William Lashner: Fatal Flaw

“I was home, sleeping through the baseball game, when Guy called.”

“What did he say?”

“I can’t tell you. Depending on the circumstances, it might be a privileged communication.”

“You mean if he was calling you as a lawyer,” said Breger, “instead of as a friend.”

“That’s right. But he didn’t say much. He wasn’t really coherent. He sounded out of his head, confused.”

“Stoned?”

“With grief, maybe. I didn’t know what to do. I told him to stay calm, that I’d be right over.”

“What number did he call?”

“My home number.” I gave it to them. “When I arrived, he was sitting on the steps waiting for me.”

“In the rain?”

“Yes. Sobbing. And he was naked. I ran upstairs and found her on the mattress. I used the upstairs phone to call 911. Then I took a black raincoat from the hall closet, went back out with Guy, covered him as best I could. I waited out there with him.”

“When you were up in the room, did you see a gun or shells or anything?”

“No.”

“Did you smell anything, anything funny?”

“Other than the gunpowder and the smell of the blood? No.”

“It must have been a shock for him to see her dead like that,” said Breger.

“I suppose so.”

“Why, then, do you think he called a lawyer?” asked Breger, his head still in the file. “Of all the people he could call when he saw what he saw, why do you think he called a lawyer? I don’t think I would call a lawyer. A doctor, the police, my mother maybe, but not a lawyer.”

“He burned a lot of bridges when he left his family and his job to move in with Hailey. We had stayed in contact. He had introduced me to Hailey months ago. Maybe there was no one else for him to call.”

“You say Guy left his wife for her?” asked Stone. “What is the wife’s name?”

“Leila,” I said. “Leila Forrest. They weren’t yet divorced.”

“Do you have an address?”

I gave it to her.

“That’s Berwyn.”

“Yes it is.”

“Nice place, Berwyn. Any idea who might have wanted to kill Ms. Prouix other than this Leila Forrest?”

“I never said Leila wanted to kill her. And I don’t know of anyone else.”

“What was she like, the victim?”

“I don’t know, Hailey was… special. Sweet, in her own way. Pretty. A nice girl. This thing is just tragic.”

“Any problems between Mr. Forrest and Ms. Prouix?”

“They were in love, madly in love. Sick in love. Anything else?”

“You want to get him out of here, don’t you?” said Breger. “You want to take him someplace where the body of his fiancée isn’t lying dead on a mattress upstairs.”

“Exactly.”

“Good idea. We’ll see you and Mr. Forrest tomorrow. Is nine too early?”

“It’s going to be a tough night,” I said. “Let’s shoot for ten.”

Breger and Stone glanced at each other. Maybe it was my unfortunate choice of verb.

“Ten it is,” said Stone. “You didn’t by any chance have an umbrella or something?”

“No, why?”

“Thank you for your help,” said Breger, his gaze back in the file. “See you tomorrow at ten.”

I left the two of them huddling in quiet conversation and went back to Guy in the dining room. I spoke to him softly. I helped him stand. I helped him put on the raincoat. I took hold of his gym bag. Gripping his arm, I helped him toward the door before Detective Breger dropped his meaty hand on Guy’s shoulder.

“Mr. Carl,” he said, while looking not at me but at Guy, “we won’t ask Mr. Forrest any questions, because you asked us not to, but could we perform one small test, just for our peace of mind?”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” I said.

“Just one test,” said Breger. “It won’t take but a minute. Just a precaution really. Shirley, come here please. Shirley is one of our best Forensic Unit technicians. Shirley, could you do what you have to do with Mr. Forrest’s hands?”

“I really should get him out. Why don’t we leave this for tomorrow?”

“This won’t take but a minute,” said Breger. “The strips are already prepared, which makes it go really quickly. And it could really help us move the investigation forward.”

“Hold out your hands, Mr. Forrest,” said Stone in a quiet but commanding voice that left no possibility of refusal. Guy did as he was told.

Shirley took wide strips of clear adhesive and pressed them on the back of each of Guy’s hands, concentrating on the web of flesh between the thumb and the forefinger. With a flourish she ripped the strips off, one at a time, and carefully put them on a fresh backing. Then she did the same to each palm.

“What do you think?” said Breger.

“His hands seem too clean,” said Shirley. “How long was he out in the rain?”

Breger turned to me and raised an eyebrow.

“Could have been twenty minutes,” I said, “could have been more.”

“Doubtful there would be anything left,” said Shirley, “but you never know.”

“Okay, thank you,” said Breger. “We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Carl. See you tomorrow.”

I grabbed hold of Guy’s arm and tried to rush him out of the house before they could think of some other hoop through which they wanted him to jump. We were just about to step outside when I heard Breger say, “Oh, Mr. Carl.”

I stopped, breathed deep, turned.

He was bent on one knee, examining the carpet to the left of the doorway. Without looking up, he said, “It’s a little nasty out there tonight. Be sure to drive carefully.”

Suburban cops.

If this had been just a few blocks over, on the city side of City Line Avenue, it wouldn’t have gone down with such sweet understanding. The city cops would have put Guy in custody right smack away. They would have seen him as the obvious suspect, as the only suspect, actually. And the fact that he had called a lawyer before an ambulance would have been for them absolute proof of his guilt. Next day I’d be standing next to Guy in the crummy little courtroom in the Roundhouse as he was arraigned for first-degree murder. The DA would have noted the crime was a capital one, the judge would have denied bail, and Guy would have spent the next year growing sallow in jail as he waited for his trial. And with him in jail, what good could I accomplish? With him in jail, how could I ask what I needed to ask, learn what I needed to learn?

A decision had been made and I needed Guy out of jail, even for just a few days, a few hours, to carry it through. It is why I scoured the crime scene like I did, why I took the reefer and didn’t tell them about the gun. Even so, I didn’t think it would be enough, even so even the greenest city cop would have taken him in. But see, we weren’t on the city side of City Line Avenue, we were on the other side, the suburban side, where the police were ever helpful and ever polite. Despite the little incident with the gunpowder test, the suburban cops maintained their form and sent Guy and his lawyer off into the night with a kindly admonition to drive carefully.

“Thank you, Detective Breger,” I said, feeling the weight of the gun pull down at my raincoat pocket, “you’ve been most kind.” And I meant every word of it.

I CAREDfor him as best I could.

Like a Secret Service agent, I took for myself the blows of lights and flashes from the cameramen and photographers waiting predatorily outside the house. The reporters had already ferreted out the details of the crime, knew the name of the victim, the name of her fiancé. “Mr. Forrest, any comment about what happened to Miss Prouix?” “Mr. Forrest, who killed Hailey?” “Guy, can you tell us how you feel?” “Are you devastated?” “Show us some tears.” “Why did you do it, Guy?” “Was there a stripper involved, like the other one?” “If you have nothing to hide, why won’t you talk to us?” “Hey, Guy.” “Yo, Guy.” “Over here.” I deflected their questions with a smile and a few brief words about the tragedy. I strategically kept myself between Guy and the camera lenses while pulling him to my car. Speed and silence, I had learned, were the best weapons against the media, giving them nothing of interest to show their sensation-starved audience. But then again I’ve always found it hard to turn down free publicity – one of the very few things money can’t buy. So even as I pulled Guy to my car, I forced a smile and gave a little speech and handed out my business cards to make sure in the early editions they spelled Carl with a “C.”