- Margolin - The Last Innocent Man

Halfway around, David spotted a pretty girl running in front of him. She made him think of Valerie Dodge. Valerie had had a strange effect on him. Perhaps the mysterious way she had ended the evening was responsible for his desire. Perhaps it was the mixture of passion and reticence that had permeated their lovemaking. When they were in bed, she held him so tight; then, just when he thought she was giving herself completely, he would suddenly feel a tension in her that implied a spiritual withdrawal from the act. It had been confusing, yet entrancing, suggesting a mystery beneath the surface of the slender body he was holding.

David sprinted the final quarter mile to his house. He showered and dressed for work. He had decided that he could not wait for Valerie Dodge to call him. He was going to find her.

“BAUER CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS.”

“Joe Barrington, please.”

“Speaking.”

“Joe, this is Dave Nash.”

“Some party last night, Dave. Tell Greg thanks a million.”

“I’m glad it worked out all right.”

“The senator was really pleased.”

“Good. Look, Joe, the reason I called was for some information. You helped Greg draw up the invitation list for the party, right?”

“Sure. What can I do for you?”

“I met a woman at the party. Her name is Valerie Dodge. Tall, mid-twenties, blond hair. I promised I’d give her the answer to a legal question and I lost her phone number. I called information, but she’s not listed.”

“No problem. Give me a minute and I’ll get the list.”

“Dave,” Joe Barrington said a minute later, “doesn’t look like I can help you. There’s no one named Dodge on the list. Did she come with someone?”

“No. She was alone.”

“That’s funny. I’m certain everyone we invited was on the list. Of course, Greg might have invited someone on his own. Or the senator. Do you want me to check?”

“Would you?”

“No problem. It might take a few days, though. We’re all backed up here.”

“That’s okay. There’s no rush. She’ll probably call me in a day or so if she doesn’t hear from me.”

“Tell Greg thanks. Don’t forget. The senator’s going to drop him a line personally, but it might take him some time to get around to it.”

“I’ll tell him. Thanks again.”

David hung up and leaned back in his chair. No name in the phone book or on the list. Maybe Valerie Dodge wasn’t her right name. If she was married, she might have given him a phony. He had to see her again. The more mysterious she became, the greater became David’s desire. He closed his eyes and started thinking of ways to track her down. By lunchtime he still hadn’t thought of any.

ORTIZ HEARDRONCrosby enter his hospital room. He turned his head toward the door. It took a lot of effort to do even that. His twin black eyes and bandaged nose made him look like a boxer who had lost a fight. His head throbbed and his broken nose hurt even more.

“Ready to get back to work, Bert?” Crosby asked. Ortiz knew Crosby was just trying to cheer him up, but he couldn’t smile.

“Is she…?” Ortiz asked in a tired voice.

“Dead.”

Ortiz wasn’t surprised. No one had told him, but he knew.

“Can you talk about it, Bert?” Crosby asked. He pulled up a gray metal chair and sat down beside the bed. This wasn’t the first time he had been in a hospital room interviewing a witness in a homicide. He had been on the force for fifteen years, and a homicide detective for eight of those. Still, it was different when the witness was a fellow cop and a friend.

“I’ll try,” Ortiz answered, “but I’m having trouble getting it all straight.”

“I know. You have a concussion. The doctor said that it’s going to make it hard for you to remember for a while.”

Ortiz looked frightened and Crosby held up his hand.

“For a while, Bert. He said it goes away in time and you’ll remember everything. I probably shouldn’t even be here this soon, but I was gonna drop in to see how you were, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to pump you a little.”

“Thanks for coming, Ron,” Ortiz said. He shut his eyes and leaned back. Crosby shifted on his seat. He was short for a policeman, five eight, but he had a big upper body and broad shoulders that pushed past the edges of the chair back. He had joined the force in his late twenties after an extended hitch in the Army. Last February he turned forty-two, and gray was starting to outnumber black among his thinning hairs.

“I can’t remember anything about the murder. I vaguely remember a motel, but that’s it. I can remember the car, though,” he said, brightening. “It was a Mercedes. Beige, I think.”

The effort had taken something out of him, and he let his head loll like a winded runner.

“Did you get a license number or…?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s all so hazy.”

Crosby stood up.

“I’m gonna go and let you get some rest. I don’t want to push you.”

“It’s okay, Ron. I…” Ortiz stopped. Something was troubling him.

“What does Ryder think?” he asked after a while. “I mean, does he think I…?”

“He doesn’t think anything. No one does, Bert. We don’t even know what happened.”

Ortiz put his hands to his head and ran them across the short stubble that covered his cheeks. He felt drained.

“What if it was my fault? I mean, they put me with Darlene because she was new, and what if…?”

He didn’t finish.

“You’ve got enough to worry about without taking a strong dose of self-pity. You’re a good cop and everybody knows that. You worry about getting better and getting your memory back.”

“Yeah. Okay. I just…”

“I know. See you, huh?”

“See you. Thanks again for coming.”

The door closed and Ortiz stared at it. The drugs they had given him were making him sleepy, but they didn’t get rid of all the pain. They just made it bearable. He closed his eyes and saw Darlene. She had been an annoyance. Really juvenile. Had he screwed up because he had got mad at her? He wished that he could remember what had happened. He wanted to help get the killer, but, most of all, he wanted to know if it was his fault that a young policewoman was dead.

The first half of July was cool and comfortable. There was a subdued sun, light breezes, a mad array of flowers, and underdressed girls in eye-catching getups. Then, overnight, the breeze disappeared, the sun went mad, and a thick, unmoving mass of hot air descended on Portland, wilting the flowers and making the girls look tired and worn. To David the oppressive heat was merely a meteorological expression of his mood. The torpid air had a dehydrating effect that wore away the energy of the city, and, in a similar way, David could feel his mental and spiritual energy draining away, like wax slowly dripping down the sides of a candle.

All his attempts to locate Valerie Dodge had failed, and she had not called him. Perhaps David desired her because he could not find her, but her absence gnawed at him, confronting him with the void that was his personal life.

Work provided no escape. It only deepened his depression. The Gault case had brought him many new clients, all guilty and all hoping that he could perform a miracle that would wash away their guilt. His work on their behalf disheartened him. More and more he felt that he was doing something he should not.

The originality that had characterized David’s early legal career was giving way to a highly polished routine that let him move through his cases without thinking about them. His success as a lawyer was due to his brilliance and his dedication. Others might not notice, but David knew he was no longer giving his best effort. So far that had made no difference in the results he had achieved. But someday it would. On that day he would know, even if no one else did, that he was no different from the ambulance chasers and incompetents who practiced at the gutter levels of criminal law.