“The usual.”
“Which was what?”
“His father. Jerry would get drunk, and then he’d call me and talk about his father.” She paused. “My husband died two years ago,” she said.
“How did he die, Mrs. Newman?”
“He... killed himself. He committed suicide.”
“I’m sorry,” Carella said, and Mrs. Newman looked at him, and nodded, and then dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief again. “And this was what your son usually talked about when he—”
“Yes. He was the one who... who found him, you see. Jerry. I was working at the time, I’m a registered nurse, I only stopped working last year. I was at the hospital the night... the night it happened. Jerry had been calling the apartment... he was very close to his father, you see... and when he kept getting no answer, he thought something might be wrong, and he went right over. My husband was a painter, you see. An abstract expressionist, quite well-known, Lawrence Newman. He normally worked at home, in the apartment we lived in on Jefferson, had his studio in a large room overlooking the avenue, the northern light, you see. So when Jerry got no answer, he... he automatically figured something was wrong. He got the doorman there to open the door with a passkey, and when he went in he... he found his father.”
“How did he kill himself, Mrs. Newman?”
“With a pistol. He put the barrel of the pistol in his mouth and... pulled the trigger. In the... the studio. Where he used to work.”
“I’m sorry,” Carella said again.
“I asked him constantly to get rid of that gun, but he said in this city a man had to keep a gun if he hoped to survive. I don’t believe that, Mr.... Carella, is it?”
“Carella, yes.”
“I don’t believe people need guns. Nobody keeps a gun unless he plans to use it, isn’t that so? On another human being.”
“That’s been our experience,” Carella said.
“I read someplace — this was before Larry killed himself, I used to use it as an argument whenever I was trying to convince him to get rid of the gun — I read that a very large percentage of people who keep guns will sooner or later use that gun on themselves. Is that true?”
“The handgun suicide rate is very high, yes.”
“I told him. But, of course, he wouldn’t listen. Said he needed to protect himself. Against what? I asked. Wild Indians? There are no wild Indians on this island anymore, gentlemen. There are only wild Indians in a person’s head.” She sighed, took a deep breath, and then said, “I shouldn’t have left him alone that night. He’d been working on a particularly difficult concept, and simply couldn’t find a solution. He’d done the painting a dozen times over and he still wasn’t happy with it. He was working on that same painting when I said good-bye to him for the last time. I told him it was a fine painting. I knew he didn’t believe me.” She sighed again, and looked away, toward the windows and the magnificent view of the River Dix and its bridges beyond. “And so he found a solution at last in that studio room streaming northern light, with a pistol in his mouth and his finger on the trigger.” She drew a deep, tortured breath and then expelled it on a sigh. “My son was devastated,” she said. “Jerry. That was when he began drinking so heavily. When his father took his own life.”
“This was two years ago, you say?”
“May the twelfth, two years ago. I’ll never forget that day as long as I live.”
“And when your son called you...”
“Yes, that was what he talked about. He was drunk, of course, there was hardly a time he wasn’t drunk, and he talked about his father, yes, and relived again that day in May when he’d walked in and found him with the... the back of... of his head...” She turned away again. Carella waited. Kling was looking down at his shoes. “Forgive me, it’s still very painful. I’m getting to be an old woman now, but I haven’t forgotten what it was like to love someone more than life itself. And now... now this. Now Jerry. Almost as though he—” She shook her head, and brought the handkerchief to her eyes again. “Forgive me,” she said.
“Mrs. Newman, did your son ever give any indication that he might be contemplating suicide?”
“Do they ever?” she asked. “Did my husband? People get depressed, you accept that as a normal human condition. If they keep their troubles bottled inside, how can anyone know what they’re contemplating? Do you realize what pain a human being must be feeling even to think of taking his own life? I can’t conceive of such monumental suffering. The will to live is so great, it seems unimaginable that anyone would—” She shook her head again. “Unimaginable,” she said.
“Do you think your son committed suicide, Mrs. Newman?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Did he have any enemies that you might know of?”
“He never mentioned any.”
“Would you know if he’d ever received any threatening letters or telephone calls?”
“You’d have to ask Anne about that.”
“How did he get along with her?”
“As well as could be expected. Considering.”
“Considering what?”
“The drinking. It was a problem, of course. But they were very much in love when they got married — it was Jerry’s second marriage, you know — and I think Anne was behaving admirably, considering the circumstances. In fact, she’s been an absolute saint these past two years. I’m very fond of that girl.”
“How about your son’s first wife? Jessica Herzog, is it?”
“Yes, that was her maiden name.”
“Have you seen her since the divorce?”
“No. She’s quite a nice person, actually, and I wouldn’t have minded continuing our relationship. But one tends to side with flesh and blood in any divorce situation and... well, unfortunately, we lost contact. It’s a pity, really.”
“Mrs. Newman, from what I understand, you have another son...”
“Yes, Jonathan.”
“Who lives in San Francisco, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“How did he and Jerry get along?”
“As well as could be expected, considering the distance involved.” She looked Carella directly in the eye, and said, “Forgive me, Mr. Carella, but you sound... do you suspect that someone might have killed my son?”
“In any traumatic death,” he said, “we’re compelled to consider all the possibilities.”
“I see.”
“Mother?” a voice said, and they turned toward the entrance foyer, where Anne Newman was extricating a key from the lock on the door. She was wearing a black-and-white striped blazer over a white cotton-knit sweater and black skirt. As she had yesterday, she looked exceedingly cool, and Carella envied a metabolism that seemed to render her immune to the heat. She put the key on the hall table and came into the living room, her hand extended.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, shaking first Carella’s hand and then Kling’s. “There were so many things to attend to. Would you care for something to drink? Mother, have you offered them something? A soft drink perhaps? Some iced tea?”
“No, thank you,” Carella said.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Kling said, shaking his head.
“I’d love a gin and tonic, would anyone mind? Mother, could you fix me one while we talk, please?”
“Yes, darling,” Mrs. Newman said, and immediately left the room.
“What is it you’d like to know?” Anne asked. “This heat is brutal, isn’t it? Is it cool enough in here for you?”
“Yes, it’s fine, thank you,” Carella said. “Mrs. Newman, Detective Kling here was the one who spoke to the Medical Examiner just a little while ago, would you mind if he asked the questions?”