John Goldbach - The Devil and the Detective

When I woke up, I poured some juice, drank several glasses, and then I got into the shower. The washroom filled with steam while I washed and repeated fragments of conversation I’d had with Elaine silently in my head, though occasionally out loud. Elaine still hadn’t called. I wondered again why. I must’ve embarrassed myself, I thought. I must’ve told her that I love her, I thought, told her that I love her on the day, not the day after or the day after that day, but on the day her husband was found on the couch with a knife in his chest. I exposed my loathsomeness, after several Scotches, to Elaine Andrews, I thought, in all its grotesquerie. ‘What a stupid thing to do,’ I said. The water was hot and the washroom filled with steam while I clutched my head under the near-scalding water. She’d told me about her love for her now-dead husband and I responded by saying, ‘I love you,’ though she spoke French, so I might’ve even said something as stupid as ‘ Je t’aime, ’ I thought, as I stood under the hot water in the steam-filled washroom while clutching my head. ‘ Je t’aime, ’ I said. ‘ Je t’aime, mon amour. ’ Though I might not have said anything, I thought. I might’ve been on my best behaviour, and acted gentlemanly, even though I love her. Perhaps because I love her, I thought, I acted gentlemanly. I thought hard, hoping that I’d behaved gentlemanly, while I finished my shower in the near-scalding water.

‘The phonebook,’ I said. I knew her address — 19 Tower Street — so the phonebook ! (If I didn’t drink, I thought, perhaps I’d be a better detective.) Under a small pile of books sat my stack of phonebooks. I searched my most up-to-date phonebook and sure enough, under her name — not Gerald’s — was their number. I wrote it down on a yellow Post-it and stuck the note beside the phone. I wondered what I would say. I wondered how to engage her. I wondered if I should begin by apologizing for drinking so much while on a case. I’ll tell her I won’t drink for the rest of the case, I thought. Until this case is finished, I will no longer drink, though that might be a difficult promise to keep, for it’s impossible to know for certain how long a case will go on for; many remain unsolved, as I’ve said already, and then there’s no end … I stared at the number and thought about dialing, and what I’d say, what I’d say to Elaine, when she answered. There’s no need to feel embarrassed, I thought. Your job’s to solve a case, not to worry about how you’re perceived.

I decided to record the conversation for my records. I set up my recording device and tested it before calling Elaine. I called a local florist and asked how much it’d cost to send a bouquet of flowers to 19 Tower Street. The florist, who was a woman, a woman of approximately fifty, I guessed, though I was probably wrong, asked me what kind of bouquet I was looking to send and I said I was looking to spend around twenty dollars. She said, ‘For delivery, you have to spend a minimum of forty dollars.’ So I said, ‘Okay, for forty, what could I get?’ She asked me what was the occasion and I said I wasn’t quite sure and then she asked me if it was for a wedding or a funeral or just because and I hesitated and then said just because. She told me that for forty dollars they’d put together a very lovely bouquet, a mélange, though mainly made up of purple lilies. I said that sounded perfect. She asked me whether I planned to pay with Visa or MasterCard. I told her that I’d call her back re the flowers later and so on and so forth. Then I listened to the playback.

The recording, the recording of the conversation between me and the florist, was crisp and clear and the device worked perfectly, as I’d expected it to, though I wanted to be thorough, so as to make sure. I looked at Elaine’s number and although I was nervous — my stomach felt weak and my heart beat quickly — I knew that I must call her and suss out the situation. I needed to know, I thought, where I stood, even if it meant discovering something unpleasant about myself. Before I called, though, I went and poured a large glass of ice water.

(Time: 1330h. Place: My apt. I pick the phone up off the mount, look at the number on the Post-it [i.e., Elaine Andrews’s number], and I key said number into the number pad. The phone rings approx. four times before she picks up. I’ve already started the recording device.)

EAnéeJ: Hello …

RJ: Hi. Elaine. It’s me. Robert. Bob. Bob James. The detective.

EAnéeJ: Hi. I was wondering when you were going to call. How are you?

RJ: A little hungover, actually, though fine. And I’ve resolved to cut way back on my drinking for the remainder of the case.

EAnéeJ: Don’t do anything crazy. [ She laughs. ]

RJ: Did I …? Did I do anything crazy last night?

EAnéeJ: No. I did, though. I drove home.

RJ: I shouldn’t’ve let you.

EAnéeJ: You tried to stop me. You tried to tell me not to drive, that we’d order a cab, that the bartender would order us a cab. I didn’t listen. It was too late, so I dropped you off, and you said I could crash at your place, that you’d take the couch, but I said goodnight and drove off. Anyway, I made it home fine, thankfully, though it was dumb of me to drive that drunk, especially … Anyway, it’s over now, and I promise to watch my drinking and driving.

RJ: Well, I’m glad to hear you made it home safely. What’s going on at your house?

EAnéeJ: An officer stopped by this morning, though no one’s around right now. Oh, wait … [ indeterminate background noises ] Sorry … Sorry about that … Do you want to get together?

RJ: Soon. What did the officer from this morning want?

EAnéeJ: He was going through Gerald’s desk, and he was taking pictures for his report, he said. I asked him what he was looking for and he said any evidence that would help the police department catch the killer. He took photographs of Gerald’s desktop, as it was, covered with files, letters, journals, magazines, random notes with messy handwriting, and he kept taking pictures. He asked me questions, though I avoided answering them, because I’ve already answered those questions: Where were you when your husband was murdered? What cause would someone have to murder your husband? Did you and your husband ever fight? they ask. They ask all sorts of demeaning questions, the same ones, over and over, ad nauseam. He was checking me out, too.

RJ: Who? The officer?

EAnéeJ: Yes. He was looking at my body, up and down, in a creepy way; he was leering, shamelessly leering, while I stood in my husband’s den, waiting for him to finish and leave. He looked at me and said, ‘So you stand to inherit a sizable amount of money. Come over here,’ he said and stupidly I obeyed, and he motioned for me to lean in, and then he whispered into my ear, ‘Now that you have all the money and don’t have to fuck the old man you must be pleased.’ I told him to get out. He laughed. I screamed, ‘Get out now!’ He tried to talk so I screamed more, ‘Get out, get out, get out!’ I screamed at the top of my lungs and then eventually he started backing out of the house. The neighbours to the right of us, the Walton-Fischers, were standing in their driveway, wondering what was going on. The officer got in his squad car and I didn’t stop screaming till he was gone. It felt good to chase him out of my home.

RJ: You did the right thing. He sounds like a maniac.

EAnéeJ: You should come over here. I don’t like being alone here right now.

RJ: Perhaps you should stay with family or friends while this investigation’s underway, for the next few weeks at least.