David Rosenfelt: Dead Center

Willie has decided that the only possible reason for his lack of success in training Rudy is that Rudy has only learned to speak German. Unfortunately, Willie, who butchers English on a regular basis, hasn’t had occasion to learn much German, so he’s somehow latched onto schnell .

“Schnell,” Willie says as Rudy just sits and stares at him. “Schnell… schnell,” Willie presses, but Rudy doesn’t move. Willie is about six two, a hundred and eighty pounds, and he seems to athletically glide as he moves. As he gives commands to the oblivious Rudy, he steps around him as if he’s a fashion photographer doing a photo shoot, trying to find just the right angles.

“He doesn’t seem to want to schnell,” I say, and Willie looks up, surprised that I am there.

“He schnelled a few minutes ago,” Willie says. “He probably saw you come in and didn’t want to do it with you here.”

I’m aware that Willie speaks only the one German word, has no idea what it means, but uses it all the time. “What exactly does he do when he schnells?” I ask.

“It depends on how I say it.” He turns back to Rudy and says, “Schnell. Schnell, boy.” His tone is more conciliatory, but Rudy doesn’t seem any more impressed. In fact, he just seems bored and finally lies down and closes his eyes.

“Good boy… good boy,” Willie says, rushing over to pet Rudy, though failing to wake him in the process.

“So ‘schnell’ means sleep? Very impressive,” I say. “There’s not another trainer in the state that could have gotten that dog to schnell.”

I only stay for about ten minutes, discussing with Willie which of the local shelters we will go to this weekend to rescue more dogs. We’ve placed eleven this week, so we have openings. Every dog we rescue would otherwise be killed in the county shelters, so we are always anxious to fill whatever openings we have.

I arrive at the CNN studios in Midtown Manhattan at ten-forty-five, which gives me some time to hang out in the city and decide how I’d like to get ripped off. I could play three-card monte with the shady guys huddled against buildings, leaning over their makeshift tables, or I could spend four times retail for something in the thirty-five electronics stores on each block, or I could take a tourist bus ride stuck in Manhattan traffic. Instead I choose to pay forty-eight dollars to park my car, a price that would be reasonable if I were parking it in a suite at the Waldorf.

I get into the studio five minutes before my segment is to begin. The host, a genial man named Spencer Williams, is just finishing a segment on the expected automobile traffic during the Labor Day weekend. According to the experts, there is going to be a lot of traffic, a major piece of breaking news if ever I’ve heard one.

The topic I’m here to discuss is the ongoing trial of Bruce Timmerman, the CEO of a technology company who is accused of murdering his wife as she slept in their bed. Timmerman claims that he came home late from a meeting and found her dead, the victim of a robbery gone violent.

The case doesn’t interest me in the slightest, and all I know about its current status is the brief report I heard on the radio while driving to the studio. Fortunately, lack of knowledge is not a handicap to pundits like me, and I start the segment by pointing out that the prosecutor has not been presenting an effective case. I say this even though I wouldn’t know the prosecutor if he walked into the studio, pulling his case in a wagon.

My former-prosecutor panelmate starts vehemently disagreeing with me, and I’m about to counter his counter when the host of the show cuts in. “Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but we have to go out to Findlay, Wisconsin, for a breaking story. Please stay with us.”

Hearing him say “Findlay, Wisconsin” is jolting, since that’s where Laurie now lives. But that jolt doesn’t compare to the one I receive when there, on the monitor in a police uniform, is Laurie herself.

This is not going to be fun.

• • • • •

THROWING UP ON national television would be rather embarrassing, but at this point it’s a real concern. The sight of Laurie on the five monitors that I can see from my studio vantage point is so jarring that there is a definite chance I will unload my morning bagel on the table.

Laurie is at a makeshift podium in front of what appears to be a government building. When I first started coming on TV, they told me that the camera adds ten pounds to a person. If that’s the case, they must use different-type cameras in Wisconsin, because Laurie hasn’t gained an ounce.

Since she’s behind a podium, it would be hard for the viewer to know that she is five foot ten. I’m five ten too, but I always used to claim that I was five ten and a quarter. That seemed a little obvious, so I changed my height to five ten and a half, which I’ve since rounded up to five eleven. It’s the first growth spurt I’ve had since high school.

Standing behind Laurie are five men, four wearing dark suits and the fifth in an officer’s uniform. She is talking to an assembled group of perhaps twenty members of the press, though it is hard to see from the camera’s vantage point. The graphic along the bottom of the screen identifies her as the Findlay, Wisconsin, Acting Chief of Police.

“I just have a brief announcement to make, and then I’ll answer a few questions,” Laurie says. “A little more than an hour ago, officers placed Jeremy Alan Davidson under arrest for the murders of Elizabeth Barlow and Sheryl Hendricks. The bodies of the victims were recovered pursuant to a search warrant on Mr. Davidson’s home.”

She starts taking questions, though provides very little in the way of answers, claiming that she cannot discuss evidence in an ongoing investigation. She does say that the cause of death in both cases is believed to be multiple stab wounds, but that autopsies are being conducted. Being on national television, especially to announce an arrest, should be a big moment in any small-town police officer’s career, yet Laurie looks as if she would rather be anywhere else than where she is.

I’m fascinated by what I’m watching, while at the same time wishing I could turn it off. The fact that I’m in a studio surrounded by monitors makes turning it off impossible and quite frustrating: I’m used to ruling my television with an iron remote control.

My mind keeps flashing to good times that we had together, times I have tried these last months to forget. Denial is a difficult state to remain in, but intentional, conscious denial is that much tougher. Until now I was doing pretty well at it.

Laurie ends the press conference rather abruptly, turning and walking back toward the building. The men that were standing behind her follow her as she goes; at least some of them might be the town’s political leaders, yet Laurie seems very much in charge. I feel a flash of pride in her, which subsides when I force myself to remember how much I hate her.

Within moments the red light is on and we’re back on the air. Spencer reminds the TV viewers that we’re in the middle of a discussion of legal issues, and he directs his first question at me.

“Andy, before we get back to the Timmerman case, didn’t you once work with Laurie Collins, the police chief conducting that press conference?”

I nod weakly. “I did. She was my investigator before she moved back to Findlay.”

“And you represented her when she was herself accused of murder, did you not?”

“I did. She was wrongly accused and completely exonerated by a jury.”

“And just so our audience will know the full picture, is it true that Laurie Collins, the love of your life, dumped you? And is it also true that you didn’t have sex until Rita Gordon took pity on you last night?” Spencer doesn’t ask me these questions; they only reside in the pathetic recesses of my mind.