Small Town

six

Jerry Pankow caught the two-thirty meeting at Perry Street. During the sharing he raised his hand early on, but when he didn’t get called on right away he stopped trying. When the meeting ended he was angry with himself, so he left his keys on his chair and went around the corner to the Arab deli for a cup of coffee, then came back for the four o’clock meeting. This time he raised his hand and got called on, but he talked about something else, not what was most on his mind, because he’d decided that was something he should talk about with his sponsor.

He called her, and relaxed when he heard her voice. Funny how it worked. You relaxed in anticipation of the relief. He remembered times, fiercely hungover, shaking, when he’d stand at the bar and watch the bartender pour the drink. And then, before he even had the glass in his hand, he’d feel as if the drink were already in him, smoothing the rough edges, quieting the storm.

He said, “Oh, I’m glad you’re in. There’s something that’s driving me crazy, and I really need to talk to you about it.”

“So talk.”

“Could I come over? Or meet you someplace?”

“Well...”

“I’m probably being paranoid, but I’d rather not do this over the phone.”

“I’ve got somebody coming at six-thirty,” she said, “but if you come over now we’ll have time. I’ll even fix you a sandwich, because I’m planning to have one myself.”

The conventional wisdom in AA was that one ought to choose a sponsor of one’s own sex, to keep sexual tension from undermining the relationship. That was fine for straights, but it wasn’t that simple in gay AA, where the term pigeon-fucker had been coined to label sponsors who took sexual advantage of sponsees. (He’d heard the term at his first meeting, and thought it was some kinky practice he’d somehow missed out on.) Most gay men did in fact have gay male sponsors, and it worked out most of the time, but, when his first sponsor had looked him dead in the eye and said, “Jer, I think I’m going to have to resign as your sponsor, because I’m starting to have feelings that get in the way,” he’d decided his next sponsor wouldn’t ever have to face that problem.

Lois Appling was a forty-something lesbian, a professional photographer and a serious amateur bodybuilder, who shared a loft on Greenwich Street with a woman named Jacqui. They’d both been sober a dozen years, and had been together for ten of those years, and sometimes he found himself wondering whether they’d reached that stage of Sapphic intimacy called Lesbian Bed Death, where you feel closer together than ever but, for some unfathomable reason, never have sex anymore. It was, he’d decided, none of his business, but he couldn’t keep from wondering.

He’d called from a pay phone at Fourth and Charles, and Lois and Jacqui’s loft was on Greenwich Street between Tenth and Christopher, so he would ordinarily have walked west on either Charles or Tenth. But that would have meant walking past either the front or the rear of the Sixth Precinct station house, which would ordinarily not have been something to think twice about, or even once, but not today, thanks all the same. And he didn’t want to walk over to Christopher, which was a little bit out of his way, because at this hour on this nice a day it would be a little bit cruisier than he could stand. So he walked a block back to Perry Street, which added a full two blocks to the trip. He asked himself if he was being neurotic, and decided that he was, and so what?

“I went to two meetings today,” he said, “and I wound up deciding I didn’t want to share this at a meeting. But I have to talk about it, and I need advice, or at the very least a sounding board, because I don’t know what I should do.”

“If you’re thinking of selling your story to the National Enquirer,” she said, “I’d advise against it.”

“My story?”

“ ‘I Cleaned Up after the Charles Street Strangler.’ ”

“Oh, please. You’re going to think I’m an idiot.”

“What I think of you,” she said, “is none of your business.”

“I feel better already. Oh, this is stupid. What it is, there’s something I forgot to tell the police.”

“ ‘I love you, Officer.’ ”

“Ha! No, I don’t think so. Lois, there was something I saw that maybe was a clue, and I didn’t say anything.”

“Why?”

“Because I forgot. Because I was flustered, and I already felt like such an idiot, and they clearly thought I was hopeless, and it slipped my mind.”

“If it was a clue,” she said, “maybe they stumbled on it themselves, without Lord Peter’s invaluable assistance.”

“Lord Peter?”

“Lord Peter Wimsey, the talented amateur, without whom Scotland Yard would be powerless in the fight against crime. Don’t you read books? Never mind, sweetie. Maybe they worked it out on their own.”

“They couldn’t have,” he said, “because it wasn’t something that was there. It was something that wasn’t there.”

“Huh?”

“A little turquoise rabbit,” he said, “about so big, and it was one of three fetishes she had, and they were always together, grouped around the little dish of cornmeal, and when I got there the place was a mess, the bison and the bear were lying on their sides and the cornmeal was spilled, and—”

“Whoa,” she said. “Cornmeal?”

“Yellow cornmeal, like you’d make cornbread with, in a little china saucer. Oh, why the cornmeal? That was for them to eat.”

“For...”

“The three of them, the bison and the bear and the rabbit.”

“Was she some kind of a flake?”

“It’s traditional,” he explained. “You’re supposed to put out food for them.”

“Like milk and cookies for Santa?”

“I suppose so. Anyway, the rabbit was missing, and since they never would have known it was there in the first place—”

“I get it. Maybe the killer took it.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“As a souvenir. Instead of cutting off an ear or a clitoris, like any halfway normal person would do—”

“Jesus!”

“When you thought of it,” she said, “how come you didn’t call them?”

“Because I’m a cowardly custard.”

“Bullshit. Nobody ever stayed sober on cowardice. We’re all heroes.”

“I was afraid to call.”

“That’s something else. What’s the fear?”

“That they’ll think I’m an idiot.”

“You said they already think that.”

“Yes, but—”

“What they think of is none of your business, anyway. Is that all?”

He thought for a moment. “Well, see, I’m out of it now. I had a horrible couple of hours, first finding the body and then being asked the same questions over and over and finally giving a formal statement. I mean, they were perfectly nice, they were almost too polite, but underneath all that respectful politeness it was obvious they despised me. And it’s none of my business, right, but it’s not much fun to be around.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“So why don’t I just leave well enough alone? I mean, for all I know she dropped the rabbit days ago and its ear broke off and she threw it out. Or it got lost, or, I don’t know...”

“The bear ate it.”

“Actually, I thought of that myself. Early on, before I knew what I’d find behind Door Number One. It was just a nice little whimsical thought. I have to call them, don’t I?”

“Yep.”

“Because it’s my civic duty?”

She shook her head. “Because it’s driving you nuts,” she said, “and you can’t get it out of your head, so for God’s sake tell them and be done with it.”

He stood up. “Thank God you’re my sponsor,” he said.

Alan reade said, “He called you? Why the hell did he call you and not me?”

“I guess I’m cuter,” Slaughter said.

“I was nicer to him than you were, man. I was the perfect Sensitive New Age Guy, treating him like a human being instead of a dizzy little flit.”

“Maybe your sincerity came shining through,” Slaughter suggested. “Did you even give him your card?”

“Of course I gave him my card. Call anytime, I told him. You think of anything, I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night, just pick up the phone.”

“Maybe he tried you first and your line was busy.”

“Musta been,” Reade said. “Now what’s this shit about a rabbit?”

“He called it a fetish, which to me is a sex thing, fur or high heels or leather, shit like that.”

“Black rubber.”

“Hey, whatever works for you, Alan. These are little figurines, the Indians carve ’em out in Arizona and New Mexico. You keep ’em around and feed ’em cornmeal.”

“Cornmeal?”

“Don’t worry about it. She had three of them, according to Pankow, and one was missing.”

“The rabbit.”

“Right. The others were a bear and a bison. You remember seeing them, because I have to say I don’t.”

“No.”

“Well, he says they were there, and—”

“Wait a minute, it’s coming back to me. On a little table, two little animals, and one was a buffalo. The other was pink—”

“Rose quartz, he said.”

“—and I couldn’t tell what it was, but I suppose it coulda been a bear. I don’t remember any rabbit.”

“That’s the point. The rabbit was missing.”

“Same size as the others?”

“A little smaller, he said. Maybe two and a half inches long.”

“Does that include the ears? Never mind. What did you say, turquoise?”

“That’s a kind of blue stone.”

“Jesus,” Reade said, “I know what fucking turquoise is. My wife’s got this silver necklace, her brother gave it to her, and he’s as light in his loafers as Pankow, incidentally. A turquoise rabbit, and he says it was there the week before?”

“Swears to it.”

“I didn’t see any kind of a rabbit in Creighton’s apartment,” he said, “unless you count the bunny on the cover of Playboy. But would you even notice something like that if you weren’t looking for it?”

“This time we’ll be looking for it.”

“If we can find a judge who’ll write out a warrant.”

Slaughter, beaming, pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “All taken care of,” he said. “Courtesy of Judge Garamond, the policeman’s best friend.”

Reade finished his coffee, pushed back his chair. “You want to go over there? It’s a little early, he might be sleeping in.”

“So we’ll wake him up.”

On the way Reade said, “Creighton seem to you like the type to take a souvenir?”

“No.”

“Me neither. That’s a serial killer thing, isn’t it? I didn’t see a whole lot of ritual in Fairchild’s apartment.”

“There wasn’t all that much to see, thanks to Mr. Clean. But I agree with you, Alan. Looks of it, two drunks went to bed, and one of them strangled the other either in the act or afterward.”

“I wonder how drunk he was.”

“Pretty far gone, would be my guess. Say he’s in and out of blackout, he could kill her and not know it. On his way out he’s in the living room getting dressed, because we know from Pankow that she left her clothes in the living room so he probably did, too...”

“And he picks up the rabbit and puts it in his pocket, and the next day he doesn’t remember killing her, and he doesn’t know where the rabbit came from, either. In fact...”

“What?”

“Well, if he puts it away when he gets home, and when he wakes up he doesn’t remember taking it or putting it away—”

“It could still be there,” Slaughter said. “Even if he came across it in a drawer or a jacket pocket, he wouldn’t see any reason why he had to get rid of it. By the way, I didn’t call it a fetish in my application for a warrant. I called it a figurine.”

“Good thinking.”

“Why would he pick it up in the first place, you got any theories about that?”

“We already said he was drunk, right? And who knows what’s gonna seem like a good idea to a drunk?” He shrugged. “Maybe he just likes rabbits.”

The downstairs doorbell sounded, one long buzz. He was drinking a cup of coffee and set it down on his desk and looked at his watch. It wasn’t quite nine yet, and who would be leaning on his bell at this hour? Some pest from the media? Or the Jehovah’s Witnesses he’d been expecting last week?

Before he’d finished wondering, the buzzer sounded again, two bursts this time. And he knew who it was, because who else would so effectively distill impatience and lack of consideration into noise?

He pressed the intercom and said, “Yes?”

“Detectives Slaughter and Reade, Mr. Creighton. Okay if we come up?”

“No,” he said.

“If you’d buzz us in, Mr. Creighton, it’d save making a scene in front of the neighbors.”

It was Mr. Creighton now, he noticed, because they weren’t in his space or his face, and the excessive familiarity could evidently wait until they were. “You’re not supposed to ask me any more questions,” he said, “and I don’t have to talk to you, and I don’t intend to.”

“Mr. Creighton—”

“Go away,” he said, and let go of the intercom button. He got all the way back to his desk before the next buzz. He ignored it, but when it was repeated he went and pressed the button again, told them again to go away.

“Mr. Creighton, we don’t have any questions and you don’t have to talk to us, but you have to let us in. We have a warrant.”

“For what? You’re going to arrest me again? You already arrested me, I’m on bail, remember?”

“A warrant to search your apartment.”

“You already searched it!”

“It’s a new warrant, Mr. Creighton, and—”

“Give me a moment,” he said, and went to the phone and found the slip of paper with his lawyer’s number. Would Winters be at his desk this early?

He was, and the first thing he did was assure Creighton he’d been right to call him. “You don’t have to answer a question, you don’t have to say a word,” he said. “What you do have to do, though, is let ’em in if they got a warrant. Where are they now?”

“Downstairs in the vestibule,” he said, and before he’d finished he heard them knocking on his door. “At least they were a minute ago. Somebody must have let them in, because they’re upstairs pounding on my door and calling for me to open it.”

“Don’t open it yet.”

“All right.”

“Tell them you want to see the warrant before you’ll open the door.”

He delivered that message through the closed door to Slaughter and Reade. One of them — Reade, with the reedy voice — said they’d be happy to show him the warrant, but first he should open the door. He relayed messages back and forth between Winters and the cops. They wouldn’t stick it under the door, but they compromised that he’d open the door a few inches with the chain latch on and he could read the warrant before letting them in.

He had the phone to his ear and Winters was telling him that the warrant had to be specific, that they couldn’t search the place again for general evidence, that they had to be looking for something they hadn’t known to look for earlier. And it would say what it was in the warrant.

His reading glasses were on the desk, so he had to squint, but the warrant was short and the part that was typed in was in larger print than the boilerplate. “ ‘A blue rabbit figurine,’ ” he read aloud.

“A blue what? Did you say rabbi or rabbit?”

“Rabbit.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I have no idea.”

“Last time you looked, were there any blue rabbits in your apartment?”

“No,” he said. “No purple cows, either. What do I do now, Maury?”

“Let ’em in, and let me talk to one of them, and then stay on the phone with me until they’re out of there. And not a word to them, not even agreeing it’s a nice day out, which it isn’t anyway, it looks like it’s gonna rain. You got that?”

“All of it,” he said, “including the weather report.” And he opened the door and handed the phone to Slaughter. “My lawyer wants to talk to you,” he said. “But I don’t.”

They were there for close to two hours, but it wasn’t that bad. His lawyer chatted with him for a while, then put him on speakerphone with instructions to speak up if the cops pulled anything out of line. He picked up the magazine he’d been reading and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and kept an eye on Slaughter and Reade, which wasn’t difficult because the apartment consisted of a single room.

They took as long as they did because they were being thorough, not wanting to miss the mysterious blue rabbit if it was there to be found, and also because they were less cavalier in their search, probably because he was there watching them. Whatever the cause, the difference was palpable; first time around they’d made a mess, and now they were as neat as cadets preparing for inspection.

A blue rabbit. Had he ever in his life even seen a blue rabbit?

The critters came in all shapes and sizes, he thought, and in a wide variety of colors, but blue? Maybe some Luther Burbank of the rabbit world was working on it now, but so far he figured blue rabbits were pretty thin on the ground. Of course it wasn’t a living breathing hopping rabbit they were looking for, it was a figurine, and they could be any color. You didn’t have to manipulate the DNA of some little stone carving, did you?

Wait a minute...

Three little animals on the table alongside the couch. In her apartment, Marilyn Fairchild’s apartment. He’d picked them up and set them down again, and was one of them a rabbit? And was it blue?

Maybe.

He seemed to remember it now, but he didn’t know to what extent he could trust his memory. His imagination got in the way. That was a blessing for a writer, an imagination like his, but it could be a curse, because it was possible to imagine something vividly enough to convince yourself it was a memory.

And that was especially true when your memory was patchy anyway after a night of fairly serious drinking. He wasn’t sure just how drunk he’d been, but going home with Marilyn Fairchild had not been the act of a sober man. De mortuis and all that, but you’d need a few drinks in you before a flop in the feathers with that husky-voiced predator seemed like a good idea.

And he’d done some drinking at her apartment. Just one drink, he’d for some reason insisted to the cops, but was that true? If so, it was a technicality, because he seemed to recall a rocks glass, devoid of rocks but brimful of Wild Turkey. And then, of course, he’d come home from her place and drunk himself to sleep, desperate to wash the memory of the encounter from his system.

So who knew what happened and what didn’t? Maybe he’d had more than one drink at her place on Charles Street. Maybe she’d told him her name, her real name, and it hadn’t registered. And maybe he’d seen the blue rabbit, and picked it up, and played with it.

If they were looking for it...

If they were looking for it, duh, that meant it wasn’t on Charles Street anymore. Which meant what exactly?

That the killer had taken it away with him?

Maybe it was another Maltese falcon, the stuff that dreams were made of. And someone had traced the legendary Cypriot Rabbit to an apartment on Charles near Waverly, and killed its owner in order to gain possession of it.

Alternatively, maybe someone had killed the lady for reasons of his own — it probably wouldn’t be too hard to come up with a couple — and had been unable to resist taking the rabbit home with him, as a memento of the occasion.

Jesus, suppose they found it in his apartment?

But they couldn’t, not unless they planted it, because he hadn’t taken it with him.

Or had he?

He didn’t remember taking the rabbit with him, wasn’t even sure he remembered seeing it there in the first place. But he didn’t remember not taking it, either, because how could you recall a negative? And he could imagine taking it, out of resentment or petulance or just drunken absent-mindedness. Pick it up, look at it, and the next thing you know you’re out the door and the damn thing’s in your pocket.

If they found it...

All it would prove was he’d been there, and they already knew that, he’d blurted out an admission the first time around, before he knew better. Maury had said his admission might not be admissible in court, and the blue rabbit would be, but there was sure to be physical evidence putting him at the scene, no matter how good a cleanup job had been done by the fellow who discovered the body.

But it would prove he’d taken the rabbit and lied about it. And it was direct physical evidence, something she owned that was now in his apartment, and it was small and personal, and it would look like a murderer’s souvenir, it would look like that and nothing else.

Jesus Christ, a little blue rabbit could put a rope around his neck.

Not literally. Not a rope, because New York State used lethal injection, or would if they ever got around to slipping the needle to the guys on death row in Dannemora. (How are things in Dannemora? Is that lethal brook still babbling there?) And not a needle, either, because they wouldn’t make this a death penalty case, it didn’t meet the standards, and would you even call it premeditated? A man goes home with a woman, they argue, whatever, and she winds up dead. That wasn’t premeditated, you could certainly call it manslaughter without stretching a point, and—

Except he hadn’t done it!

Could he have taken that fucking rabbit? Could he have brought it home and stashed it someplace? And would they find it?

They didn’t.

They left around eleven, perfectly polite, saying only that they were sorry to have disturbed him.

It had begun raining while they were searching the apartment, and when Slaughter switched on the wipers they smeared the windshield. He used the thing that was supposed to squirt Windex onto the glass, and it was empty. He found a paper napkin, used it to clean the windshield, and pulled away from the curb.

Reade said, “No rabbit.”

“Did you really expect to find it? If it was even there in the first place. Maybe it’s Harvey, maybe Pankow’s the only person who can see it.”

“What’s funny, though, is how he acted just now.”

“Creighton?”

“He didn’t want us in there, but not because he was afraid we’d find anything. He just didn’t want us around.”

“And we’re such likable guys.”

“But once the lawyer told him to let us in he was okay about it. He still didn’t want to deal with us, and he didn’t, but he wasn’t anxious. Like, you want to toss the place, be my fucking guests. Like he knew what we were looking for—”

“Which he had to know, it was spelled out on the warrant.”

“—and he knew we weren’t going to find it.”

“Which we didn’t.”

“But here’s the thing, Kevin. He wasn’t nervous, but we went on searching, and we weren’t getting anyplace, and then he started to get nervous. Like the longer we were there, the more chance we had to come up with a little blue rabbit.”

“You’re saying it wasn’t there when we walked in, but it sneaked in while we were there?”

“Hop hop hop. It’s just interesting, is all.”

“He did it.”

“Oh, hell, I know he did it. And I don’t think he remembers it. But you know what? I think he’s starting to. I think it’s beginning to come back to him.”