seven years ago a young man named Richie Walters was murdered in Lookout Park. Several weeks later, his girlfriend, Elaine Murray, was found dead out on the coast highway. Bobby is charged with committing those murders in 1960.”

Mark watched the girl’s reaction. She turned ashen and appeared unable to speak. George leaned forward.

“That’s ridiculous. Why, Bob’s almost a pacifist. He won’t even talk about his war experiences. I don’t believe it.”

“I’m not saying that he is guilty, George. I’m telling you what Mr. Coolidge is charged with.

“Miss Rhodes, I hate to bring this up, but I’ll have to at some time and, with a case this serious, I think we had better be frank with each other. There is no such thing as a simple murder case. Even the least complicated ones take an incredible amount of an attorney’s time.

“From what I know about this case, I think I can safely say that it is going to be very complicated. We are dealing with a crime committed seven years ago. I am going to have to spend an enormous amount of time in investigation and preparation. I may have to obtain the services of expert witnesses. I may have to hire a private investigator to assist me. I will probably have to turn some cases down because I will not have the time to handle them.

“What I’m leading up to is this. Does Bobby have the money to hire an attorney? This will probably cost him several thousand dollars at a minimum.”

She spoke haltingly. Mark could see that she was torn. He had seen that look before on the faces of people close to people charged with crime. The look signified the beginning of doubt. The beginning of questioning. She was asking herself who Bobby Coolidge really was. She was having her first look at a dark side that she may not have suspected. When the charge was murder, the questions were harder to answer.

“Bobby doesn’t have any money…Or not enough to pay that.”

“I’m talking about a sum in the area of ten thousand dollars.”

Sarah did not answer immediately. She took a good hard look at Mark. What did she really know about Bobby? Ten thousand dollars! To give that sum to this stranger to defend a man who…Who what? She was assuming that he was guilty. Why should that be her first reaction? Now it was she who felt guilty and ashamed. Her family had money and she had substantial savings.

“I’m pretty sure I can raise the money. My family is…well off. I would need some time to talk to my parents.”

“All right. I’m going to go to the jail and talk to Bobby now. I’ll call you this evening. Will you know by then?”

“I’ll try.”

Mark rose and George and Sarah followed him to the door. Sarah turned and held out her hand to him. She looked stunned, but under control. He took her hand and held it.

“Thank you for helping, Mr. Shaeffer. When you see Bobby, would you tell him that I tried to see him. Ask him if there is anything we can do.”

“I’ll call you tonight and tell you what’s going on.”

George shook his hand and they left. It was difficult for Mark to control his excitement. He had represented a few people charged with serious crimes before, but a murder case was different from all other types of criminal cases. And this murder case was different from all other murder cases.

And the fee. If she could raise the money, ten thousand dollars would make his first year. It was the type of case that all new practitioners dream of. Maybe even Cindy would be satisfied.

They had had another fight that morning. Rosedale and Collins, a small firm he had interviewed with just before opening his office, had asked him to join as an associate at a salary that was considerably higher than what he was now making. If he took the job, Cindy could quit work and they could have their baby. Cindy had begged him to take the job, but he had refused. He liked being his own boss and the business was starting to come in. He wasn’t taking home a lot, but he wasn’t worrying about meeting his overhead anymore either. When he had left for work this morning, Cindy had been in tears. He was about to add “as usual,” but stopped himself. That was unfair. He could understand Cindy’s point of view, but, damn it, she had to try and understand his.

Thinking about the fight upset Mark. Then he thought about Sarah Rhodes. She seemed so different from Cindy. She was thinking of someone other than herself. She was willing to give up a large sum of her own money to help Coolidge. Well, maybe this big fee, if it came through, would help. He didn’t know.

The county jail had been built with massive, gray stone blocks in an era, before modern architecture, when buildings were constructed to resemble what they were supposed to be. The jail housed men awaiting trial and their fear and uncertainty were visible to all but the most insensitive visitor. The jail made no distinction between the traffic offender who could not make bail and the rapist. They were all housed together, until the courts sent them to the state penitentiary or set them free.

Because of his special status, Bobby Coolidge had been housed in one of the rare single cells in maximum security. Mark waited for him to be escorted to the special interview room in the basement of the jail. The room was long, narrow and windowless, and sealed by a large steel door. The only furniture in the room was a long table and several wooden chairs. Mark had chosen the chair farthest from the door so that he would have a few seconds for first impressions. He wanted to make sure that he had Coolidge sized up correctly. If Coolidge did not trust him, he might go elsewhere for a lawyer.

The door to the interview room opened with a metallic clang. A young man in his mid-twenties was standing in the doorway in front of a guard. He was clad in poor-fitting jeans and a blue work shirt with a partially torn breast pocket. There was an air of defeat about him that Mark noticed immediately. His eyes were downcast and never looked directly ahead. He made no move to enter the room, until ordered to by the guard. When he did enter, he did so slowly. His gaze stopped on Mark, but jumped away when Mark attempted to make eye contact. He scanned the room with quick, jerky movements of his head, as if he expected to find something hidden in the recesses.

For a brief moment, Mark realized the responsibility he would be undertaking if he represented this man. The guard slammed the door shut and Coolidge looked behind him. Mark rose and waited for Coolidge to turn back.

“My name is Mark Shaeffer. I’m an attorney,” he said, extending his hand. Coolidge looked at him for a moment, then shook hands. There was little life in his handclasp and both men released quickly, a bit embarrassed.

Mark sat down and indicated a chair. Coolidge sank into it.

“Sarah asked me to tell you that she tried to get in to see you, but they wouldn’t let her. George Rasmussen was with her.”

“How…What does she think about this?”

“She’s standing behind you, Mr. Coolidge. She’ll come to see you on Sunday.”

“Well, that’s good,” Coolidge said in a tired voice. His hand moved toward his breast pocket and stopped.

“Do you have a cigarette?”

“Sorry, I gave them up a year ago. I can ask a guard.”

Coolidge shook his head.

“No, that’s okay.”

He paused before he spoke again.

“Mr…?”

“Shaeffer. Mark Shaeffer.”

“Mr. Shaeffer, before you go any further, I want you to know that I can’t pay a lawyer.”

“Miss Rhodes is going to take care of that.”

Coolidge snapped his head from side to side.

“No. I don’t want her involved in this.”

“Mr. Coolidge, you are going to have to be practical about this. Innocent or guilty, you are charged with two counts of murder. You need professional help. Miss Rhodes has the money to hire me and you don’t. You can reject her help out of pride, but without an attorney the chances are very good that you will spend the rest of your life in a cage. Do you want that?”

Coolidge looked down at his shoes and said nothing. When he looked up, Mark knew that there would be no more protests.

“Okay,” Mark said, “the indictment charges you with killing a woman named Elaine Murray and a man named Richie Walters on or about November 25, 1960. Did you do that?”

“Absolutely not. No.”

“Did you know them?”

“Of course. Everyone knew about that. I went to high school with them.”

“Why do you think the police arrested you?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. My brother and I were arrested when this first happened, but they let us go. Why would they wait so long to arrest me, if they thought I was guilty?”

“I don’t know the answer to that yet. All I have seen is the indictment charging you and your brother with the crime.”

“Billy! He’s arrested too?”

“I assume so.”

Bobby ran his hand across his mouth and, for a few seconds, he was lost in thought.

“Bobby, do any of these names mean anything to you? These are the people listed on the indictment as having been witnesses before the Grand Jury.

“Roy Schindler, Arnold Shultz, Thelma Pullen, Esther Pegalosi, or Dr. Arthur Hollander.”

“No. I’ve never heard of any of them.”

Mark thought for a moment.

“Bobby, you mentioned that the police arrested you when this first happened. Why did they do that?”

Bobby shrugged.

“I don’t know. They asked me a lot of questions about that night. I guess what got us in trouble was we had had a fight and Billy pulled a knife at a party we crashed. And I think they mentioned finding some glasses belonging to a girl we knew in the park near where the Walters kid was killed. But that was it.”

“Tell me, as best you can remember, what you did on the evening of November 25.”

“It’s been so long. I don’t know. I know I was with Billy-my brother-and…uh…Roger…Roger Hessey. Then there was the girl whose glasses they found, Esther Freemont.”

“Wait a second,” Mark interrupted. “Could Esther Freemont be Esther Pegalosi. Did she get married?”

Bobby shook his head.

“I don’t know. I went into the Army right after high school and I didn’t keep track of her. We aren’t good friends.”

Mark made some notes on his yellow pad.

“Go on.”

“Okay. We crashed a party this girl was throwing.”

“What was her name? From now on when you mention people, I want names and addresses, if you can remember them.”

“I’m not going to be much good on the addresses, but I should be able to give you the names.”

Coolidge related the incident at the party and the theft of the wine. Mark took down everything as they went along. He was watching Coolidge closely while the latter spoke, trying to size him up. Bobby was intelligent and articulate. The type of defendant that would be able to assist him in his investigation. But, was he telling the truth? He had seemed sincere when he denied his guilt. It had been the first time that he had spoken forcefully. Yet, for all his inexperience, Mark had represented enough clients to know that it was very difficult to tell if a person was telling the truth.

“What happened after you drank the wine?” Mark asked. Coolidge shrugged.

“I think we cruised downtown for a bit, then took Esther home, then went home ourselves.”

“You think?”

“Well, it’s been some time. But that’s how it seems to me.”

Mark put down his pad and leaned back in his chair.

“Okay. That’s enough for today. I’m going to go see the district attorney and try to get a lead on some of these witnesses.”

Mark stood up and Coolidge looked at him. He ran his tongue nervously across his lower lip before he spoke.

“Mr. Shaeffer, how does it look?”

“I really can’t tell until I find out what the D.A. has.”

Bobby looked down at the floor again.

“Do…do you think you can get me out of here? I mean, isn’t there bail or something?”

“The court doesn’t have to set bail in a murder case and even if they did, I’m afraid that they would set it so high that you could never make it.”

“Oh,” Bobby said in a voice that was almost a sigh. “Well, you try for me, will you, because I had a rough time last night. I’ll tell you, I don’t think I can take it, being locked up for long.”

Eddie Toller entered the attorney’s room of the county jail and spotted his court-appointed attorney reading a newspaper at the rear of the room. Eddie wasn’t anxious to meet this young jerk again. Their only previous meeting had lasted approximately ten minutes following his arraignment. The gawk had handed him his card, told him not to worry, and rushed out. Eddie had even forgotten his name.

The guy looked reluctant to put the paper down when Eddie reached the interview booth and Eddie said, “Fuck you,” under his breath. He doubted this creep would know what he was talking about, even if he did hear him.

“Well, Mr. Toller, I’m afraid I have bad news for you,” the attorney said when Eddie was seated.

“Yeah, well what is that?”

“I talked with the district attorney in charge of your case and I am afraid, in light of your extensive prior record, that he is unwilling to plea negotiate. Furthermore, he has told me that he will ask for the maximum, twenty years, if you go to trial and are convicted, which I am afraid is highly likely in view of the overwhelming evidence that the state has against you.

“However, the district attorney did say that he would not recommend a sentence and would leave sentencing entirely up to the judge if you plead to the charge. At this point that seems like our best bet.”

“To what? Plead to twenty years?”

“Well, the judge doesn’t have to give you twenty years. You were cooperative with the police when they arrested you. That will weigh in your favor.”

“Nah. I ain’t pleadin’ to no twenty years. Look, those cops didn’t give me my rights till we got to the station house. Don’t that mean something?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Toller. You see…”

The attorney babbled on about his rights and how they had not been violated, but Eddie wasn’t listening. Something on the front page of the newspaper the attorney had been reading caught his eyes. It was a picture of a young girl that he thought he had seen before, many years ago. Eddie craned his neck to get a better look at the headline. The paper was folded over so that he could only see half of the page.

“…do you want to proceed?”

“Huh?”

“I asked you how you wanted me to proceed,” the attorney said, obviously annoyed at Eddie’s lack of attention.

“Well, you’re my attorney. You tell me. Only, I ain’t coppin’ to no twenty years.”

“Surely you don’t want to go to trial. You were caught inside the building and you confessed, not once, but twice.”

“Look, who are you working for? Me or the D.A…? If he ain’t gonna deal, I want a trial. This whole thing wasn’t my idea anyway. Gary Barrick planned it out and I ain’t taking the whole thing on my shoulders.”

The attorney started to rise.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do. Why don’t you think about what I said.”

“Sure. Say, can I see your paper for a minute?”

The attorney looked put out, but he handed the paper to Eddie. Eddie unfolded it. The headline read:

TWO ARRESTED IN MURRAY-WALTERS SLAYINGS. SEVEN-YEAR-OLD MYSTERY BELIEVED SOLVED.

Eddie scanned the story quickly. Then he concentrated on the picture of the girl. It had to be her. The attorney was getting impatient, so Eddie handed him the paper. He began to smile.

“Thanks a million,” he said, pumping the attorney’s hand. The attorney looked confused and smiled back, heading for the door. Eddie sat back down to think. For once the breaks were going to go his way. He could feel it. The attorney stopped at the door and cast a puzzled look at Toller. Toller waved at him.

“So long, asshole,” he thought to himself. “I won’t be needing you anymore.”

Mark found Esther Pegalosi’s address listed in the phone book, but decided against calling. Esther’s apartment was in an older section of town. The building it was in looked as if it was well maintained. Esther’s name was typed on a paper tag that had been affixed to a metal mailbox. Mark rode up in the old cage elevator he found in the lobby. The elevator ascended slowly and Mark could hear the gears and chains clanking and straining. The car shuddered to a stop on the third-floor landing and Mark stepped into the dark corridor. Esther’s apartment was at the end of the hall. He knocked, then rang the buzzer.

There was no sound inside and he rang again. This time he could hear the sound of bare feet padding toward the door. There was a snapping sound and Mark guessed that he was being scrutinized through the peephole.

“Mrs. Pegalosi?” he said.

“Who is it?”

“My name is Mark Shaeffer, Mrs. Pegalosi. I’m an attorney and I’d like to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Could I step in for a minute? It’s difficult talking through the door. If you want identification, I can slide one of my cards under the door.”

Mark heard the snapping of locks and chains and the door opened enough for him to hand in a business card. The woman who took it was attractive in a slutty way. She was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt and her long black hair was unkempt, but the breasts that jiggled under the tee shirt were large enough to attract Mark’s attention and her dark complexion and large brown eyes appealed to him. She scrutinized the card through reading glasses, then started to hand it back.

“What is it you want?”

“I was retained to represent Bobby Coolidge, an old friend of yours. He’s in jail charged with a very serious crime. You testified at the Grand Jury and I’m interested in what you said.”

The woman was obviously alarmed and she looked as if she might shut the door.

“This will only take a few minutes of your time. I am as interested in finding out what happened as the police. Maybe Mr. Coolidge is guilty…”

“Yes,” the woman almost shouted. “He did it.”

“Well, in that case, I certainly want to talk to you so that I will know how to advise my client. Why do you think he’s guilty?”

“No, I won’t discuss it. They said I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone if I didn’t want to and I’m not.”

“Who said this, Mrs. Pegalosi?”

“Roy…Mr. Shindler and Mr. Heider.”

“Mr. Heider, the district attorney?”

“Yes. He said I didn’t have to talk to anyone if I said no.”

“Well, that’s right. I certainly wouldn’t want to force you to talk to me if you didn’t want to, but Bobby has been charged with murder. He could spend the rest of his life in jail. It certainly won’t hurt you to talk to me and if there is some mistake, your talking with me might help clear it up.”

“I can’t talk…I won’t talk about it.”

“Mrs. Pegalosi, you’ll have to answer my questions in court if you testify. Why are you worried about talking to me now?”

“Please. Go away. I don’t want to talk about it.”

There was a tinge of panic in Esther’s voice and Mark flinched when she slammed the door. He was angry and, for a moment, he thought about pounding on the door until she opened it. Then he realized that he had no right to talk to her and his anger focused on Philip Heider for having counseled Esther the way he had.

Mark looked at his watch. It was getting late. He had the addresses of Pullen, Shultz, and Hollander. Shindler, he guessed, based on Esther’s statement, was probably a cop. He decided to try Thelma Pullen.

Mark arrived back at his office at seven. He took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and called his wife. The phone rang a few times before Cindy answered it.

“Mark?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you? I called your office and all they said was that you were out investigating a case.”

“Not just a case. You’ll never guess who I’m representing.”

Cindy sensed the excitement in Mark’s voice.

“Who?” she asked, cautiously.

“Did you read the paper today? The front page?”

“Yes.”

“I have just been retained to represent Bobby Coolidge, one of the two men charged in the Murray-Walters case.”

“The murders?” she asked hesitantly.

“The very same.”

There was a pause.

“Mark,” she asked, “do you feel that…? A murder is so serious. Do you think you have the experience?”

Mark was disappointed and angry. He had expected Cindy to be as excited as he had been all day. Now she had killed it for him. It was her insecurity that she was projecting onto him. Her inadequacies.

“Yes, I can handle it,” he answered in a more subdued tone.

“Are they paying you a lot?”

“I’ve asked for ten thousand,” he said. This had been his big surprise, but she had deflated his enthusiasm with her fears.

“Ten thousand! Oh, Mark!”

Now she was excited, Mark thought bitterly. Not about the fact that someone thought enough of my ability to hire me to represent someone on a case this big, but because of the money.

“Have they paid you yet?”

“I have to call this evening to make certain that they can come up with the money.”

“Then you’re not certain you’ll get it?” she asked in a disappointed tone.

“No. I have to call now.”

There was another embarrassed pause.

“When will you be home?”

The truth was, at this moment, he would rather not have gone home at all.

“In a while. I’ll call you before I leave.”

“Mark, I’m really happy you got the case.”

A little late, he thought. Out loud he said, “I’ll see you,” and blew her a kiss and hung up.

He took a deep breath and checked the Coolidge file for Sarah’s number. He felt a curious excitement when he dialed it. Partly because he would soon know about the fee and partly, he realized, because he wanted to talk to her again.

“Sarah? This is Mark…Mark Shaeffer.”

“Oh…yes?” she asked anxiously.

“I told you I’d call tonight. Remember?”

“Yes. About the money. Did you see Bobby?”

“We talked for about an hour at the jail. I’ve been out all afternoon talking to witnesses. Tomorrow I’m going to meet with the district attorney.”

“How does it look?”

“I can’t tell yet. The one witness I wanted to talk to the most wouldn’t talk to me. I talked to two other people, but nothing they said seemed to connect Bobby with the crime. I’ll learn more about the case tomorrow, hopefully, from the D.A.”

“How was…is Bobby?”

“Pretty low. I told him you would visit on Sunday. I’ve arranged for you to see him in a private interview room, instead of with the rest of the prisoners in the visitor’s room.”

“Thank you.”

Mark waited for her to go on, but she didn’t.

“Uh, about the fee. Did you talk to your parents?”

“No. I…They weren’t in. I’ll have to keep trying. Can I tell you tomorrow?”

Mark felt a little nervous. He had already gotten involved in the case on her promise.

“Sure. When do you want to come in?”

“Later afternoon? Around five?”

Mark checked his appointment book.

“That’s fine. I’ll see you then.”

They hung up. Mark rested his hand on the phone. He tried to visualize Sarah’s features and figure. He could see her breasts pushing against her sweater this morning. For a moment he fantasized her naked, in bed. Then he stopped. He thought about Cindy and what was happening to their marriage. It made him feel sad.

“They sent a man. He said he was an attorney. How did he find me? You said I would only have to talk at the trial.”

She was almost hysterical, thought Shindler. He grabbed her shoulders. He couldn’t have her cracking up on him. Not when he’d come this far.

“Slow down and calm down,” he ordered forcefully. She threw her arms around his neck and started to cry.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I was going crazy. He just came. I…”

Shindler held her tightly. He was afraid that he would find her like this when he heard the way she sounded over the phone. He had driven from the police station as soon as he had hung up.

“Who came to see you?” he asked when she was calm enough to speak.

“I have his card,” she said, breaking away and moving to the kitchen table. She handed him the card and sat down.

“He said he was an attorney,” she said in a voice heavy with fear.

“He probably was,” Shindler said. He could never understand why people of Esther’s type held lawyers in awe. “What did you do?”

“Just like you and Mr. Heider said. I told him I didn’t want to talk to him.”

He stood behind her and began to massage her shoulders.

“And…?”

“He went away.”

“Good,” he said softly, feeling her shoulder muscles begin to relax under the thin cotton tee shirt. “That was easy, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she answered sheepishly.

“And you handled that all by yourself, didn’t you?” he asked soothingly.

“Yes,” she said in an embarrassed whisper. “But I got scared. I didn’t know how he found me and I was alone.”

“You’re not alone, Esther. You have me. And he could have gotten your name in a thousand ways: old newspapers, the indictment, a lot of places.”

“I guess,” she said. “It’s just, I haven’t seen you so much, lately. And I’ve been getting scared, again, like before I saw Dr. Hollander.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” Shindler said softly. “Now, stand up and turn around.”

She obeyed, but she would not look him in the eye. He cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her head until their eyes met.

“Are you still afraid?” he asked.

“No, Roy,” she answered woodenly. She wanted him so bad. She wanted to feel him holding her, inside her. She wanted to cling to him and be safe.

“Is the baby asleep?” he asked. His voice was soft and soothing.

“Yes, Roy.”

Her mouth was dry and she was trembling. He reached out and caressed her naked breast through her shirt. Her knees were weak and she felt herself growing moist. He stepped back so he could see her. She pulled the shirt over her head and stepped out of her jeans so that all she wore were the red silk bikini panties he said he liked. She stood almost at attention, her head bowed, because she was afraid to look at him. He reached out and stroked her hair and she began to weep.

2

The intercom buzzed and Albert Caproni answered it. Philip Heider was on the other end and he wanted to see Al immediately. Al stacked his work neatly, marking pages with slips of torn paper and placing writing tablets in proper order. Then he headed down the hall to Heider’s office.

When a major case like Murray-Walters came along, it was the office practice to assign one deputy, with no other duties, to that case. Often, the deputy would have an assistant, who would be given fewer day-to-day duties. Al considered it an honor to have been chosen from all the district court deputies to assist Heider on this important case. He was sure that a promotion to circuit court would follow when the case was over.

Al had never worked as enthusiastically as he had these past few weeks. He was enjoying the luxury of taking his time on a case. He had already been through the mountains of police reports that had accumulated over the last seven years. Now that they had two suspects, it was amazing how relevant some of the small details he had found buried in those reports had become.

Heider motioned Al into a chair across the desk from him and finished dictating a letter. Heider was not an easy person to work under, but Al appreciated his thoroughness and admired his intelligence. Heider was a perfectionist. There was precision even in his dictation. He would be willing to bet that Heider never misspelled a word. If he was working harder than he ever had before, he was also learning more about the proper way to try a case than he could have in any other way.

“Do you know a lawyer named Mark Shaeffer?”

“I think so. I had a trial with him a few months ago and we negotiated on several cases.”

“What are your impressions? He’s coming up here in a few minutes.”

“I don’t know. He seems competent. No Clarence Darrow, but no idiot either. It’s hard to say after just one trial. Why?”

“He’s representing Bobby Coolidge.”

“He is?” Caproni said, surprised. “I figured someone with more experience would have been handling it.”

Heider shrugged.

“It will make things easier for us. Do you know if he’s ever tried a felony?”

Al shook his head.

“I don’t know. I can check.”

Heider made some notes on a scratch pad.

“Al, I want you to sit through this meeting and help me size him up. Then I have a small assignment for you. One of the prisoners out at the county jail-a fellow named Toller, Eddie Toller-contacted a guard yesterday. He claims to have some information on the Murray-Walters case and he says he’ll only talk to a D.A. This is probably nothing, but Coolidge is housed out there and he may have said something to this guy. When we’re through with Shaeffer, take a ride out there and talk with him.

“I’ve had Toller’s record checked. It’s long. Nothing violent. Mostly burglaries of businesses, car theft, some drugs. We have an airtight case against him. He probably is going to tell you a fairy story in hopes of making a deal. Find out what he knows. Promise him nothing. If it looks like he has something to offer, tell him that you are my assistant and that I have to give approval on any plea negotiations. You have all that?”

Al smiled and nodded.

“Okay. Now back to Shaeffer. How much do you think we should tell him?”

“I don’t know. I think we should at least give him an outline of our case. I don’t think we should give him the transcript of Esther’s hypnosis interviews, because there is too much there that he could play with.”

“I agree, Al. I’m thinking of telling him just enough to get him worried, but no reports or transcripts of interviews. Now, we have to give him copies of the statements his client made when he was interrogated in ’61 and I’ll have to give him witness statements the day before they testify, but he’ll be too busy with the trial to do much with those statements when he gets them.”

A buzzer rang and Heider pressed down on his intercom switch.

“Send him back,” Heider said. A few moments later, Mark Shaeffer was seated next to Al.

“What can I do for you?” Heider asked with an expansive smile.

Mark was nervous. He knew Heider by reputation and he felt out of his league. He was unsure of himself dealing with someone with the experience Heider had. He also realized that under the state’s discovery laws he was entitled to damn little information. He did not want to antagonize Heider or the D.A. might not talk with him at all. Still, he knew that sometime during the meeting he would have to bring up the refusal of Esther Pegalosi and, this morning, Dr. Arthur Hollander, to discuss the case with him.

“I’ve been retained to represent Bobby Coolidge.”

“So I understand. You know that Bobby and Billy are going to get you great press. They sound like a country and western duo. Good-looking boys, too. It’s this type of case makes me wish I was in private practice.”

Heider winked and Mark laughed. Maybe Heider would be all right after all. He certainly wasn’t coming on strong.

“Say, Mark, can I get you some coffee?”

“No thanks.”

“Well, what do you want to know?”

“Well, I guess, why you’ve arrested Mr. Coolidge after all these years.”

Heider laughed.

“That’s simple. We have the goods on him.”

Mark watched the easy way Heider had spoken that sentence. He saw the D.A. leaning back in his chair, his jacket open, and at ease. There was none of the tension or nervousness about the man that Mark was experiencing. He wished that he could have just a fraction of that self-assurance.

“What are the goods?” he asked, trying to hide his nervousness with an ineffectual smile.

Heider leaned forward in his chair.

“You know, Mark, I’m under no obligation to reveal our case, but this is such an unusual case that I’m going to tell you a little about it.

“Back in 1960, when Richie Walters was murdered, the police found a pair of glasses and some other objects that obviously belonged to a woman down the hill from the boy’s body. You can get all this out of the newspaper accounts. The glasses were traced to a girl named Esther Freemont, who claimed that they had been stolen before the murders.

“It turns out, now, that Esther suffered amnesia caused by the trauma of seeing that boy murdered. We had a psychiatrist work with her…”

“Dr. Hollander?”

Heider nodded.

“And he was able to break through her resistance. She now has an independent memory of the events. We can put her in the presence of your client and his brother, through their own statements, at approximately the time of the murders. We have independent witnesses who will testify that Billy Coolidge pulled a switchblade knife during a fight earlier in the evening of November 25, a few hours before the murder. The coroner will testify that a knife of the type described would have been capable of causing the wounds that killed Richie Walters.”

“You’re saying that Esther saw the Coolidges kill Walters and the girl?”

“She saw the events on the hill.”

“What does…? How did she say it happened?”

Heider leaned back in his chair, tilting it precariously, so that he was able to rest his heels on his desk. He smiled.

“I’m afraid that you’ll have to wait for the trial for the answer to that one. Or, you can ask Esther.”

“I tried to do that yesterday, Phil,” Mark said, feeling uncomfortable about using Heider’s first name, “and she said that you told her she shouldn’t talk to me.”

“Whoa,” Heider said, holding up his hand. “I never told her that. I told her that she had to make up her own mind who she talked with. I guess she just decided that she doesn’t want to discuss this case more than she has to. She’s a frightened girl, you know. You can’t see something as savage as those killings and not be affected. Don’t forget, that experience was so horrible for her that she developed amnesia because her conscious mind couldn’t deal with it.”

“Dr. Hollander wouldn’t talk with me either.”

Heider shrugged.

“Some people are like that. I’m sorry I can’t help you there.”

“You can call and tell him it’s okay to talk to me.”

“Well, Mark, I feel that this is a choice each individual should make on his own. I certainly don’t want to influence the man one way or the other.”

“In other words, you won’t tell him it’s all right to discuss this case with me,” Mark said, beginning to get angry.

“That’s exactly what I did tell him when he asked me. I guess he just decided that he would rather not talk with you.”

“I see,” Mark said.

“Good,” Heider smiled. It was a smile of smug satisfaction, made by the man with the whip hand. Mark felt an overriding desire to get out of Heider’s office. They discussed some preliminary matters concerning trial dates and length of trial and Heider gave Mark copies of the police reports concerning Bobby Coolidge’s statements when he had been interviewed in 1961. When Shaeffer had gone, Heider turned to Albert Caproni and laughed.

“Candy,” he said.

Sarah Rhodes had not slept much the night before. She had been doing some hard thinking. What did she know about Bobby Coolidge? He seemed to be a nice boy. An older man, really. That, she guessed, had been the attraction. He had traveled, been in the army, the people he associated with were not the same type of people that most of the other freshman girls knew. It made her feel more mature to be seen in the company of someone like Bobby.

But there was another side to Bobby. A dark side. His arrest for murder had brought back vivid memories of his sleepless nights and the conversation they had had in the early dawn hours one morning. She could still hear his sorrow-filled voice quietly telling her about the person he had been before the war. The person who had done “bad things.” It had been such a childlike statement. So out-of-place coming from such a strong man. Almost as if the voice had been pitched through him by an unseen ventriloquist.

And was he such a strong man? Yes, on the surface. It took a strong man to go through the war the way Bobby had. In weak moments, he had told her of some of his experiences and she knew that she could never have endured them. It took a strong man to try to get an education, given Bobby’s background.

But there was the other, hidden side to him. The feeling she had from time to time that he was like a delicate china vase that could shatter at any moment, if the right type of pressure was applied. There was guilt hiding in the closets and the attics and eating away ever so slowly. Guilt that could be easily explained by the personal knowledge that he had stabbed a young man to death and raped and strangled a young woman. And, if that was true-if he was the type of man who could do such a thing, with premeditation, in cold blood-then how could they go on? How could she possibly hold such a man, let him touch her, knowing what his hands had done?

These were the things that she had thought about last night when she debated with herself about calling her parents. She had read the account of the Murray-Walters case in the paper. She had seen the headlines after she and George had left Mark’s office and purchased a paper. The details were graphic and they had shaken her. Could she ask her parents for the money to defend a person who may have done such a thing? Yes, if-and it was a big if-she loved him. But did she? That was the question that was tearing her apart.

Bobby was different from any man she had ever known; he was handsome, their sex was good, but all these things were parts of love, not love itself. She did not know what love was, or whether she was capable of it, and she did not know if what she felt for Bobby was love.

So, she had cried, but she had not called her parents. Instead, she had drawn three thousand dollars out of her personal savings account and she was sitting in Mark Shaeffer’s office prepared to lie. She could not abandon Bobby, and the three thousand dollars, she was sure, would keep Mr. Shaeffer on the case. But, at this time, before she had confronted Bobby, she did not have the courage to involve her family.

“My father was away on business when I called. He will be back in a week and I can ask him then, but I’m sure that he’ll say it’s okay.”

Mark looked at the three thousand dollar check and missed most of what Sarah had said. He had never had a fee anywhere near this big and it did not even dawn on him that the rest of the ten thousand might not follow.

“That will be fine. This is more than enough to get me started.”

It was after five and Mark’s secretary had left for the evening.

“What did the district attorney tell you?” Sarah asked anxiously. Mark noticed that she seemed less self-confident tonight. The quiet in the office and her presence there alone had made him feel mildly uncomfortable. He wanted to reassure her, but his fantasies of where that could lead made him afraid.

“The district attorney didn’t tell me much that I didn’t know already, except that he says that they have an eye-witness-a girl who was supposedly with Bobby and his brother at the time of the killings.”

“She saw them do it?” Sarah asked in disbelief.

“She says she saw them do it, according to the D.A. That doesn’t mean that she’s telling the truth. There are some funny things going on that I want to know more about.

“For instance, why didn’t she come forward seven years ago? The prosecutor says she had amnesia caused by seeing the people killed, but why, all of a sudden, does her memory come back?

“Also, why is Heider keeping his key witnesses so quiet? If there wasn’t something wrong with their case, I don’t think he would have done that.”

“Do you…do you think that Bobby did…?”

“That he’s guilty?” Mark said, leaning toward her across his desk. “I have no opinions right now. Bobby said that he didn’t and that’s good enough for me.”

Sarah felt ashamed of herself for having voiced her doubts.

“I’d better go now,” she said, starting to rise.

“Can I give you a lift? I’m leaving too.”

“Oh, I couldn’t put you out.”

“No trouble. I’m going in that direction anyway.”

He smiled and she noticed how handsome he was. She smiled back and accepted his offer.

During the ride to Sarah’s apartment, Mark tried not to mention the case, because he could see how upset Sarah was. When he had maneuvered his car out of the parking lot and into city traffic, he asked her,

“Why did you come to an American school for your education?”

“It seemed adventurous to study in a foreign country,” she said with a smile. The windows were rolled down and the wind tangled and lifted her golden hair.

“Do you enjoy studying among the natives?”

“It’s okay.”

“Are your parents filthy rich?” he asked.

Sarah’s mouth opened in surprise. Then she threw her head back and laughed.

“You are bold.”

Mark shrugged.

“You said you were well off and you live in a ritzy part of town.”

“Yes. We have scads of money,” she answered. She was beginning to like Mark. She was glad that she had hired such a nice person to represent Bobby. “Are you jealous?”

Mark thought about it.

“I wouldn’t mind being rich. It would solve a lot of problems.”

“Oh, you’ll soon be rolling in the dough. Lawyers make a lot of money.”

“Some do.”

“I have faith in you,” she said, smiling. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have hired you.”

Mark looked at Sarah and their eyes met for a moment. He looked away, feeling very unsure of himself. Was it his imagination or had she meant more than she said?

Mark drove up into the hills. Sarah looked out the window, not wanting to meet Mark’s eyes, because the look he had given her confused her. She was glad when they arrived at her apartment. She didn’t want to come on with Mark, but it would be to her advantage to have him interested in her, because of her indecision about the money. Besides, it wouldn’t be hard to make Mark think she found him attractive, because she did. He had cheered her up on the ride home and, until that moment when she had looked into his eyes, he had made her forget her problems.

She watched Mark’s car disappear over the hill and she suddenly felt guilty. Bobby was her boyfriend and he was in jail charged with murder. The situation was getting too complex for her. Too many things were happening at once. It would be better not to think for a while. She put on a record and sat in the dark, listening to the music.

“Mr. Toller, I’m Albert Caproni and I’m with the district attorney’s office. I understand that you have some information on the Murray-Walters case.”

Toller looked Caproni over and looked past him toward the door of the private interview room.

“Where’s Heidman? Ain’t he tryin’ the case?”

“I’m Mr. Heider’s assistant. Mr. Heider would have come himself, but a matter came up that required his personal attention.”

“Yeah? Well this matter’s gonna require attention too, if you want to find out what happened to that girl.”

“What girl?”

“The one you say those Coolidge boys killed. I know it wasn’t them.”

“You mean Elaine Murray?”

“I don’t remember the name, but she’s the right one. I seen her picture in the paper and I knew her right off.”

“If the Coolidge brothers didn’t kill Elaine Murray, who did?”

Toller leaned back in his chair and took a long look at Albert Caproni. Then he started to laugh.

“Jesus, you must think I’m awful stupid. I’m sittin’ here with the evidence on the biggest case that hit this town in years and I’m sittin’ here lookin’ at possibly twenty years and you want me to give you what I know for nothin’. Well, I ain’t givin’ this away. I want to deal, understand?”

“Mr. Toller, I am not authorized to make any ‘deals.’ Mr. Heider has the authority to plea negotiate any case, but he won’t even consider negotiating until he knows what you have to offer.”

“If I tell you everything, what guarantee do I have that you won’t just tell me to screw off?”

“You don’t have any guarantee. On the other hand, if I walk out of here I can guarantee you one thing-no other district attorney is going to come back.”

Toller’s bravado began to dissipate and Caproni could see that he was thinking hard.

“Mr. Toller, why don’t you just tell your attorney what you know and let him handle this?”

Toller waved his hand at Caproni, brushing the suggestion aside.

“He’s some young kid that’s wet behind the ears. I don’t think he has the brains to remember it all. Look, if I tell you, and the information checks out, what can you do for me? I was plannin’ to get married before I got busted. Then I lost my job. I knew I was actin’ stupid, but I was real down and I never act smart when I’m down.”

“Mr. Toller, you really shouldn’t be discussing the facts of your case with me. It’s my office that will be prosecuting you.”

Toller laughed again. Only this time the laughter was bitter.

“Son, there’s no way I can beat this one. I know that. I just want a break for once. I’m desperate. I found this girl, Joyce, for the first time. A real stand-up girl, ya know? Then I went ahead and blew it. I don’t even know if she’ll still stick by me, even if I do get out. But, I’m just gettin’ too old for prison and I know that’s where I’m headed if I don’t make this deal.”

“I sympathize with you,” Al said, and he really did, “but I can’t guarantee anything. You’ll just have to trust me. If I think you’re leveling with me, I will promise you that I’ll try to help you out. That is, if the information is important.”

Toller examined his fingernails and Caproni said nothing. Toller raised his head and sighed.

“I guess I gotta take the chance.”

Caproni took a writing pad out of his attaché case.

It was the second week in January, 1961, and Eddie Toller felt like shit. He always felt like shit from late November to late January of every year. Come February the feeling would gradually begin to wear off.

The cause of his spiritual malaise was the cornerstone of American democracy, capitalism, and the commercialism that this theory of economics fostered. From the end of November until the beginning of January Thanksgiving was followed by Christmas and Christmas by New Year’s and for each one there was a flood of commercials and advertisements that glorified the American family and the joys of spending these holiday seasons with one.

And that was Eddie’s problem in a nutshell. He missed his momma, ’cause she was dead, and his daddy was long gone, so that meant no American family, no firesides and two months of depression.

As it was the second week of January, Eddie’s depression was on the downswing, but it was still strong enough that he had sought solace in the cups at the bar down the corner from the fleabag hotel he was staying in until he could find work in Portsmouth.

Eddie wasn’t alone at the bar tonight. He had made the acquaintance of an unshaven young man who wore a black leather motorcycle jacket and who combed his hair in what was popularly called a “duck’s ass.” It was the motorcycle jacket that had started the conversation. Eddie knew a lot about ’cycles and so did the fellow in the jacket who introduced himself as Willie Heartstone.

They talked motorcycles for a while, then drifted into other areas of discussion, finally arriving, when they were both good and drunk, at the end point of most male bar conversations that aren’t about sports: pussy.

Eddie told Willie about this great black pussy he had eaten in Georgia, while in the army, when he was so drunk that his piss had risen level with his eyeballs, and Willie told him that he wouldn’t fuck nigger pussy ’cause he heard it would bite you back. They both howled at that and the bartender had to caution them when they laughed so hard that Eddie knocked the pitcher off the bar.

“I’ll tell ya,” Eddie said, buying the next round, “a little pussy right now would sure cure all my ills.”

Heartstone was as drunk as Eddie. The beer from his mug slopped onto his clothes every time he waved his arm to make a point.

“How about a big pussy,” he said, making a point. Eddie roared and Willie spilled some of his beer on Eddie’s chino slacks.

“Any old size pussy,” Eddie conceded. “Just as long as it don’t have teeth.”

Eddie started laughing again, but Willie was thinking and starting to look a bit crafty.

“Say, Eddie, I know where you can get some of that good pussy, but it might cost you a bit. You got some dough for some good stuff?”

Eddie had to think about that. He leaned against the bar, almost missing the counter top with his elbow. For some reason the bar stool wouldn’t stay in place. When he had steadied himself, he reached back slowly and pulled out his wallet. He had thirty-five bucks, plus, of course, some money he had hidden in his room.

“How much this pussy gonna cost, Willie? ’Cause I’m runnin’ low and there still don’t look like there’s much work in this town.”

Willie leaned over and peeked in Eddie’s wallet.

“Ah, shit, Eddie. You’re a good old boy. Five bucks. How’s that?”

Eddie thought about how little money he had left, but then he thought about how he hadn’t had a woman since San Antonio and he lurched off the bar stool.

“Let’s go. You only live once, I say.”

Willie slapped him on the back.

“Only once.”

Eddie slapped some change on the bar and they staggered outside. Willie’s car was parked in the tavern lot. They drove at breakneck speed over icy roads that threatened to throw them off at every turn. Willie’s driving was beginning to sober Eddie up, but speed only served to intoxicate Willie and his driving got crazier as they sped on into the night.

Eddie must have dozed off after a while, because they had started in the city, but they were in the country when he opened his eyes. The car headlights were bouncing off trees and the car was tilted on an incline. Willie was nudging him and he realized that they were parked on a hilly, dirt driveway in front of a one-story weatherbeaten wooden house.

“We here, boy. That good pussy’s just around the corner,” Willie said with a leer and a grin that revealed several rotting teeth.

Willie tripped over an empty paint can on the porch and swore loudly. Then he banged the front door open, because of his frustration at not being able to get his key in the lock until the third try. Eddie was giggling and Willie started laughing again, once they were inside.

“Who the fuck is makin’ that noise?” a voice yelled from a back room. Eddie peered down the hall to see if he could make out where the voice came from. It was too dark.

“It’s me, Ralph. I got my good buddy here and we gonna knock off a piece.”

Eddie could hear someone getting out of bed in a hurry. He looked into the front room. The place was a pigsty. Beer cans on the floor, the stuffing poking through a couch cushion.

A man was coming down the hall pulling on his pants. He stopped when he saw Eddie. Anger suffused his face and he grabbed Willie by the arm.

“Who is that, you asshole?”

Willie looked a little put out, but didn’t try to pull his arm away.

“Lay off, Ralph. This is my good buddy Eddie. Knows more about pussy and motorcycles than any man alive.”

“You brought him here? You crazy? You want to go to…” Ralph started. Then, casting a hard look at Eddie he thought better of finishing his thought.

“Listen, get your ass outta here.”

Eddie looked at Willie. For the first time, he realized that he didn’t know where he was and that he didn’t know Willie too well. He decided not to make an issue of it and began to back toward the door. Willie caught his arm and pulled away from Ralph.

“Now wait one fuckin’ minute, Ralph. Eddie’s okay and he said he could pay ten bucks for some good pussy, didn’t you, Eddie?”

Willie winked at him and Eddie thought better of contradicting him on the terms of the contract. He just shook his head.

“Yah. Sure. But I don’t want no trouble. If your friend…”

“Ain’t gonna be no trouble. Now you just wait here while me and Ralph talk. Then you gonna get yourself some fine pussy.”

Willie and Ralph walked down the hall. He could hear them arguing in low voices, but he could only make out an occasional word. The door of the room they had gone into opened and Willie and Ralph returned. Willie draped his arm around Eddie’s shoulder in a fatherly fashion and led him aside into a corner of the hallway.

“Listen,” he whispered in Eddie’s ear, “my buddy loves this pussy so much he don’t want to share it around, but I talked to him and told him what a good old boy you was, so he’s relentin’. Only I had to tell him twenty bucks. That’s okay, ain’t it?” Willie asked, giving Eddie’s shoulder a manly squeeze, “’cause when you taste this pussy, you gonna say it’s hundred-dollar stuff.”

Eddie was getting frightened. He could smell Willie’s stale breath over the beer smell and he did not like the looks of Ralph, who stared menacingly from the hallway.

“Sure, twenty’s fine,” he agreed, managing a weak smile.

“Good,” Willie roared, slapping him on the shoulder. “Now you slip me that twenty and we go do some rootin’.”

Eddie gave Willie twenty dollars and Willie handed it to Ralph. Then Willie led him into a darkened kitchen. There was a basement door secured by a strong lock next to the refrigerator. Willie worked the lock and switched on the basement light. There was only a single 60-watt bulb and it left most of the basement in shadow. The rickety wooden stairs squeaked with each step and, in his condition, Eddie had to hold onto the banister to keep from tumbling down them.

Eddie was concentrating so much on the stairs that he didn’t notice anything else until he had his feet planted firmly on the concrete. It was cold in the basement, but there was some heat emanating from an old-fashioned furnace that was set off near the far wall. Willie headed toward the furnace and Eddie thought he heard something moving near it.

“How you like that?” Willie asked softly. His voice had changed and his speech was coated with a coarse layer of lust.

It was dark in the basement despite the light, and the corner where Willie was pointing was mostly in shadow, but Eddie could make out a figure, covered by a blanket, huddled on a bare mattress. The mattress gave off a rank odor and there were stains on a corner of it that looked like dried blood. The only part of the person that was not covered by the blanket was the head. He moved closer and he could see that it was a girl. She had not moved since they had come into her line of vision, but her eyes were open and she was watching their every movement. The girl’s hair was dirty, stringy and matted and Eddie had trouble making out whether it was black or brown at first. When he got closer, he could see that it was brown.

“We got this one well-trained, Eddie. Yes, sir, don’t we?” Willie said, half to Eddie and half to the girl. The girl made no response. Her face was a blank and she seemed past caring.

“This one’ll do whatever you so desire, won’t you, darlin’?”

Eddie could hear Willie breathing heavily as he stripped off his jacket. Willie was wearing a heavy belt and he drew it out of the loops of his pants as he talked, never letting his eyes stray from the girl’s face.

Willie jerked the blanket off with a sudden movement. The girl was dressed in slacks and a blouse. The blouse was unbuttoned and the girl was clutching the halves together with her right hand.

The girl moved for the first time when the blanket was removed. It was not much of a movement. Just a quiver, accompanied by a whimper and a rattling metallic sound. Eddie found the source of that sound in a length of chain that was attached to the girl’s right ankle and a metal loop that was fastened to the cellar wall.

Eddie began to feel sick. He didn’t go for this kind of thing. He wanted to back out, but he was too scared of Willie and Ralph to say anything.

“You happy to see me, darlin’?” Willie crooned. As he talked, he switched the doubled belt against his thigh. The girl’s eyes did not leave the belt and they began to fill with tears. Willie squatted down and cupped the girl’s chin in his hand, forcing her to look into his eyes.

“I asked if you was glad to see me.”

The girl croaked an answer that sounded like yes.

Willie chuckled and released the girl’s chin.

“I knew you was. I knew you was. ’Cause you know what’s behind these shorts, don’t you? You know what good stuff’s there.”

The girl bit her lip to try to hold back her tears, but the effort was useless. The sight of the girl’s helplessness seemed to fuel Heartstone’s sadism. He snapped the belt lazily across the girl’s hips. Eddie was certain that he had not used enough force to hurt her, yet the girl’s buttocks jumped as if she had been struck with great force.

“This here’s my friend Eddie, darlin’. I want you to show him what you got.”

Eddie wanted to stop it, right here, but he knew that one false move on his part and he would be dead. Knew it for certain.

The girl was removing her slacks with fast, jerky movements. Each effort seemed to cause her pain. When the slacks were to her ankles, Heartsone pulled them off. Underneath, she was naked.

“Now the blouse,” Willie said in a husky whisper. “Show this man those fine, fine tits.”

The girl obeyed weakly, then lay back on the mattress with her legs spread. Heartstone drew the belt down her stomach, letting the leather touch one of her nipples. The tip of the belt stopped where her curled brown pubic hair began. Willie grinned back at Eddie.

“See how well she learned her lessons. It took some doin’ to get her to lie back and spread those legs. Many a interestin’ hour.” He shook his head and closed his eyes, savoring the memories. “But she’s smart and she learns good. We even gonna feed you tomorra if you treat my friend Eddie okay.”

Despite his revulsion, Eddie could not keep his eyes off the girl’s body. He noticed how emaciated she looked. Her ribs could be seen easily and there were dark shadows under her eyes.

Eddie was certain that Willie would mount her first while he watched, but all of a sudden, Heartstone seemed to lose interest. He zipped up his pants and stepped back.

“I’m gonna pee. You have fun. If she don’t do something you want, you tell me.”

Eddie heard Heartstone’s footsteps climbing the stairs and the sound of the door closing and locking. The girl shuddered visibly with relief. For a moment Eddie was afraid that he too might be a prisoner and he started to walk toward the stairs.

“No,” the girl mumbled feebly. “Don’t go, please.”

She was begging. He turned back to her.

“Look miss, I…I don’t know what’s going on here, but I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

He was whispering. As afraid as she that Heartstone might hear them. All he wanted to do was to get away.

“Don’t talk,” she begged in a whisper. “If he hears me talking, he’ll…”

She began to sob.

“You don’t have to worry. I won’t force myself on you,” he whispered in an attempt to comfort her. She became terrified when he backed away.

“No. You have to. It will be worse for me if they find out you…I didn’t do what they said.” She turned her head away. “Just be quick.”

Toller’s voice had gotten lower and lower as he wound toward the end of his tale. As he talked, Caproni began to feel the same fear and revulsion that Toller seemed to be reexperiencing. When the prisoner stopped talking, there was a strained silence in the interview room.

“Did you have intercourse with her?” Caproni asked in a choked voice. Toller shook his head.

“I was too scared to get it up. I done some bad things in my life, but I ain’t never done anything like that to no person.”

“What did you do when Heartstone came back?”

“He didn’t come back. I had to bang on the basement door. He asked me how it was and I made up some story. Then he drove me to town after chargin’ me five more dollars for gas. I was scared all the way, but Willie didn’t do nothin’.

“The next morning, I packed up and moved out of town. A few days later I read how they found this girl’s body in a ditch by the highway. I could see it was her from the picture in the paper.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police?”

“Look, I wasn’t goin’ to no police. Not with my record and not after not reporting it first. I was scared and, besides, the cops never did anything for me. She was dead anyway.”

Yes, I suppose she was, Caproni thought. Dead long before they killed her. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for the girl, lying in the cold, damp basement, afraid to even speak.

“Did you ever see Heartstone or Ralph again?”

“No, sir. And if I had I woulda gone the other way. Like I said, I done some bad shit in my time, but nothin’ like that. I knew what they was capable of.”

“Do you know Ralph’s last name?”

“He just called him Ralph and I didn’t ask.”

Caproni made some final notes. Then, he put his pad in his attaché case and stood up.

“What you’ve told me could be of great importance, Mr. Toller. I’m going to talk to Mr. Heider. If he feels as I do, then we may be able to arrange something for you. Now I’m not promising anything, but I want you to know that I appreciate your coming forward with this information.”

Toller seemed flattered and embarrassed by Caproni’s sincerity and, for a second, he forgot the real reason he had contacted the authorities. They shook hands and Caproni left. The session with Toller had drained him and he was grateful to be, once again, in the light of day.

3

Shindler was in Heider’s office, as he had been each afternoon for the past week, helping Heider sort through the evidence that had been amassed during the years of investigation, when Caproni returned. Heider could see that he was excited and he motioned him into a chair.

“What happened at the jail?” Heider asked.

“Something we should look into. The Coolidges may not be guilty.”

Heider cast a quick glance at Shindler. The detective had not moved, but there was a subtle change in his bearing.

“Let’s have it, Al. Don’t keep us in suspense,” Heider said lightly. Inside, wheels were spinning. Tapes preparing to recalculate. The district attorney’s office had committed itself publicly and in the press to the theory that the Coolidges had killed Murray and Walters. Heider had been spokesman for the office and it was his credibility and his political future that would be jeopardized if the Coolidges were innocent.

“I spoke to that man at the jail, Eddie Toller. He told me that he was in Portsmouth in 1961, in mid-January. He was in a bar and he met a man named Willie Heartstone. Toller mentioned that he wanted to get laid and Heartstone said he could fix him up for a price.”

“Heartstone drove him somewhere in the country, not too far from town, to a house where someone named Ralph was living. Toller thinks Heartstone lived there too, but he is not certain.

“Ralph and Heartstone were keeping a girl locked in the basement. She had a padlocked chain around her ankle. Toller said it looked as if they were beating and starving her. He says that a day or so later, he saw Elaine Murray’s picture when her body was found and recognized her as the girl. He said he is certain she was the one. He didn’t come forward then, because he had been in trouble with the law before and didn’t like the police and because he was scared of Ralph and Heartstone and didn’t want to get involved with them again.”

“I see,” Heider said skeptically. “And what evidence did Mr. Toller offer you to substantiate his story?”

“None, except…Just his word. But I believe him. It was the way the man talked. He was upset when he described the girl. His fear communicated. I don’t think he could have faked the way he was talking.”

Shindler laughed.

“Al, I’m surprised at you. You’ve been a cop. I suppose you’ve never been conned before.”

Al blushed.

“A million times. I just don’t think this guy is conning me.”

“Maybe not. Maybe he is telling the truth as he sees it. But it could have been another girl,” Heider said.

“No. He was positive. He saw her picture only a day or two later and his description matches the description of the clothes Murray was wearing when she was found and her hair color.”

“You have to admit that brown hair, slacks and a blouse is not exactly unusual. Besides, he could have gotten that out of the papers. They’re rehashing this whole thing all over the front pages every day,” Shindler said.

“And you’re forgetting one very important point,” Heider said smugly.

“What’s that?”

“When was it that Toller is supposed to have seen this girl alive?”

“The second week in January, a few days before her body was found.”

“Al, according to Dr. Beauchamp’s autopsy report, Elaine Murray was killed four to six weeks before she was found. How could she be alive during the second week in January?”

Caproni looked confused for a moment. Then he remembered something.

“The body. The girl’s body. It didn’t appear to have deteriorated the way you would expect if it had been outside all that time. That was in one of your reports, Roy. Maybe Beauchamp made a mistake. If I remember, his report theorized that the cold weather had kept the corpse preserved.”

Heider shook his head.

“No go, Al. This Toller is just another con trying to make a deal.”

Al shook his head vigorously.

“I just don’t believe that. You had to be there. That man was actually scared when he was retelling that story. I think it should be checked out.”

“Okay, Al. You get back to those transcripts and I’ll have Roy get on it.”

Caproni seemed mollified by Heider’s assurances. They discussed a few other matters and he left. When the door closed behind him, Heider spoke.

“What do you think?”

“Bullshit. Another con with a story.”

“You better hope so. I’ve got my ass on the line with this one and I can’t afford any screw-ups. Go out to the jail. Talk to Toller. If there are any problems, get back to me. They can be taken care of.”

Roger Hessey was doing okay. He had married a real sweet girl, fathered two great kids and gotten in on the ground floor when his father-in-law purchased a franchise in a chain that sold fried chicken. No one expected the restaurant to do as well as it had and Roger earned enough money to set his family up in a comfortable suburban tract home a few minutes’ drive from a shopping center, a golf course and a neighborhood school.

“Some change for me from those high school days,” he said, wagging his head. “We did some crazy things then. Say, can I get you a beer or something?”

“No thanks, Mr. Hessey,” Mark Shaeffer said. They were seated in lawn chairs on Roger’s patio and his two daughters were running and yelling in the backyard. Roger smiled nostalgically and nodded his head again.

“I’ll tell you, I was shocked when I read that Billy and Bobby had been arrested, but I wasn’t surprised.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you’re Bob’s lawyer, so I can tell you, but they were pretty wild kids. I mean we all were in those days. Always fighting. Billy was one of the worst of the lot. He was even into dealing a little narcotics. Pot mostly, but don’t forget this was back in 1960. Everyone thought that stuff was worse than heroin back then.”

“I notice you didn’t mention Bobby just now.”

“Well, Bobby was a wild kid, but he wasn’t mean like his brother. I mean I was wild too. We broke into warehouses and had gang fights. Nothing I’m proud of now. But it was, I don’t know how to put it, oh, all in the spirit of good fun, most of the time.

“I mean, most of us, we’d fight a guy and you’d try to whip him good, but you wouldn’t try to cripple him or really hurt him permanently. It’s hard to explain the line most of us drew, but there was one.

“Then there were kids like Billy. He didn’t draw any lines. That’s why most of us were a bit afraid of him.”

“You knew Esther Freemont, too, didn’t you?”

Roger threw back his head and brayed. The little girls stopped playing, startled by the loud noise. When they saw it was only their father laughing, they went back to their games.

“What’s so funny?” Mark asked.

“Oh, nothin’, I guess. It’s just that thinking of Esther brings back some mighty fine memories. She had the biggest set of tits…”

Roger shook his head in wonder and Mark shifted uneasily on the plastic netting of his aluminum chair. Roger was reclining. He had on an aloha shirt, dark glasses and a pair of checked bermuda shorts. From time to time, he would pat his beer belly with satisfaction or sip from an open can of Coors. The weekend sun was strong and Mark wished that he was swimming instead of working.

“What can you remember about the night that Elaine and Richie were killed?”

“Not very much, I’m afraid. I told this to the cops a few times. We went over to Bob’s. That’s a hamburger joint we used to go to. I don’t think it’s even in business anymore. Then Bobby or Billy, one of them got this idea to crash Alice Faye’s party. I knew there was gonna be trouble so I said I wouldn’t go, but I didn’t want to be called chicken so I went along. Then I changed my mind and left the party before the trouble started. I really didn’t see anything.”

“Tell me a little about Esther.”

Roger leaned over and dropped his voice.

“Not a bad lay, but nothin’ between the ears, if you know what I mean. She was what you’d call a loose girl in those days. ’Course that was before the ‘sex revolution’ and any girl that wasn’t a virgin when she got married…Well, you know what I mean.

“She used to hang around the Cobras. There was two kinds of girls that did that. Steady girlfriends and girls that just hung around the gang, but didn’t go with one guy in particular. Esther was sort of in between. She was good lookin’ enough to take out more than a few times, but everyone would get tired of her pretty fast.”

“Why is that?”

“Ah, she’d want ya to be in love with her. She’d always be askin’ you if you were in love with her. Then there would always be a scene.” Hessey shrugged. “You can see what I mean.”

Mark made some notes. This was leading nowhere. Mark asked a few more questions, then thanked Hessey and prepared to leave.

“How come they waited so long to arrest Bob?” Hessey asked as they walked toward the backyard gate.

“From what the D.A. tells me, Esther had amnesia all this time. Now she claims to remember the killings.”

“What made them think she was involved in the first place?”

“They found her glasses at the scene of the Walters murder.”

“You mean Lookout Park?”

“Yes.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“I guess they figure she lost her glasses on the night of the murder.”

“She didn’t lose them then.”

“What?”

“I slapped those glasses off her, up in the park, about a week before those murders.”

Sarah glanced at her watch and hoped that Bobby had not seen her. In twenty minutes, visiting hour would be over. She felt as if she would never last.

The visit had been a disaster from the moment the guard had shut the metal door behind them. His kiss had lasted too long and she felt that he was clinging to her the way a drowning man would cling to a piece of driftwood.

Their conversation began with a dozen variations of “how are you” and deteriorated into an inhibited discussion of generalities, punctuated by long, self-conscious silences. The longer she stayed with him, the clearer it became that the man who sat before her, shoulders bowed, eyes never meeting hers, was not the man who shared her bed for the past few months. Her lover was a man of substance. This was a man of shadow. She felt pity for the prisoner. Uncomfortable in his presence.

The guard rapped on the door and yelled, “Five minutes.” It was time to ask the question she had come to ask.

“Bobby,” she said, interrupting him.

He looked at her and knew what she was going to say by the way her voice trembled. He had dreaded this moment, anticipating it a thousand times in the solitude of his cell.

“Did you…? Those two people…I’ve got to know.”

It took all of his courage to take hold of her hand and look into her eyes.

“No, Sarah. I never…”

“Remember the night that we talked? The night before exams when you couldn’t sleep. Why did you tell me that you had blood on your hands? Why wouldn’t you let me ask you any more questions?”

The question struck him like a blow. He remembered the night very well and he had hoped that she had forgotten. He felt as if he was breaking up inside.

“I…In Vietnam…That’s where I…killed an old man. An accident…”

He continued on, telling her about that night, wondering if she believed him. It was getting to be too much for him. If she loved him, why had she asked? Why couldn’t she have just trusted him. He began to cry.

She reached over and let him cry on her shoulder. She felt embarrassed. That was all. She wanted to get away from him, the closeness of this antiseptic room, the smell of defeat.

“Sarah, you’re all I’ve got. You have to believe me. I didn’t…You’re all I’ve got.”

The guard knocked on the door and she helped him to stand and compose himself.

On the freeway, driving home, she thought about their meeting. Had he told her the truth when he denied killing the boy and the girl? As soon as she asked the question, she realized that the answer really didn’t matter, because she no longer cared about Bobby Coolidge.

Esther sat in the dark next to the window. She had moved a wooden chair from the kitchen and placed it so that no one looking up from the street could see her. The fingers of her right hand gripped the edge of the window curtain and held it far enough from the window so that she could peek out without attracting notice.

Esther was certain that she was being watched. First, the lawyer had come to her apartment. Then, a few days later, he had called her. She told him again that she would not talk to him and she threatened to call the police.

That evening, she thought she heard someone moving about in her apartment, but there was no one there when she turned on the lights. At times there was a peculiar echo on the phone and she was certain that a blue and white Ford had passed by at least four times since the lawyer’s phone call.

She had told all this to Roy and he had told her that it was her imagination. She said that it would all be okay if he would just stay with her. When she was with him, she felt so safe. She didn’t want to tell him that she had been thinking about Bobby. How he might feel sitting in jail because of her. In a cell for the rest of his life. That was the sentence Roy had said he would get when she asked.

She thought she saw a movement in a doorway, but there was no one on the street. She must be wrong. Still, she couldn’t sleep. She was too upset. She tried to imagine Dr. Hollander’s fingers on her wrist, but she could not concentrate long enough to make that work. She kept thinking about Bobby and what it would be like to look at him from the witness stand and say the same things to him that she had told Roy and the doctor in the privacy of the doctor’s office.

If Roy was with her-if he would hold her while she talked-she could do it. But she knew, because he had told her, that he would not be allowed in the courtroom. She would have to face Bobby alone. She felt frightened again. She wished Roy would come by again. He was always so kind to her. So gentle. He could make her forget the bad thoughts.

A man rose from his seat at the window of the apartment house across the street. He was an old man dressed in a sleeveless undershirt. A floor lamp situated behind his chair bathed his pale skin in light as he walked away from the window. Esther could see patches of gray hair on his arms. They revolted her. She imagined the old man moving about her apartment in the dark. She could feel the clammy touch of his hand on her cheek. She shuddered.

Why did she feel this way? Wasn’t she telling the truth? Dr. Hollander had said so. It was amnesia that had kept her from remembering before. That’s why she only remembered now. She knew it was the truth. Bobby would know when he heard her. He couldn’t hate her for telling the truth.

She could see the telephone sitting on the end table by the sofa. Maybe she should call Roy. She wanted to. Only he seemed so annoyed the last time she had called. She wanted to hear his voice. Even if he was angry. She got up and stood over the phone. Why shouldn’t she call? Weren’t they lovers? Hadn’t he whispered things to her? Told her about how important she was. If she was important, she could call him.

She touched the cold, black plastic of the receiver. She tried to lift it, but she couldn’t. She put her hands to her face and rocked back and forth in front of the phone. She wanted to call so bad. Please, Roy, let me call. Don’t be mad. She couldn’t stand it if he was mad, ’cause if he was mad he might leave her and she loved him, needed him, so much.

She thought she heard a movement in the bedroom. She was going to look, but she was suddenly afraid. She had to call Roy. If there was a prowler, he couldn’t be mad. She sat down on the sofa and dialed his number. Her eyes never left the bedroom door.

4

Mark knocked on the door a second time and wondered if Sarah was home. He was beginning to worry about her. She had broken appointments twice this week and she was evasive on the phone. Cindy had been complaining about the hours he had been putting into the Coolidge case and, every day, she asked him about the rest of the money.

The money worried Mark too, but it was more than that. He wanted to see Sarah. He thought about her constantly. He could picture her pale features and her long blond hair and wanted more and more to touch her.

She was as beautiful as he remembered, but he could not miss the look she gave him. It was a mixture of surprise and embarrassment, as if he had caught her in the middle of doing something she was ashamed of.

“What’s wrong?” she asked nervously.

The question surprised him.

“Nothing’s wrong. I…I wanted to see you. About the case,” he said.

“Come in.”

She sounded distracted and she brushed at her hair as she led him into the living room.

“I expected to see you at the office on Friday,” he said when they were seated on the sofa.

“I couldn’t make it. I…I’m sorry I didn’t call. Something…An emergency came up.”

“That’s okay,” he said quickly, not wanting her to think he was criticizing and trying to hide his disappointment in her obvious lie.

“How is the…Bobby’s case coming? You said you had something to tell me.”

“It’s coming along just fine,” he answered, grateful for a chance to avoid confronting her. “I’ve uncovered a witness who can help us.”

He told her about Roger Hessey, talking quickly, afraid of losing her attention. She pretended to listen, but glanced around the room nervously, hearing only part of what he said. She wished he would leave. She knew he would ask about the money and she wasn’t sure how she should handle that.

“That sounds hopeful,” she said with what she hoped sounded like enthusiasm.

“Well, I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I’m beginning to think I’ve got something.”

They sat in silence for a second. Sarah didn’t know what to say. She was getting a headache and she wanted him to leave.

“I…Uh, before I forget,” Mark started, “did you talk to your parents about the, uh…the retainer?”

“About the money, Mark. I never called my parents.”

He said nothing, stunned, letting what she said sink in. He looked into her eyes. She was seated so close that he could see the smoothness of her skin and his desire for her made it difficult for him to accept what she had just said.

“But you said you would…”

She touched his arm and it was like an electric shock.

“I don’t want you to hate me, Mark, but I couldn’t. I was going to. I didn’t lie to you about that. When Bobby was first arrested, I couldn’t believe it. Then I saw him at the jail.”

She let go of him and stared into her lap. He wanted to hold her. To comfort her. It hurt him to see her distress.

“Mark, I don’t know what to think. If he did kill that girl…I don’t want you to continue on this case if you don’t want to. I don’t have the money. I…I lied to you. Not at first, but I couldn’t ask my parents. What could I say?”

She trembled and tears welled up in her eyes.

“Don’t you see? Could I say please help this man who raped and strangled a young girl who could have been me.”

She broke down. He moved to her and held her, trying to comfort her while inside his own emotions were in chaos.

He could see the city stretching below through the picture window. A silver plane floated in the blue summer sky. Tears like tiny pearls were flowing over the soft curve of her cheek. He kissed them away and suddenly he was kissing her lips and they embraced with an intensity that left him breathless. What was he doing? He broke away, frightened by the depth of his passion for her.

“Mark,” she said.

He got up and walked away.

“I’m sorry. I…”

“Don’t blame yourself. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

He turned toward her hopefully. She saw the look in his eyes.

“Mark, I can’t. Not now. Please understand. It’s all too confusing for me. Everything happened so fast. Keep the money I gave you. Tell Bobby to get another lawyer.”

“I can’t do that,” he said. “And I…It will be okay about the money. If you just…”

She turned away from him. It would have been easier if he had gotten angry at her. She could see how crushed he was and she could no longer bear to be near him. He took a step toward her, then thought better of it.

When the door closed, she sank down on the couch. She looked toward the window and caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked away. The apartment was suddenly very dark and very lonely. She felt unclean.

Shindler walked past the reception desk toward Phil Heider’s office. He was exhausted, because he had spent half the night trying to calm down Esther. He was worried about her. If she cracked up, so did the case and she was beginning to come apart.

So far he had not told Heider about her midnight calls and the scenes he had witnessed at her apartment. He had gotten Hollander to prescribe some sedatives and he hoped those would get her through the two weeks left before the trial.

The trial. He shook his head. There would be no one there to help her when she testified. What if she cracked up on the stand? He had considered moving in with her, but had rejected the idea as too risky. The problem was that she had already tried suicide once. On the other hand, if it ever came out that the chief investigator in the case was screwing the star witness, Heider would never get a conviction.

“Roy.”

Shindler stopped and looked around. Al Caproni was hailing him from his office door.

“What can I do for you?”

“I wondered if you’d found out anything about Toller.”

“Who?” Shindler asked.

“Eddie Toller. The prisoner who said he saw the Murray girl alive in mid-January.”

Shindler’s face clouded.

“That’s closed, Al. Forget it.”

“Did you check it out?”

“There was nothing there.”

“I don’t know. He sounded so sincere. Maybe we should tell the lawyers for the Coolidges about him. We have a duty to tell the defense about any exculpatory evidence we know about and…”

“Listen,” Shindler said in a low, angry voice, “there is nothing exculpatory in a wild, unsubstantiated story that some con has made up in order to get his ass out of jail. Those two bastards raped and strangled a defenseless girl and butchered a young man worth ten of them. Have you seen those pictures? Did you see that boy’s face? Do you still want to tell the defense attorneys. Because, if you do, we’re going to lose this case and you’ll be responsible for setting that scum free.”

Caproni was stunned by Shindler’s outburst. The detective had always seemed so controlled.

“I didn’t mean to go tell them now, Roy. Only if there was something to Toller’s story.”

“I’m sorry I blew up like that,” Shindler apologized as soon as he realized what he had done. “I had a rough night last night. Look, I talked with Toller. There’s nothing to his story. I questioned him pretty hard and he backed down on a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“Details,” Shindler said evasively. “I can’t remember any specific examples right now. Look, forget it, huh? I’ve got to see Heider now.”

Shindler walked away and Caproni returned to his office. He did not believe Shindler. Something was wrong here. The question was what to do about it. He didn’t want to run off half-cocked to Heider without more proof and he certainly didn’t want to tell the defense about Toller if the prisoner’s story was a fabrication. Then there was the problem of the time of death. If the coroner was right, Toller had to be mistaken or lying.

Caproni sorted through a stack of papers and picked up Dr. Beauchamp’s autopsy report on Elaine Murray. Something in the report had bothered him when he had read it the first time, but he had not thought much of it, because he had not heard of Eddie Toller yet. He found the section and reread it. He didn’t know enough about biology to know if he was right or not, but he knew someone who could help him. He picked up the phone and dialed the University Medical School.

The next day, at eleven in the morning, Caproni’s intercom buzzed.

“There is a call for you from a Dr. Rohmer. Do you want to take it?”

“Yes,” Caproni said, trying to contain his excitement. Kyle Rohmer was a young gynecologist who worked at the Medical School. Caproni had met him at a party approximately a year before and had seen him socially on occasion since then.

“Al,” Rohmer said, “I’ve got the information you wanted. Fortunately, Dr. Gottlieb had actually done some research in the area, so I was able to find my sources pretty fast.”

“Shoot.”

“Okay. Now you say that the doctor who did the autopsy on the girl said she died four to six weeks before she was found and that morphologically identifiable sperm were found in her vagina. That’s just not possible.

“Dr. O. J. Pollak’s review of spermatozoa morphological survival time, in an article called ‘Semen and Seminal Stains’ found in the Archives of Pathology, 1943, states that thirty minutes to twenty-four hours is the more usual range. Dr. Bornstein in ‘Investigation of Rape: Medico-Legal Problems,’ Medical Trial Technique Quarterly, 1963, suggests forty-eight hours to be the maximum spermatozoa morphological survival time. Drs. Gonzales, Vance, Helpern, Milton, Charles and Umberger in Legal Medicine, 1954, maintain that spermatozoa can be recovered from the vagina as long as three to four days after their introduction. W. F. Enos, G. T. Mann and W. D. Dolan report finding fragments of spermatozoa on a pap smear four days after an alleged rape in ‘A Laboratory Procedure for the Detection of Semen-A Preliminary Report,’ American Journal of Clinical Pathology, 1950. The longest survival time I was able to find in the literature was fourteen days. Now this was in a living vagina and the report has been discredited by numerous other authorities in the field. Dr. Gottlieb said he thought that seventy-two hours was probably the outside for survival. Does that help?”

“Yes. Very much. Can you mail me copies of the articles you just referred to?”

“Sure. Anything else you want me to do?”

“No. You’ve been a real help.”

Caproni hung up the phone and closed his eyes. How to proceed? He now had concrete evidence to support Toller’s story. He could go to Heider and tell him what he had discovered, but a feeling about his superior warned him not to. Heider was in this case to get publicity. Caproni had heard enough office scuttlebutt, and he had seen enough while working with Heider, to realize that Heider needed this case to further his political career. The case was unimportant. It served only as a means of getting Heider’s name in the papers every week. He was not going to dismiss a prosecution of this magnitude on the basis of the findings in a few scattered medical journals. Especially when the evidence pointing toward guilt was so strong.

And that was the crux of Caproni’s problem. He had gone through the evidence and he believed that the Coolidges were guilty. Toller’s story raised a possibility that they were not, but only a possibility and a slim one at that. Even so, under the United States Supreme Court decision in Brady versus Maryland the prosecution was obligated to turn over to the defense any evidence in its possession that would tend to clear a defendant and Toller’s evidence would meet the criteria, if Toller was telling the truth. If the prosecution kept Toller’s story secret and the defense found out, the Coolidges would have grounds for overturning their convictions if they were found guilty. And more important as far as Caproni was concerned, if the prosecution did not reveal Toller’s information to the defense, it would be violating the Canon of Ethics. If Toller was telling the truth!

Caproni sighed. He was back where he started. He had to have some way of substantiating the facts in Toller’s story. And there was a way that he could do that, he suddenly realized. Find Heartstone. He had an idea. A person like Heartstone would have to have a criminal record. He might have been arrested recently. If he had, there would be a file on his case and, in that file, a police report with the defendant’s address. He hurried down to the file room.

Caproni was in luck. Eleven months ago, William Lewis Heartstone had been arrested for “Public Intoxication” and “Carrying a Concealed Weapon.” Officer Clark McGivern had responded to a call concerning a disturbance at a skid row bar. Heartstone had been drunk, raving and brandishing a taped broom handle which McGivern found concealed under Heartstone’s coat at the time of the arrest. Caproni looked for the section of the report that was used to list the defendant’s address. It was blank.

Caproni returned to his office and dialed police headquarters. Officer McGivern was on patrol, but the officer he spoke to promised to have him called on his car radio. Twenty minutes later McGivern was on the phone. At five-thirty that evening, he was seated in a booth in a coffee shop several blocks from the courthouse sipping coffee while Caproni explained a confidential project he wished him to undertake.

“I remember this case vaguely,” McGivern said, after studying the copy of the police report that Caproni brought with him. McGivern was young, tall and well built. He had blue eyes, a nice smile that revealed a set of perfect teeth and sandy blond hair that was balding prematurely. “Whatever happened to him? It never went to trial, did it?”

“No. Heartstone was recoged and never showed for trial.”

“I’m not surprised he missed his court date. Probably forgot he was arrested by the time the booze wore off.”

“Do you think you could find him for me?”

“I can try, but it might take some time. The guy looked like a transient. He might not even be in town.”

“I realize that, but it’s very important.

“There’s one more thing. I want this kept confidential. I don’t want you telling anyone what you are doing or who you are doing it for and that includes police officers, district attorneys, anyone.”

McGivern’s brow furrowed and he looked at Caproni suspiciously.

“This isn’t something illegal?”

“No, it’s not illegal, but the work I am doing is very sensitive. If word of this leaked to the wrong people, there could be plenty of trouble,” Caproni said, failing to add that he was the one who would be in trouble.

Caproni took out his business card and wrote his home phone number and address on the back. He handed the card to McGivern.

“As soon as you locate Heartstone, I want to know. Day or night.”

McGivern fingered the card and placed it in his wallet. They shook hands and Caproni left.

Bobby Coolidge was standing on the second-floor balcony of a manor house of a great estate. The manor house was constructed of an odd combination of Ionic columns, stark concrete blocks and unpainted wooden planks. The house was incomplete and furnished rooms, carpeted with Persian rugs and lighted by Tiffany lamps, opened into bare rooms whose western walls did not exist and whose ceiling was the sky.

Bobby gazed across a rolling lawn, lush, green and smelling of new-mown grass. A low hedge separated the estate from a dark and forboding wood and an arched lattice work provided the only means of entrance into the forest. Sarah stood beneath the roses that twined around the thin, white-painted wood sticks of the arch. She was dressed in a white hoop skirt and looked as if she had just attended an antebellum ball given at the home of a Georgia plantation owner.

There was an orchid in Sarah’s hair and her blond tresses flew behind her like honey-colored wings as she whirled into the forest, disappearing, then reappearing, in a flash of white petticoats.

Bobby watched helplessly as she danced deeper into the dark woods. Panic seized him and he rushed through the corridors of the empty house looking for a way out. Suddenly he was at the top of a spiral stairway that twisted downward toward the main ballroom. A figure climbed to meet him, its face shrouded in shadow. Its hand stretching out. Bobby screamed as he looked deep into the eyes of the old man.

The young guard listened sympathetically to Bobby’s request to see a doctor and promised that he would pay immediate attention to the problem. Later, in the guard room, he noted the request, along with those of several other prisoners, in a report.

In his cell, Bobby lay on his bunk, his forearm pressed tightly against his closed eyelids. How will I make it through another night, he asked himself. How will I survive the trial?

He pondered the significance of the dream. The unfinished mansion-his hopes. The dark and gloomy woods-his future. The fleeting vision of Sarah, far off and fading into the silence of the forest. He refused to dwell on this last component of his dream.

Bobby thought about life in hell. He knew the subject well, for that is where he resided. Death would be preferable to being caged for the rest of his life, especially now that he had glimpsed paradise.

He thought about getting up and doing some calisthenics. He was losing weight, but his body was becoming flabby. Exercise would keep him in shape. He knew all this, but he had no energy and could see no reason to move.