John Goldbach - The Devil and the Detective

A younger, slighter man in a dark suit similar to Bouvert’s entered the office. Bouvert looked at me and said, ‘Bob, Al. Al, Bob.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Al.

I nodded.

‘Bob here was the detective Elaine Andrews called after she found Gerald Andrews’s body,’ said Bouvert.

‘Did you see the body?’ Al said.

‘No.’

‘Are you sure, Bob?’ said Bouvert.

‘Sure I’m sure. I didn’t see the body, even for a second. I hadn’t been inside the house till yesterday, early evening, around five or so.’

Bouvert and Al exchanged knowing looks, though as to what they knew, I had no idea whatsoever. Al seated himself on the black leather couch. Bouvert stood up and walked around to the front of his desk and continued his questioning, resting his ass on the lip of his desk and leaning, saying, ‘Did she mention anything about another man? Did she talk about any men other than Gerald?’

‘I have a question first. Why’d you recommend me to her?’

‘Pardon me?’ said Bouvert.

‘Why did you recommend me to Elaine?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘She said that you told her to call a private detective, then gave her my number.’

‘Mr. James, I’m sorry to contradict your story, but I never told her to call a private detective.’

‘Then why did she call me?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Bouvert.

Al sat silent and stolid on the black leather couch.

‘Did she mention me to you at all?’

‘Yes,’ said Bouvert. ‘Yesterday afternoon Elaine and I talked. She sounded withdrawn, but I expected as much. I asked if she wanted me to come over to keep her company, and she said that she’d called a private detective. She said you were on your way over. I asked her why she’d hired a private detective and she said that she wanted to get to the bottom of the case as soon as possible. I thought that made some sense.’

‘What else did she say?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I told her I’d call again soon and said goodbye and she said goodbye and that was that.’

Al remained mute and motionless.

‘And that was the last time you talked to her?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

Bouvert seemed to be telling the truth. I didn’t think he told her to call me, but some questions still remained unanswered: Why did she call me? Who put her in touch with me? Why did she lie, saying that her lawyer, Bouvert, gave her my number? I put these questions to Bouvert and his associate, but neither seemed to have the slightest clue as to why she had called or who put her in touch with me. When I began asking questions about Gerald, neither seemed to want to talk to me anymore. I insisted, though: ‘Why would someone want to murder Gerald Andrews and target his wife?’

‘Mr. James,’ said Bouvert, ‘Gerald’s murder and Elaine’s disappearance come as a great shock to us, too.’ He walked around behind his desk and sat in his large chair in front of the large window. ‘The truth is neither Al nor I have any idea whatsoever why someone would target the Andrewses.’

When I opened the door to the hatchback I asked Darren if he smoked and he said yes but we couldn’t smoke in the car because of the flowers and because it belonged to the florist, so we sat on the curb and smoked cigarettes under a streetlight. I’d quit, years ago, though nevertheless I was smoking, not caring about the consequences, and my old cough reappeared immediately, a curt bark. I inhaled deeply, holding the smoke, then slowly exhaled the warm pinching smoke through my nostrils. My eyes were closed and I listened to the soft sounds of occasional traffic. Darren didn’t talk. He was a nice kid. Respectful of others. I stood up and crushed the cigarette underfoot, thinking, I don’t need anymore goddamn cigarettes in my life. A city bus approached and I said to Darren that I could take the bus home and he said that he was going my way anyway, and we got in the car. We drove off and I turned to Darren and said, ‘Thanks for waiting, bud.’

My apartment was dark and I didn’t turn on any lights, just placed my keys and wallet on the mantel and went to the kitchenette and poured myself a drink and drank it back and poured another one, emptying the bottle, and dropped face down on my couch and kicked off my shoes and that was that.

A buzz startled me out of sleep and I woke on my couch, thirsty, listening to the rain on the fire escape. I remained still, then let my eyelids close under their immense weight. Again, however, there was a loud buzz. It was my doorbell. I sat up on the couch and grabbed the glass sitting on the floor beside it and held the glass up to the meagre light from the street; it was empty and opaque with fingerprints. Again, there was that loud grating buzz and I said, ‘Hold your horses.’ I stood up and did up my pants and belt and walked toward the door, unlocked it and opened it. Much to my chagrin, O’Meara stood there, with one of his plainclothes minions.

‘Mind if we come in, Rick,’ he said, as they pushed past me into my apartment.

‘Make yourselves at home,’ I said, lighting a cigarette.

O’Meara pushed me up against the wall, slapped the cigarette out of my mouth, and said, ‘Don’t get smart, smartass!’ I shoved O’Meara, and the plainclothesman punched me in the stomach. I dropped to my knees. I fought back vomit while trying to catch my breath.

‘Now here’s how it’s going to be, tough guy,’ said O’Meara, ‘we’re going to ask the questions and you’re going to provide the answers. Understand?’ I nodded. ‘Did you rape Elaine Andrews?’

‘Are you fucking crazy?’ I said, and the plainclothesman kicked me in the left kidney, from behind, and I gasped in pain, clutching my side, gritting my teeth and waiting for the pain to dissipate.

‘Did you rape her, Rick?’ he repeated.

‘You know I wouldn’t hurt her.’

‘Rick, we found your friend in a parking lot dumpster, the parking lot of a florist near you, Chez Marine, with her hands tied behind her back, gagged, and there are clear signs of forced penetration. Cause of death was a severe blow to the cranium. You wouldn’t know anything about that — would you, Rick?’

‘O’Meara, I didn’t fucking kill her!’

The plainclothesman was holding up one of my boots, looking at its sole.

‘Well?’ O’Meara said to him, and he said, ‘It’s a definite match.’

‘All right, cuff this motherfucker,’ and the officer was on me, with his knee in my spine and my hands pulled around my back and clasped in handcuffs. The cuffs drew blood.

‘You have nothing linking me to her death,’ I said.

‘Rick, you were the last person to be seen with her, one; two, we took plaster casts of the footprints in the Andrewses’ backyard and guess what, buddy? That’s right — your boots are a match!’

‘I never set foot in the Andrewses’ backyard.’

‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.’

‘Fuck you.’

Someone punched me again in my kidney, and again I fell. ‘Listen, you sick fuck, you’re under arrest and you’re going to rot in jail,’ he said into my ear, both of us gritting our teeth, me in pain and him in anger, ‘and I’ll make sure you get bunked up with some twisted fuck who’s going to ream you out every morning, every afternoon and every evening, you fucking scum!’ My ear was wet with his spittle.

‘You’re a fucking moron, O’Meara,’ I said, and then I was hit in the head with something hard and blacked out.

When I came to I was cuffed to a chair in a dark interrogation room under a bright hot light. I heard voices, though I couldn’t see faces. ‘Who do you think you’re fooling?’ said a voice. ‘You’re transparent as all hell. We know. We all know.’