The Suicide Murders

FIFTEEN

It was about an hour later by my wrist watch, but in time as measured by my lifespan I had moved forward by a year at least. I felt as though I had been hauled under a bright light and slapped a few times by a crew who knew how to do it without leaving bruises where they show.

They brought me into the Regional Police office from the parking lot through a side door, the kind you open by punching in a code on the handle, and left me to cool my heels on a wooden bench for a half hour or so. It was busy with men coming and going, half of them in uniform. I found a magazine and read some movie reviews of pictures I’d already forgotten. On the wall was a bulletin board with a few “Wanted” posters on it, like in the movies. Unlike the movies, there was a handmade notice that a second-hand camper was for sale. The bottom of the notice ended in a fringe of telephone numbers. Someone brought in a cardboard box full of coffee. I was offered one at normal cost as though I wasn’t about to be subjected to questioning in a Breaking and Entering matter. I thought of explaining that to the coffee man, as I fished out my quarter, but he didn’t look as though he gave a damn. I sipped my coffee after levering off the plastic cap. It was bad enough to replace the traditional third degree. But just then it was warm and wet, and that’s all I wanted.

When I was finished all but the last swallow, a cop in uniform came over to me and established eye contact, which I had begun to think had gone out of style since I’d been brought into the station.

“You Cooperman?” I nodded. He pointed down the corridor. “Fifth door on your right,” he said. I downed the last of the bitter coffee and moved in the direction he’d suggested.

It was a very office-like office, with all of the usual furnishings, except that most of them were made of gray metal, and looked like somebody regularly went at them with a ball-peen hammer. The light came from a hanging fluorescent fixture. I took one of the gray chairs. Beigecoloured files were stuck in a metal rack and others blossomed from a file drawer. The floor was covered with rubber tile, with rust marks from where the furniture used to be, and dark smears around the cold radiator under the window. On the wall I saw some photographs in plain black frames: on the firing line with target pistols, smiles and handshakes in front of a wooden shield with a lot of silver on it, and a class picture of thirty young faces at cop college. Dusty Venetian blinds divided a view of the floodlit court house into long uninteresting strips.

When my two cops came back, they brought a bonus with them, who introduced himself as Sergeant Savas. I finally found out that the other two were Bedrosian and Kyle. Kyle was the Bill of earlier in the evening. I never did find out what Bedrosian’s first name was. Savas looked like a hard man, but a busy man. At the moment he wasn’t very interested in me. I was glad of that. I wouldn’t ever want to be the centre of Sergeant Savas’ undivided attention. He flipped through a number of reports that I’m sure had nothing to do with me and then looked up. He was almost casual.

“We checked out the telephone number you say your client gave you. Turns out to be a Chinese restaurant on Niagara Street. Pay phone. We tried it about twenty minutes ago and didn’t get diddly. We checked on that name you gave us, Twining. That’s another bad joke. Two Tom Twinings in town, neither the owner or tenant of that house. He’s unknown at Griffiths and Dunlop. She probably found the name on a teabag. As for the gun, it’s not registered. And you know as well as I do that a peeper isn’t licenced to carry a piece since 1966, right? We’re running some checks on it to see whether there’s any priors on the weapon. Never can tell. If I were you, Mr. Cooperman, I’d reconsider telling us the name of the woman who bought your ticket to this hayride. What do you say?” I looked for a minute into his leathery face and those eyes like steel ball-bearings and tried to decide. The gun was a real surprise. She had two packages in her bag: one for show and one to go. Everything about the deal looked phoney, so probably the name she gave me was at the top of the let’s-pretend list. I’d have to check that out anyway. Might as well put the cops to work for me. I’m a tax-payer, or at least I hope to become one one of these days.

“Okay,” I said. “She told me her name was Phoebe Campbell. She’s a tall brunette with green eyes. Good looking with a face that cries out to be believed. She works as a teller at the Upper Canadian Bank. I don’t know which branch.” Savas tugged on his earlobe, and motioned Bedrosian out the door to check on it. While we were waiting, Savas continued reading a report about something important. Bedrosian was back in fifteen minutes, shaking his head.

“There’s no one of that name or description working at the Upper, as far as we can find out at this hour. I’ll try your description around the branches tomorrow. But, Sergeant, I don’t know what we’d book her on if we found her. We didn’t find anything on Mr. Cooperman, and it wouldn’t take much to get out from under what we’re holding.” Kyle looked at Savas and so did I. He was working his upper lip tightly over his teeth like he had a few strands of steak lodged between a couple of teeth.

“You know, Mr. Cooperman, in a way you’re lucky your story is so crazy. We hear all kinds in a week, but you win the prize. If any of this stuff had checked out, I’d nail you to the wall with a B and E in a minute, but it stinks to high heaven, and I’ve been around long enough to know that all the stink doesn’t come from you. Think about it. Why would anyone want to set you up like that?”

“I’m beginning to think of a few reasons. But I’ve got a good imagination.”

“I don’t want a whodunit, just facts. When you’ve coughed up something solid like a fact, I want to know about it. You read me?”

“Loud and clear.” I wasn’t going to tell him how popular I’d made myself with Harrow, or mention that I suspected a chill wind blowing my way from City Hall. If he was a good cop, and I suspected that Savas was a good cop, he’d hear about this in the morning. Savas warned me about what happens to naughty private investigators when they come up in the world and become common burglars. He told me that I’d better blow my nose somewhere else from now on, and not to leave town. And, just when I’d been prepared to curl up in the holding tank overnight, I found myself being driven back to my car by Bill Kyle, who was going off duty anyway. I couldn’t imagine something like that happening in a big city. There have to be a few advantages to living in a place like this. It was about time I found out about one of them.

“You got a tip about me from a woman over the phone?” I asked Kyle.

“It was a phone call. Could have been a woman; I didn’t take it. Check the dispatcher. It’ll be on his sheet.”

“What did you hear, then? What was I supposed to be doing: stealing the silver, popping the safe, what?”

“The way I heard it, you were a suspicious character about to plant something suspicious in the top bureau drawer of the master bedroom.”

“And you believed that?”

“What do you mean? I call that hitting it close.”

When I finally crawled behind the wheel of the Olds, I could feel most of me shouting, “Take me home. Enough’s enough!” and a look at my watch only confirmed that as good advice. But something in the back of my head, which I was seriously thinking of donating to science, told me to drive by the office just to see that everything was in ship-shape shape.

The streets were nearly deserted, except around the Murray Hotel on St. Andrew. The stoplights always take twice as long this side of midnight. While I was stopped at one of them, I noticed for the first time that the pavement was wet. It had rained while I was trading yarns with the cops. My mother would have said, “Good, if you’re a farmer.” I parked out in front of my place, and used my last strength to pull myself up the twenty-eight steps. A three-bulb fixture hung at the top of the stairs. Tonight it wasn’t doing so well; two of the bulbs had blown. But there was enough light for me to see that the front door of my office stood open, and that there was a foot sticking out of it. Again I felt that tearing at my stomach I thought I’d left in Dr. Zekerman’s office. I had to force my feet to obey. I took out my handkerchief, and turned on the lights. Frank Bushmill lay on his side, with one hand thrust forward as though he had been hit by lightning while in the act of waving goodbye. I heard my knees snap with middle age as I knelt at his side. By now I could see that he was breathing. For a second I felt a flash of rage run around inside my collar. The bloody drunk had passed out once too often. But then I saw a wine-coloured mark at the base of his skull. He had been helped to oblivion by more than a bottle tonight. I went across the hall and got a towel from the bathroom and wet it. Frank looked just as out of it when I got back. I laid the towel over his forehead and called his name loudly. I thought I saw an eyelid flutter, but not much. I loosened his collar, and tried biting on one of his finger nails. He was really out. I went around behind my desk and found the phone book and called the ambulance.

Looking down at my desk blotter, I saw for the first time that the place had been gone over by someone who knew what he was looking for. I knew that I’d left the three pages of notes that Dr. Zekerman sent me sitting belly up on my green desk blotter. I felt my breast pocket. Miraculously, the thief had not also been there. I held at least half a head on my shoulders. Soon I could see that Frank was making a few low sounds, his mouth moved a little like a beached whale-not that I’ve seen one-and a little more colour was beginning to be seen in his face. I now remembered that I should have looked at his eyes. That’s the way they do it in the movies. You can tell all sorts of things just by lifting an eyelid. By now, however, I could hear the sound of the siren coming up James Street. Frank would be beyond my tender loving care in less than three minutes.

To kill the time, I dialled the Regional Police. I got a tired desk man and asked to be put through to Sergeant Savas.

“Yeah,” Savas said, when I got him.

“It’s Cooperman,” I said.

“You didn’t go home like a nice boy, did you?”

“No. I came back to my office. I thought you’d sleep better if I told you what I found when I got here.”

“Try me.”

“Somebody’s been through my place. I’ve been robbed. And the guy that rents the office next to mine has a nasty bump on his head that he still can’t feel yet. The ambulance is just parking outside. I don’t think he’ll be able to tell us anything for a couple of hours. Just thought I’d let you know.”

“Kinda makes sense now, doesn’t it?”

“If that’s sense.”

“Well, I’ll come over and have a look. In the meantime …”

“I know, don’t touch anything.”