“Not at all,” she said, turning to Kling. “What did they find?”
“Conclusive evidence that he was killed by an overdose of Seconal,” Kling said.
“Ah,” she said.
“Mrs. Newman, we found a prescription bottle...”
“Yes, that must’ve been it,” Anne said.
“...on the bathroom floor,” Kling said. “One Seconal capsule in it.”
“One? Oh my God! There were thirty capsules in that bottle when I left for California.”
“Then you hadn’t taken any between the time you filled the prescription on July twenty-ninth—”
“No, I still had some left from last month, half a dozen or so. I took those with me to California.”
“Does your doctor regularly prescribe Seconal for you? Dr. Brolin, is it?”
“Yes, James Brolin. I have difficulty sleeping, and the stuff you can buy over the counter wasn’t working for me. Dr. Brolin saw no danger in prescribing a barbiturate.”
“How long have you been taking Seconal?” Kling asked.
“Ever since... well, it’s been several years now.”
“Ever since what, Mrs. Newman?”
“Ever since Jerry began drinking so heavily. Living with an alcoholic isn’t an easy task, I’m afraid.”
“Did you take the drug every night?”
“No, not every night.”
“Was the prescription a refillable one?”
“No, that’s forbidden by law in this state. Too many refillable prescriptions were falling into the hands of addicts.”
Kling felt mildly reprimanded. He plunged ahead regardless. “Then Dr. Brolin wrote a prescription for you each and every month, is that right?”
“Sometimes less frequently. Depending on how low my supply was.”
“And it was low just before you left for California.”
“Yes. As I say, I had six or seven capsules left, something like that. I’m the sort of person who doesn’t like loose ends hanging. I try to tidy things up before going away anyplace. So I asked Dr. Brolin for a new prescription.”
“Do you go away frequently?”
“Only occasionally. When there’s a show I feel I must see. I never miss the one in Chicago, for example, and the one in Los Angeles this year promised to be particularly good.”
“Mrs. Newman, the Medical Examiner’s report indicates that your husband was intoxicated at the time of his death. When you—”
“I’m not surprised,” Anne said.
“When you spoke to him last Tuesday, did he sound drunk?”
“It was sometimes difficult to tell. He’d very often be drinking steadily and still manage to sound quite lucid.”
“Did he sound lucid the night you spoke to him?”
“He sounded... normal. Depressed, but normal. Then again, depression had become almost a normal state with him in recent months.”
“Did he ever discuss suicide with you?”
“Well... I’m reluctant to admit this because it might sound callous.”
“In what way?”
“You may wonder why I left him to go to California when I knew how he was feeling.”
“How was he feeling, Mrs. Newman?”
“He told me... he said he’d had enough.”
“Of what?”
“Of living. Of life.”
“When was this?”
“The day before I left.”
“That would’ve been a Thursday...”
“Yes, Thursday night.”
“July thirty-first.”
“Yes.”
“He told you he’d had enough of living?”
“He was drunk, of course, I... he’d told me the same thing many times before.”
“That he was thinking of taking his own life?”
“Not in those exact words.”
“What were his exact words?”
“He said his father had the right idea.”
“Meaning...”
“He was referring to his father’s suicide. His father killed himself two years ago.”
Mrs. Newman came back into the room. She had cut a lime in the kitchen, and a slice now floated in the tall glass containing Anne’s gin and tonic. She overheard the last of her daughter-in-law’s words, and said, “I’ve already told the gentlemen about that, darling. Here you are.”
Anne accepted the drink, said, “Thank you,” and then said to the detectives, “Are you sure?”
“We’re on duty, ma’am,” Kling said.
“Ah, yes, of course. Cheers,” she said, and took a sip of the drink. “Oh, that’s good,” she said. “I find this heat insufferable, don’t you?”
“Regarding the heat,” Carella said, “I’d like to ask you some questions about the air conditioning in your apartment.”
“The air conditioning?” Anne said, looking surprised.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sure you noticed how hot the apartment was...”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, the windows were all closed, and the air conditioner was turned off, and I was wondering—”
“We always had trouble with the air conditioning,” Anne said, and sipped at her drink again.
“What kind of trouble?”
“We were constantly calling the super to have it repaired.”
“Well, it was functioning properly, ma’am. I know because I personally turned it on after the techs were through with it. The point is, it was turned to the off position, and I’m wondering whether it was in that position when you left the apartment on Friday morning.”
“I really don’t know,” Anne said. “I mean, the apartment seemed cool enough, I simply didn’t check to see whether the air conditioner was on or not.”
“But the apartment did seem cool.”
“Yes, definitely.”
“When you spoke to your husband on Tuesday night, did he mention anything about the heat?”
“He said the temperature had hit ninety-eight that day.”
“But he didn’t say the apartment was unusually hot, did he? He didn’t say the air conditioner had been malfunctioning, anything like that?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Or that anyone had been there to look at it.”
“No.”
“I’m trying to account for that switch being in the off position, you see. If someone had worked on the unit, then perhaps it was left off by accident.”
“No, Jerry didn’t mention anyone coming in to look at it.”
“Uh-huh,” Carella said. “Bert?”
“Just a few more questions,” Kling said, “and then we’ll let you go. I’m sorry we’re taking so much of your time.”
“Not at all,” Anne said.
“Can you tell me what you remember of your conversation the night before you left for California?”
“Not in exact detail, I didn’t think it was that important at the time.”
“As much as you can remember.”
“Well, Jerry had been drinking, and he told me again — this was a usual complaint — about what a poor artist he was in comparison to his father. Jerry was an illustrator, you have to realize, and his father was quite a well-known artist, and Jerry felt he could never live up to his father’s high achievement. He idolized him... Well, isn’t that true, Mother?”
“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Newman said.
“And... well... I sometimes felt he wanted to be like him in every way possible. I suppose I should have taken his constant threats of suicide more seriously, given the past circumstances. But I didn’t. When he began talking again about how it was all so meaningless, so pointless, I... I hate to admit this, but I cut him short. I had a long trip ahead of me, and this was close to midnight, and I had to get some sleep. I told him we’d talk about it when I got back. I didn’t know I’d be seeing him for the last time at breakfast the next morning.”