David Rosenfelt: Dead Center

Maybe I should pretend there’s a woman lying next to me. I could giggle a couple of times and say, “Bambi, stop that. I’m on the phone.”

Or maybe I should be honest. But if I adopted such an uncharacteristic strategy, what would that honesty consist of? Maybe I should fake honesty… I think I can pull that off.

“I’m sorry I called you at this hour, Andy. But I need help.”

“I’m listening.”

“Actually, it’s not me that needs help. It’s someone else.”

My mind is not processing this too well. What the hell is she talking about? “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I arrested somebody today… for two brutal murders. It’s a young man. I’ve known his family since I was a child.”

“I saw you on television.”

“The thing is, I’m not sure he did it, Andy.”

“Then why did you arrest him?”

“Because the evidence is there; I had no choice. A jury will convict him without question. But I know this kid… and I just don’t buy it.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Talk to his father. You’re better at this than anyone I know, and I know I have no right to be calling you, but I felt I had to.”

“Laurie, I know nothing about this case. What am I going to tell his father: to keep a stiff upper lip?”

“Forget it, Andy,” she says. “I shouldn’t have asked.” Then, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, she asks, “How are you?”

“Fine… really good. I’m married with two kids. Right now we’re working on their college applications.”

Laurie laughs her pure, uninhibited laugh. It’s a sound that brings back such pleasant memories that I wish I could bottle it. “Thanks, Andy. I haven’t laughed in a while.”

“I’m here to serve.”

There is another protracted silence, less uncomfortable this time. Then, “I’ve got to go, Andy. It was good talking to you… good to hear your voice.”

“Same here.” This couldn’t be more true; just the sound of her voice rekindles long-dormant feelings, feelings that were so good I’ve devoted all my energies to trying to forget that I don’t experience them anymore.

“Bye,” she says.

“Laurie?”

“Yes?”

“Have the guy call me.”

“Thank you, Andy. Thank you so much.”

Click.

Thus concludes my first conversation with Laurie in four and a half months. Simultaneously concluding is my “get a grip” vow from the night before. What I’m reduced to now is replaying the conversation in my mind, judging my performance, and trying to decipher if she had other motivations for calling besides helping the guy she arrested.

I take Tara for a quick walk and then head for the office. It’s Saturday, so Edna is not there to bombard me with questions about the status of her estate. I’m not exactly a champion Internet surfer, but I know how to find out-of-town newspapers online, and I read as much as I can about the murders in Findlay.

Most of the papers have picked up the AP story, which reports the basic fact that Jeremy Alan Davidson, twenty-one, a resident of Findlay, Wisconsin, was arrested for the stabbing murders of Elizabeth Barlow and Sheryl Hendricks, residents of Center City, about ten miles from Findlay.

Davidson and Barlow were students at the Findlay campus of the University of Wisconsin and were said to be planning to marry. Speculation is that Barlow broke off the relationship and went home to Center City, where she and her friend Hendricks commiserated over the situation. Davidson, unable to handle the rejection, is said to have gone crazy and murdered both Barlow and Hendricks, who had the misfortune to be with her friend at the time. The bodies were buried in a hurried, makeshift grave in Davidson’s backyard.

The Milwaukee Journal, the home-state paper of record, goes one step further and alludes to a religious conflict between Barlow and Davidson, speculating that perhaps she chose “her faith” over him and that he could not tolerate that. The reporter does not have many specifics, but the religion speculation presents an interesting aspect to the case. Conflicts about religion have broken up many young couples over the years, although to my knowledge it’s quite rare that they lead to murder.

I’m about to head home to watch some college football when the phone rings. It’s unusual for it to ring in the office on a Saturday; in fact, lately, it doesn’t ring much at all. I have a quick flash of hope that it might be Laurie, which is supported by the caller ID showing an area code I don’t recognize.

“Hello,” I say, figuring just in case it’s Laurie, I might as well be at the top of my conversational game.

“Mr. Carpenter?” It’s a male voice that I don’t recognize, and definitely not Laurie.

“Speaking.”

“My name is Richard Davidson. Laurie Collins said that you would speak to me.”

“Right.”

“Would now be a good time?” he asks.

“As good as any.”

“I can be at your office in less than an hour. If that’s okay.”

This is not computing. Wisconsin is not an hour away. If it were, Laurie and I would still be living together. “Where are you?”

“In a cab leaving Newark Airport.”

I agree to wait for him, masking my annoyance. Laurie obviously told him that I would speak with him even before she spoke to me. She just as obviously has confidence that she can manipulate me and get me to do what she wants. I’m pissed off because she’s been proven right.

Richard Davidson arrives within forty-five minutes. He’s probably six foot two, a hundred and sixty pounds, the kind of annoying guy who can suck in a freezerful of Häagen-Dazs without gaining an ounce.

I instantly feel sorry for him for two reasons. First, he has the look of a man who is totally exhausted, his face already bearing deep lines of concern, be it from lack of sleep or intense stress. Considering that his son has been arrested for a brutal double murder, it’s probably both, and I expect his black hair should be gray within the hour. Second, he’s wearing a suit, meaning he figured that to do so would impress me. This is a desperate man.

My office is about as unimpressive as one is likely to find, situated above a fruit stand in downtown Paterson. It looks as if it was decorated in early Holiday Inn, during a chambermaid strike. Yet Davidson does not seem to notice any of this; his total focus is to try to get me to help his son.

I offer him water or a cup of coffee, and I’m relieved when he chooses the former, since I have no idea how to make the latter. “I’ve planned what I was going to say on the way here, but right now I have no idea where to start,” he says.

“I’ve read up as best I can on your son’s case,” I say. “Just the newspaper stories.”

He nods. “It’s horrible… just horrible. Those two poor girls.”

“Did you know them?” I ask.

“Just Elizabeth… not Sheryl Hendricks. Elizabeth and Jeremy were talking about getting married. They were so terrific together.”

“Until she broke it off?” I ask.

“Yes, until she broke it off. She told Jeremy that she still loved him but that it just couldn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Pressures from her parents, her town, her religion… the place she’s from is a very closed society. I had warned him about that; those people have always kept to themselves. But even though she ended it, he would never hurt her, not ever. Mr. Carpenter, I know my son is innocent.”

“You believe he is.” It’s an important distinction to make; I’m pointing out that he has no real evidence.

“It’s the same thing. There is simply no way he could have done this. Laurie knows that as well as I do.” He’s exaggerating this for effect; Laurie has not professed a strong belief in his son’s innocence, she has simply expressed doubts about his guilt. There’s a difference.