: Margolin: The Last Innocent Man

Conklin heard a sharp tapping in front of him. He raised the beam. A door was snapping against the side of the building. Conklin approached it cautiously. He looked around, then entered the warehouse. The high roof shut out the moon and stars, leaving the flashlight beam as the only source of light. Conklin was overcome by a sense of dread. He felt enveloped by the darkness, as if he were fathoms deep in the ocean at the point where light is completely absorbed by the water.

The flashlight showed Conklin rusted girders, an abandoned wooden pallet on which an open and empty packing crate rested, and random stacks of two-by-fours covered by cobwebs and dust. He took a few steps forward and picked out a section of the floor that was covered by the rug Gault had taken from the car on the first evening. Conklin walked over to the rug. It was cheap and dull green. He shone the light around the area and saw nothing else that would help explain why Gault had left it in the warehouse or why Gault had returned to this place on three successive evenings.

“I hope you like the rug.”

Conklin jumped and almost dropped the light.

“I bought it for you.”

Conklin turned in a circle, but there was no one there.

“Before I give you your gift, you will have to answer some questions, Mr. Conklin.”

“Gault?”

“Who else have you been following for the past two weeks?”

“We can talk. Why don’t we go outside?” Conklin said, turning slowly so as to face the place where Gault’s voice had been.

“No, thank you. Here will be just fine. Sound won’t carry as far. Lowers the risk of someone hearing you scream.”

“Mr. Nash,” David’s secretary said, “it’s Mr. Gault again.”

David felt a flush of fear, then anger.

“Tell him I’m in conference.”

“He says he’ll come down and cause a scene if you try to put him off.”

“Jesus.” David looked out the window. “Okay. Put him through.”

“Hey, old buddy,” Gault said as soon as David picked up the phone, “I need your help.”

“Look, Tom, let me make this clear. I don’t want anything to do with you. Not now. Not ever.”

“Hey, no need to be so hostile.”

“Listen…”

“No, you listen,” Gault said. There was an unmistakable edge to his voice. “If you hang up this phone, I might have to call theOregonian with an interesting item about Mrs. Stafford. You remember her, don’t you?”

David sucked in a breath. “All right. What do you want?”

“Just some advice. What say we meet for lunch? My treat.”

GAULT HAD CHOSENa small French restaurant in northwest Portland. The lunch crowd was made up of a round table of older women, several businessmen on expense accounts, and a few young lovers. The maitre d’ showed David to Gault’s table, and the writer greeted him with a relaxed smile.

“Some Reisling?” Gault suggested, taking a tall bottle of wine from the ice bucket at the side of the table.

“Let’s just cut to the chase, Tom. I’m tired of games.”

“Oh? That wasn’t my impression. Nonetheless, I agree. Let’s get down to business. I’m working on a new book and I’m stuck for an ending. I hoped you could help me out. The book is about a writer. Someone like me, actually. Now, this writer is minding his own business when he gets the funny feeling that he’s being followed. Sure enough, he is.

“At first the writer thinks it’s just some literary groupie, but the fellow never approaches him. The writer begins to get nervous, so he lays a little trap.”

Gault paused to watch David’s reaction.

“It must be a pretty good plot,” Gault said. “I see I’ve got you on the edge of your seat already. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. The trap. The writer has heard that old saw ‘Curiosity killed the cat’ and sets out to pique his tail’s curiosity. Each evening he goes to an out-of-the-way, deserted location and does something mysterious, hoping that the mystery man will follow him inside, where it is nice and quiet and the writer can ask a few questions without having to worry about being disturbed.

“After three nights our little pussy takes the bait. Guess what happens next?”

David sat in stunned silence.

“No guesses? Well, you see, the writer loves his privacy and he certainly doesn’t appreciate anyone violating it. Do you know what my character does to this intruder?”

Gault smiled. The blood had drained from David’s face.

“In my story the writer tortures this fellow, who answers every question he is asked. It’s quite a violent scene. Blood spraying all over, bones cracking. I may have to tone it down before submitting it to my editor. She has a weak stomach, and I don’t know if she’ll be able to take this much graphic violence.

“Anyway, the writer has just had some trouble with the law, so he has to keep this little incident hush-hush. All this torture has taken place on a large rug that does an admirable job of absorbing the blood. The writer rolls up the dead man in the rug, cleans up the mess, and gets rid of the body, leaving no clues for a sleuth to find. But that’s where I’m stuck. What happens next? For the life of me, I can’t figure it out.

“My character knows the identity of the dastardly coward who hired the victim. I guess the writer could confront him. But I don’t know… That seems like such a cliche, and the critics have been so lavish in praising my originality.” Gault shrugged. “I’ll admit I’m stumped. That’s why I called. You have a fertile imagination. I hoped you could help me.”

David stood up so quickly, he knocked over his chair. Gault watched, greatly amused. The sound of the chair crashing to the floor brought on a sudden hush in the restaurant. The diners turned toward David as he staggered away. Gault threw his head back, and his laughter followed David out onto the street.

Monica Powers was getting ready for bed when the doorbell rang. She put a bathrobe on over her nightgown and went to the door. David had never been to her apartment and she was surprised to see him. She was more surprised by his appearance. Since the Stafford trial she had heard disturbing rumors about David, and his disheveled clothes, bloodshot eyes, and uncombed hair seemed to bear them out.

“I need your help, Monica,” David said. His shoulders were hunched, and he could not look directly at her when he spoke. Monica stood aside and let David into the apartment.

“You look awful. What’s going on?”

David wandered into the living room and slumped down onto the couch. Monica sat opposite the couch on a straight-back chair. Suddenly David’s shoulders shook and he began to cry. He hid his face in his hands. Monica rushed to the couch.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” David sobbed.

Monica held him tight and rocked him. David clung to her. After a few minutes she could feel him relax and she let go. David ran his coat sleeve across his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he managed.

“What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

David rested his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes.

“It’s Terry Conklin. He’s dead and I’m responsible.”

“What?!”

“Thomas Gault tortured him and buried the body.”

“I don’t understand…”

David sat up and leaned forward. He looked straight down, his head bowed.

“Gault told me something in confidence. I couldn’t go to the police. What Gault said was protected by the attorney-client privilege. Gault is a sadist. He’d confessed to killing someone before to unnerve me. Then he told me it was a joke. He had me so confused. When he…when he told me this new information… I believed him, but he’s such a convincing liar…”