Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

He held up the tumbler. "I could use a refill?"

Milo turned to me. "The bottle's on the counter. Nicholas and I will wait here."

I entered the kitchen and poured two fingers from the bottle of Dalwhinnie single-malt on the counter. Taking in details as I made my way back: yellow walls, old white appliances, bare stainless-steel counters, empty dish drainers. I opened the refrigerator. Carton of milk, package of sweating bacon, something in a bowl that looked like calcified gruel. No food aromas, just that same mothball stink. The whiskey bottle had been three-quarters empty. Nicholas Hansen cared little for nutrition, was a solitary drinker.

Back in the living room, Milo was ignoring Hansen and flipping the pages of his notepad. Hansen sat paralytically still. I handed him the drink and he took it with both hands and gulped.

Milo said, "Luke fell apart."

"I asked him what was wrong but instead of telling me he pulled out a joint and started to light up. I grabbed it out of his hand, and said, 'What do you think you're doing?' I guess I sounded irritated because he shrank back and said, 'Oh, Nick, we really fucked up.' And that's when he let it all out."

Hansen finished the second Scotch.

Milo said, "Go on."

Hansen regarded the empty glass, seemed to be considering another shot, but placed the tumbler on a side table. "He told me there'd been a party- a big one, some place in Bel Air, an empty house-"

"Whose house?"

"He didn't say and I didn't ask," said Hansen. "I didn't want to know."

"Why not?" said Milo.

"Because I'd moved on, they were long gone from my consciousne-"

"What did Chapman tell you about the party?" said Milo.

Hansen was silent. Looked anywhere but at us.

We waited him out.

He said, "Oh my."

"Oh my, indeed," said Milo.

Hansen snatched up the tumbler. "I could use a-"

Milo said, "No."

"A girl got killed at the party. I really need another drink."

"What was the girl's name?"

"I don't know!" Hansen's irises were wet- boggy mud.

"You don't know," said Milo.

"All Luke said was there'd been a party and things had gotten wild and they'd been fooling around with a girl and things got even wilder and all of a sudden she was dead."

"Fooling around."

No answer.

"All of a sudden," said Milo.

"That's how he put it," said Hansen.

Milo chuckled. Hansen recoiled, nearly dropped the tumbler.

"How was this sudden death brought about, Nick?"

Hansen bit his lip.

Milo barked, "Come on."

Hansen jumped in his chair and fumbled the glass, again. "Please- I don't know what happened- Luke didn't know what had happened. That was the point. He was confused- disoriented."

"What did he tell you about the girl?"

"He said Vance tied her up, they were partying with her, then all of a sudden it was bloody. A bloody scene, like one of those movies we used to watch in high school- slasher movies. 'Worse than that, Nick. It's much worse when it's real.' I got sick to my stomach, said, 'What the hell are you talking about?' Luke just babbled and blubbered and kept repeating that they'd fucked up."

"Who?"

"All of them. The Kingers."

"No name for the girl?"

"He said he'd never seen her before. She was someone Vance knew, and Vance noticed her and picked her up. Literally. Slung her over his shoulder and carried her down to the basement. She was stoned."

"In the basement of the party house."

"That's where they… fooled with her."

"Fooled with her," said Milo.

"I'm trying to be accurate. That's how Luke put it."

"Did Chapman take part in the rape?"

Hansen mumbled.

"What's that?" demanded Milo.

"He wasn't sure, but he thought he did. He was stoned, too. Everyone was. He didn't remember, kept saying the whole thing was like a nightmare."

"Especially for the girl," said Milo.

"I didn't want to believe him," said Hansen. "I'd come home from Yale for ten days. The last thing I needed was this dropping in my lap. I figured it had been a dream- some sort of drug hallucination. Back when I'd known Luke he was always on something."

"You said he wanted help from you. What kind of help?"

"He wanted to know what to do. I was a twenty-two-year-old kid , for Christ's sake, what position was I in to give him advice?" Hansen's fingers tightened around the tumbler. "He couldn't have picked a worse time to drop it on me. People were telling me I had talent, I was finally standing up to Father. The last thing I needed was to get sucked into some… horror. It was my right not to get sucked in. And I don't know why you feel you have a right to-"

"So you just dropped it," said Milo. "What'd you tell Chapman?"

"No," said Hansen. "That's wrong. I didn't drop it. Not completely. I told Luke to go home and keep all of it to himself, and when I figured things out, I'd get back to him."

"He listened to you?"

Hansen nodded. "It was what… he wanted to hear. He thanked me. After he left, I kept telling myself it had been the drugs talking. I wanted to drop it. But something happened to me that year- a painting class I'd taken. The teacher was an Austrian expatriate, a Holocaust survivor. He'd told me horror stories of all the good citizens who'd claimed to know nothing about what was going on. What liars they were. How Vienna had cheered when Hitler took power and everyone had turned a blind eye to atrocities. I remembered something he'd said: 'The Austrians have convinced themselves that Hitler was German and Beethoven was Austrian.' That stuck with me. I didn't want to be like that. So I went over to the library and checked out the newspapers for the time period Luke said the murder had taken place. But there was nothing . Not an article, not a single word about any girl being murdered in Bel Air. So I decided Luke had been freaking out."

Hansen's shoulders dropped. He allowed himself a weak smile. Trying to relax. Milo played the silence and Hansen tightened up again. "So you're saying there really…?"

"Did you ever call Chapman back? Like you said you would?"

"I had nothing to tell him."

"So what'd you do next?"

"I went back to Yale."

"Chapman ever try to reach you at Yale?"

"No."

"When were you in L.A. next?"

"Not for years. The next summer I was in France."

"Avoiding L.A.?"

"No," said Hansen. "Looking for other things."

"Such as?"

"Painting opportunities."

"When did you move back to L.A.?"

"Three years ago, when Mother became ill."

"Where were you living before that?"

"New York, Connecticut, Europe. I try to spend as much time as I can in Europe. Umbria, the light-"

"What about Austria?" said Milo.

Hansen's face lost color.

"So you're here to take care of your mother."

"That's the only reason. When she passes, I'll sell the house and find myself somewhere peaceful."

"Meanwhile," said Milo, "you and your old buddies are neighbors-"

"They're not my bud-"

"-ever make you nervous? Your being a semipublic figure and having a bunch of murderers knowing you're back in town?"

"I'm not semipublic," said Hansen. "I'm not any kind of public. I paint . Finish one canvas and start another. I never truly believed anything happened ."

"What did you think when you learned about Chapman drowning?"

"That it was an accident or suicide."

"Why suicide?"

"Because he'd seemed so upset."

"Suicide out of remorse?" said Milo.

Hansen didn't answer.

"You believed Chapman had been hallucinating, but you left town without trying to convince him there was nothing to worry about."

"It wasn't my- what is it you want from me?"