Robert Knightly - Bodies in Winter

‘What happened to you?’ she naturally asked.

‘What happened to my partner,’ I said, ‘is that she got off lucky. Everybody else who crossed Dante Russo has ended up dead.’ I gave it a few beats, my heart bursting with gratitude. All along, I’d been figuring Ellen for a dupe and her shock at Adele’s appearance confirmed that suspicion. She wasn’t there when the attack was planned and nobody had told her about it afterwards. ‘Why don’t we go inside and have this conversation in private?’

After a quick look up and down the block, she led us into the interior of the house, then up the stairs to the small sitting room where I’d conducted the last interview. Again, I was struck by the plush upholstery and vivid colors. The roses and peonies embroidered on the fabric covering the couch and chair were open and voluptuous, in stark contrast to the very guarded woman who’d chosen the pattern and who now took a seat across from me.

‘My husband’s killer is dead,’ she declared, ‘so I don’t really see what you’re doin’ here stealin’ my garbage.’

‘There was a second man, Ellen, if you remember; a second assassin.’

‘And you’re lookin’ for him in my trash?’

‘I look for him everywhere, hoping to find him somewhere.’

‘Spare me, please.’ When I didn’t respond, Ellen crossed her legs and leaned away from me. ‘Fine, let’s get it over with. What do you want?’

‘We were wondering,’ I said, ‘if you’ve recovered any stray memories in the last week.’ I watched her light a cigarette with a disposable lighter. As she drew the smoke down into her lungs, her eyes closed and I got the distinct feeling that she didn’t want to open them. ‘Something Davy might have said when you visited, or wrote in his letters.’

‘As a matter of fact, I have. Davy told me that he worked in the prison shrink’s office. He told me the shrink was crazy, that he was completely unreliable.’

Credit where credit is due. When I’d asked her about Nagy in our last interview, she’d denied all knowledge of his existence. Now she’d covered her ass.

‘Was that something Davy said to you?’

‘It was in his letters.’

‘Anything else you can remember?’

The window behind Ellen was raised a few inches and a pair of red curtains fluttered in the draft, reaching to within a foot of her close-cropped hair. ‘Why do you keep asking me these questions about Davy? If I remember right, he was the victim.’

The fact that she didn’t claim victimhood for herself was encouraging. Not that I intended to respond to her questions. The subject never controls the interview.

‘Do you remember I asked you about Tony Szarek last time I was here? The man they called the Broom?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘Well, you told me that you recognized the name, but that you’d never met him. I wonder if you want to reconsider that statement, if maybe some new memory has surfaced.’

Ellen Lodge’s eyes flicked over to Adele. ‘This ain’t right,’ she said.

If Ellen was looking for help from Adele, she’d come to the wrong source. Adele’s gaze was absolutely ferocious, the gaze of someone who’s been hit in the face with a bat and holds the individual before her responsible.

‘I asked you a simple question, Ellen,’ I said. ‘You can always refuse to answer.’

‘Alright, I could’ve run into him once or twice at Christmas parties in the precinct. Or at some other party. But I didn’t actually know him.’

‘Have you been in contact with him since he retired?’

‘Do I need a lawyer here?’

‘What you need to do is answer the very simple question I asked you.’

‘I think I need a lawyer.’

I shook my head. Legal representation was not a place to which we could return over and over again.

‘Face it, Ellen, this isn’t Law and Order and you’re not getting an attorney. And we’re not leaving, either, not until we get some answers.’ I kept my tone as non-confrontational as I could, allowing the words to speak for themselves. ‘You were married to David Lodge, so you already know how it works. We’re here to stay.

Ellen Lodge’s eyes dropped to her hands and her shoulders slumped. For a moment I thought she was going to cave in, right then and there. I looked over at Adele, who gave me a surreptitious thumb’s-up.

‘You haven’t even read me my rights,’ Ellen finally announced without raising her head. ‘Not even that.’

But I wasn’t biting. ‘Why don’t we back up, Ellen, and not waste our breath. I asked you a simple question. Have you been in contact with Tony Szarek since he retired?’

As Ellen Lodge might have walked off earlier, she might have chosen, at that moment, to keep her mouth shut. I certainly wasn’t prepared to force her to speak, despite my earlier refusal to leave, and I’m sure she knew it. But Ellen was a woefully inexperienced villain in a very tight spot. What did I know? What facts had I uncovered? How deep was the hole in which she now stood? She just had to find out.

‘Why don’t we skip the bullshit?’ she suggested, finally raising her head to meet my eyes. ‘Why don’t we get to the bottom line?’

‘Why won’t you answer the question I asked? Have you had any contact with Tony Szarek since he retired? It’s so simple. All you have to say is yes or no.’

‘Yes, then.’ Having made the initial admission, Ellen couldn’t slow her momentum, offering an explanation I hadn’t requested. ‘I just thought that it didn’t really matter. I mean, it’s not like we were friends. And Tony was dead, for God’s sake. He couldn’t have had anything to do with Davy’s…’ Though her lips continued to move, Ellen was unable to say the last word. Another good sign.

‘Then you knew Szarek was dead?’

‘Yeah, I knew.’

‘Did you also know that he was murdered?’

‘I still don’t know that he was murdered.’

‘Oh, he was murdered alright.’ I placed my finger against my temple. ‘When you shoot yourself from this position, two things happen. First, you get blood on your hand and wrist. This is called blowback. Second, the hand holding the gun becomes contaminated with the residue of the exploding primer and the gunpowder. Neither of these things happened to Szarek’s hand. That means he didn’t fire the gun himself.’

‘The medical examiner called it suicide,’ she insisted.

‘You’re clinging to a straw. The ME’s finding of probable suicide was preliminary. Now that the lab reports are in, the case has been officially reopened.’

I watched Ellen react to the lies, her right knee taking a series of little hops before she brought herself under control. Momentarily, I considered firing off the best shots in my arsenal. But it was still too early and I told her the story of DuWayne Spott instead, recounting the portrait drawn by my witnesses of a hapless addict clinging to the fringes of the criminal underworld. When I finished, I asked Ellen a series of questions.

‘How do you think DuWayne Spott found out when Davy was being released from prison? How do you think he found out where Davy was going to stay? How do you think he found out when Davy was going to leave your house that morning?’

Though I paused between each question, Ellen didn’t reply. Finally I asked, ‘Can you see how thin it is? I’m talking about the whole business, Ellen. It can’t hold up.’

‘Is there a question here?’

In fact, there was, but as it was purely rhetorical, I simply continued on. ‘That’s three murders, Ellen. Tony Szarek, DuWayne Spott, David Lodge. And then there’s that phone call you made just as Davy walked out the door. You said it went to a wrong number, that you were calling a friend. Who was the friend? What number did you intend to dial?’