Gerald Davis: A Murder Too Personal

Silence except for the rain hitting the window.

I got up and went into the other room. There was nothing but a couple of wet footprints on the carpeting. I poked around on my hands and knees until I found the shell casing. It was a. 38 Remington rimfire. I went back into my office and dug the round out of the wall. The slug was a hollow-nose and it had left a nice size hole.

Whoever the shooter was, he wasn’t very good. He hadn’t come within a country mile of where I was sitting.

That made me feel much better.

Was this turkey just a bad shot?

Or was he trying to send me a candygram?

The Linxweiler House was a dilapidated two-story frame structure on the Post Road in Westport, located between a McDonald’s and a pool and patio shop. The lawn, if you could charitably call it that, had long ago gone to weed. It looked like whoever tended the grass had given up in despair and gone on to take care of lawns that would actually respond to his efforts. The grass was long and spotted with weeds and brown patches. The house looked like it hadn’t been painted in decades. It was covered in worn dull gray shingles that were separating from the insulation beneath. The gutters sagged under the weight of years of accumulated debris and neglect. It was one of those houses that gave the impression of always having been there, at least in the memory of those still living.

No one I stopped to ask for directions had ever heard of the house. Its purpose was too far a stretch from the ordered pace of their daily lives. It was incongruous to see such a run-down wreck on such an expensive piece of real estate. The town was rich, judging by the prices of the stores on Main Street, and there were so many SUVs on the road the place looked like a staging area for a military convoy.

I pulled into the rutted driveway and parked next to the rusted-out hulk of a long-deceased car. There didn’t seem to be any sign of life in the house. I walked up some rickety steps and stood on the porch, my back to the front door, looking across the traffic on the Post Road. On the other side of the street was a Japanese restaurant named Sakura and next to that an upscale clothing store.

Such was life in the suburbs. Neat, safe, comfortable, with none of the lurking random menace of the city. Only here, the danger lay behind expensively-carved front doors where you were likely to be whacked with a sterling silver candlestick by your enraged wife because your bonus wasn’t large enough to buy the vacation home in Palm Beach that she had her little heart set on.

The screen door rested precariously on rusted hinges. I knocked but there was no answer. The door shrieked like a banshee when I swung it open and stepped inside. A feeling of gloom hung in the air like faded hopes and dashed dreams. It was dark. The only light was a dim bare bulb that lit the hallway. The dirty wooden floor squeaked with each step I took. No one could ever sneak unannounced into this place. It had its own alarm system, and it didn’t need a central station monitor or monthly fees.

It smelled like a locker room, and that was being kind. The place probably hadn’t been washed down or disinfected since Elvis was young and innocent and thin.

At the end of the hallway was a living room. I could see the flickering light from the TV, but there was no sound. I looked around the corner. There were two men on a couch, watching a baseball game on a black and white TV. They sat without moving or talking, frozen like a photo from the Fifties.

I walked into the room. One of the men glanced up at me and then turned his attention back to the game.

“I’m looking for Wheelock,” I said.

The man who looked up kept his eyes on the television. “You came to the right place,” he said.

I waited. He didn’t say anything else. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought he was grinning. Both of the men looked defeated, drained of any energy, and badly in need of a shave. They had the appearance of guys who’d been dried-out for a long time but had never lost the desire for a tall one.

“Yeah, and…?” I said.

Still no reply.

“So, where is he?”

“You came to the right place.”

“You said that already.”

The guy was grinning. “He ain’t going no place.”

“That a fact?” I said.

The other man moved for the first time. “I can’t enjoy this game if you keep talking.”

“I’ll stop talking as soon as you tell me where Wheelock is.”

He jerked his head in the direction of a doorway on the other side of the room. “Take a look in there. He’s not going nowhere. That is, if he didn’t crap in his pants already.”

I walked across their line of sight and stood in the doorway. It was a kitchen. The only light in the room came from outside through a couple of unwashed windows. Dishes were stacked up on the table in the middle of the room and in the sink. The counters were covered with opened cereal boxes and cans of vegetables, both opened and unopened. Newspapers were scattered around on the floor.

A man sat hunched over at the table staring straight ahead. He was motionless, except for a slight tremor that gave the only sign he was alive. There was something familiar about his appearance. A hint of a presence I had once known. But it didn’t seem possible. There was nothing of the vigor, nothing of the tension. The creature sitting in front of me was no one I knew.

“Wheelock,” I said.

He turned his head slowly. At first, there was no sign of recognition. Then, by degrees, his expression changed. His eyes flickered. His lips twisted into an approximation of a smile. He started to speak. It was painful to watch.

“Hell… hell… hello, Rogan.” He had difficulty getting the words out. He seemed to be pulling the words out, one by one, from a reluctant set of lungs. His voice was soft.

I moved closer. He must have had some kind of wasting disease. Maybe it was insensitive of me, but I said, “What the hell happened to you?”

He tried to rise. His body gave him trouble as he got to his feet with an unsteady motion. He held onto his chair for support. Then he began to walk toward me. It was more of a shuffle than a walk. His steps were short, halting, feeble. It took an eternity for him to cross a short distance. Finally he stood in front of me. He was a couple of inches shorter than I remembered him. He stared straight at me. His eyes were dead.

His words didn’t want to come out. He gave me a sad smile. “I…I…I’m not…well.” His hand reached out and stayed in mid-air, trembling like a dying bird, then fell to his side.

Schadenfreude is not a nice emotion. Happiness at someone else’s misfortune. The krauts nailed it perfectly with that one word. I tried not to feel satisfaction. I tried really hard.

“I…I…I’m glad…you came…to see me,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Don’t mention it.” As if he could. I took a deep breath.

I had to read Emerson’s essay on compensation again. Maybe you were rewarded or punished for your actions in the long run. Maybe there was an unseen symmetry to the world, after all.

I turned and started to leave.

“I…I’m…so sorry, Rogan,” was the last thing I heard as I walked away.

Mrs. Chisolm was just getting off the Nautilus when I caught up with her. She was wearing tight purple shorts and a pink tank top that showed to the world at large everything she had and was proud of. Her face was buried deep in the fluffy white folds of a large towel. She was still, leaning against the machine. Her body was taut, small-breasted and supple. Small beads of sweat covered her upper lip where it showed below the towel.

There was no one else in the health club yet. It would start to fill up in another half-hour.