"No," Dennis said. "You're wrong."
"Really?" Munro tilted his head, trying not to act too cocky. "You think this was a suicide too?"
"That's not what I meant, and you know it. I mean that it wasn't Sid who was responsible… if anyone was."
"And what makes you think that?"
"Because he… well, he just wasn't. Sid couldn't have had anything to do with those things. There's not a mean streak in him."
Munro sighed. "Mr. Hamilton, face the facts. Harper's suite door was bolted from the inside – not just locked, but bolted. All the windows were locked, there was nobody in the suite but him and the victim, and I've got three witnesses, and you're one of them, who say that the two of them had an altercation just an hour or so before you went over and found them. So what's the logical conclusion to draw?"
"I still tell you that Sid didn't do it."
"The man had the means and the opportunity, Mr. Hamilton, and I have no doubt we'll find a motive as well." Munro stood up. "Thanks for your cooperation, sir. Harper will be transferred to the county prison in the morning, and a judge will determine if bail can be set."
"Do you think it will be?"
"In a case like this, I doubt it."
John Steinberg came into Munro's office next. After going over the ground that he had on the scene, Munro asked Steinberg if he knew of any reason why Donna Franklin would be angry at Sid Harper.
Steinberg cleared his throat and looked toward the ceiling. "Sometimes Donna would get upset when Dennis required Sid's services at… inopportune times.”
“Like when they were in bed together."
"Yes."
"How long had they been lovers?"
"Years."
"Did that bother you?"
"No." Steinberg, Munro thought, had paused just a bit too long.
"Were you ever involved with Miss Franklin?"
Steinberg fixed Munro with a look of withering scorn. "In what way?" The words dripped acid.
"Romantically."
"No. Never."
"But you were close?"
"She was very much like a daughter to me." Steinberg's voice grew softer. "I did love her in that way."
"Were you happy with the situation between her and Harper?"
"My happiness had nothing to do with it. It made Donna happy. That was sufficient."
"Did they quarrel much?"
"Not that I ever knew of."
"Could there be any possibility that Miss Franklin wanted a permanent relationship and Harper didn't?"
"I don't know."
"Was there any indication that she could have been pregnant? Morning sickness? Whatever?" 1
"That's highly unlikely. Miss Franklin had a tubal ligation several years ago.”
“Oh. Oh, well, the autopsy will turn that up." Munro sat for a moment shaking his pen, trying to decide what to ask next. "Mr. Steinberg," he finally said, "Mr. Hamilton sincerely believes that Harper is innocent." He waited, but Steinberg said nothing. "Just between us, what do you think?"
"I really don't know. I thought that's what the police were for."
"You know the circumstances. You see any other possibility?"
"That's not what I am paid for. It's you, I believe, who gets a check from the town. Do you have any other questions? It's very late," Steinberg said, glancing at the wall clock, whose hands read one-thirty in the morning.
"No. Not right now."
Steinberg stood up. "Robert Leibowitz, who will be Mr. Harper's attorney, is flying down from New York. I trust that he will not be questioned further until Mr. Leibowitz arrives."
"Of course not." God damn, Munro thought, I wish I didn't feel like a kid in the principal's office around this guy. He stood up as well, thanked Steinberg, and was left alone with his thoughts and a feeling of triumph.
He knew it. He knew all along that there was more to that fucking theatre than met the eye. Accidents, bullshit. He had known that it was only a matter of time before a flat-out obvious-as-hell murder took place. But now the question was, had Harper done it all? Did his original alibis stand up? And if they didn't, why had he done the nasties? Other than the crime of passion/lovers' quarrel that had killed the Franklin woman, the other deaths didn't fit into any pattern that he had ever heard of. Serial killers didn't coolly and methodically snuff their coworkers over a period of months – that was stupid. It would be impossible to evade capture. If you had a lust to merely kill people, you offed strangers. Hell, you could do that for years and not get caught – the Green River killings were proof of that.
As for a highly motivated series of killings, Munro could understand why Harper might want to kill Hamilton's wife, but why the assistant stage manager? And for crissake, why a janitor? Just to throw the attention off the intended victim? That was right out of Agatha Christie, and as improbable in reality as it was clever on paper.
Still, with all the doubts, one thing was for damn sure – he had the guy who killed Donna Franklin. Locked doors, caught with the corpse, no doubt about it. He had even fucked her before he killed her, if the wadded towel in the bed was any indication. Hell, maybe he'd even done it again while he was strangling her. The State Police lab could determine that.
The son of a bitch was caught with his pants down, all right. It would take more than a fancy New York lawyer to get him out of this. Yeah, Donna Franklin's killer was safely under lock and key, and the royal bastard would stay there.
Scene 7
What a horribly vacillating thing the mind is, Dennis Hamilton thought, lingering over the breakfast he had made himself. His thoughts had swung between two poles innumerable times that morning. At one moment he was certain that the Emperor had killed Donna Franklin, and at others he believed that it might really be Sid.
In his way Sid had loved Donna, and to Dennis's best knowledge he had never committed a violent act in his life. Still, the unpleasant and newly discovered truth remained that anyone was capable of murder. What Robin had planned to do to Ann was proof of that.
But not Sid, he thought anew. Not Sid killing Donna. That was unimaginable.
What remained then, behind locked doors and windows? Only a creature to whom doors and windows meant nothing, because he was incorporeal. The Emperor. But he could not have killed Donna, could he, for the very reason that he was incorporeal.
Then that left only Sid, but Sid could not have killed Donna because…
And on and on it went. He welcomed this inner debate, as inconclusive as it was, for it kept his mind busy, kept the terrible depression at bay. It seemed that the people on whom he depended, the people he loved, were being taken away from him. We draw strength from those we love, the Emperor had told him. God, how true that was. And when those we love are gone, how empty our lives can become. Robin, Donna, Tommy, and yes, even simple Harry Ruhl, who had brightened Dennis's days with his sweet, innocent charm.
And now Sid was gone too, Dennis's right hand for over two decades. It seemed callous, and he felt guilty as he realized it, but he would miss Sid most of all. Dennis had not always treated him kindly, but Sid had always stuck by him, and Dennis loved him for it. He would do everything he could, short of perjury, to prove Sid's innocence.
Dennis put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, then went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. Last night Steinberg had suggested getting someone to replace Sid for the time being, but Dennis had declined. He would do for himself for a change. He felt the need to be alone, with only one exception to his solitude, someone he desperately needed to see and talk to.
Dennis waited for Ann Deems outside, under the marquee. The cold air bit his lungs as he breathed it in, and the sensation pleased him. The pain proved he was still alive.