Arno Zimmer - Death Comes to the Torpedo Factory

Willoughby was used to such emotional rebuttals and calmly went on. “We secured a search warrant this morning for your apartment. I am confident that we will find a pair of shoes that match the imprint of the bruises on Scatcherd’s chest. We will, of course, want to inspect the pair you are wearing now, if necessary. You certainly had motive, Bellows, and everyone knows how loyal Miss Finch is to you. Her providing you with an alibi is a weak defense and, in fact, if she knew what you planned when you went to the stairwell to confront Scatcherd, she could very well be charged as an accessory.”

Willoughby walked over by the door and started to open it, then turned back and said, “I’ve got an officer waiting in the hallway to take you down to the station for questioning. Make no mistake, Bellows, you will be charged with Leonard Scatcherd’s murder so I will have to advise you of your rights before we leave.”

Bellows had collapsed into his chair and was trying to catch his breath. It flashed into his head that he had only stepped out for a few minutes to use the men’s room that fateful day and would not have had time to go down to the far stairwell and climb to the second floor to surprise Scatcherd. And how would he have known that Scatcherd would even be there?

Viola rushed over to Bellows and fluffed up her arms as if to create a cocoon of warmth around him, mothering him in a way that she had yearned to do for months. At any other time, Bellows would have been revolted by her caresses and pushed her away. He was embarrassed but, at the same time, felt strangely comforted.

She looked up beseechingly at Willoughby and said, “Please close the door, detective, and I will tell you exactly what happened that day.”

WHILE VIOLA WAS enveloping him with her protective wings, using her plumage to shield her adored one from any further attacks by Det. Willoughby, Bellows did not understand that she had committed a lethal act of devotion.

It would take a while for Bellows to grasp the fact that Viola really had killed Scatcherd and that she wasn’t just acting impulsively when she rushed to his defense. His immediate reaction was to ask Willoughby if the police really had confiscated all of the shoes in his apartment. It made the detective grimace and bite his lip rather than respond contemptuously to the self-centered, cold-hearted archivist. In that moment, Willoughby utterly despised Addison Bellows – not the murderess whose fealty the archivist had not earned.

In his callous, egocentric world, Bellows would never understand or appreciate the sacrifice Viola Finch had made on his behalf. In fact, he was embarrassed by her devotion and how it would look in his privileged world. The mere idea that others might think, even for a moment, that her constancy was reciprocal, was anathema to him.

Oh, it had been she that had committed the crime, had lured Scatcherd to the stairwell that afternoon with the mysterious telephone call. After her simple admission in Bellows’ office, she said nothing else before she was handcuffed and led away.

Down at the station, she calmly told Willoughby how she hid in the recess of the stairwell waiting for Scatcherd to come through the door, unsure what she would do or say but, at the very least, ready to plead with him to return the missing photographs. “He had walked down a few steps and was staring up at me. He sneered and his eyes were full of hate. He was difficult to understand but I’m quite sure that he mocked Mr. Bellows and said he was too cowardly to come himself. He was using the foulest of language and it was more than I could bear. Every fiber within me exploded. My leg flew up in a swift motion and I caught him squarely in the chest. I regretted it almost immediately but it would be a lie if I did not admit that it was an exhilarating moment.” When she finished, she bared her tiny teeth for the first time in Willoughby’s presence and, in that moment, looked every bit like a feral bird of prey.

Viola was suddenly exhausted and went silent. Willoughby knew it was not the time to press her any further and simply said, “Thank you, we can talk later.” As Willoughby was leaving, Viola found her voice and said, “Detective, I suppose I will need a lawyer but for now, might I make one request of you?” Willoughby nodded yes, and she said, “My mother knows I take the 5:30 bus every day and will be expecting me. Would you mind stopping by to tell her I will not be coming home tonight but that I am okay? I trust you to say whatever else you deem appropriate.” Then she added, “From the first time we met, I was very rude to you, detective, and that was wrong and I apologize. Now, I suppose you understand why.”

THEDA FINCH WOULD not see her daughter that night – or any time soon. Before she was led to her cell, Viola had signed a statement confessing to the murder of Leonard Scatcherd.

IT WAS TWO nights before Viola Finch’s confession, while Willoughby had been out to dinner with his family, when his wife had muttered “darn” as she stepped into a muddy patch in the parking lot outside the restaurant. He glanced back at the sound of her voice and saw the clear imprint of his wife’s shoe in the mud. The image stayed with him, buried in his subconscious. If it had been a crime scene and his team had produced a mold of his wife’s shoe, he liked to think that he would have made the connection to Scatcherd’s bruises immediately.

It seemed too fantastical to Willoughby, that such an innocuous moment with his family could be pivotal to solving his case. In the middle of the night, he got up and studied the medical examiner’s photograph of Scatcherd and conjured up the mental image of his wife’s muddy shoe print.

Willoughby had already concluded that Bellows lacked the fortitude to do anything other than utilize his elocutionary skills to threaten and harass Scatcherd. Willoughby chided himself and wondered if he had been reluctant to focus on the only other viable suspect.

It had been Viola’s continued displays of unyielding dedication to her boss and then the incident of the duplicate key which made Willoughby understand the true depth of her fidelity to Bellows. And still, with the muddy shoeprint seeming to match the bruises on Scatcherd’s chest, he was hesitant to conclude that it was she – and not Bellows – that planted a shoe on Scatcherd’s chest. It wasn’t until he played and replayed the taped conversation with Bellows that Willoughby was certain. It galled Willoughby to think that the unscrupulous archivist might go unpunished for his own iniquities.

A rumor spread throughout the Torpedo Factory that Viola Finch had been the scorned lover of Leonard Scatcherd and that she had killed him in a violent rage. There was even talk that she was pregnant with his child and he had demanded that she abort it. It was another testament to Bellows’ baseness that he did nothing to refute these dastardly rumors and defend the woman who had given her life to protect him.

BELLOWS CALLED HELGA Dumont the afternoon of Viola’s confession, certain that she would somehow blame him for not securing the photographs. He began the conversation with the news about Viola, to which Helga showed complete indifference. Then, he told her that the police had the photographs and would be turning them over to his superiors. When Helga demanded that he act aggressively to secure the photographs, he said it was a fool’s errand and he refused to do it.