We take a pair of stools before him, order cognacs.
"You look especially pale tonight, Tony," Pam says.
"Pale as death," Tony agrees.
"What'd you think about as you stand here?"
"This ‘n’ that. Also about him."
Tony nods at the opposite wall. Pam and I turn. The eyes of Waldo Channing gaze back at us out of the portrait.
"He looks very ‘period,’" Pam says.
"Oh, he was," Tony agrees.
She's too young to have firsthand memories of columnists like Channing, but I recall the man quite well. He was a type; most big cities possessed one – a local writer celebrated because he wrote about local celebrities. Such men seemed actually to rule the societies about which they wrote. They inhabited their cities' upper crusts but were capable too of writing about the common folk. A sentimental vignette about a humble laundress might be juxtaposed with scathing notes about a nouveau riche couple on the make. Each strove to glamorize his town, waxing poetic about it even when the place was ugly. They were social arbiters, insiders, walkers, party animals, name-droppers, star-fuckers who would gush like schoolgirls over visiting celebrity singers, actors, entertainers. But if the celebrity wouldn't kiss butt, they'd get him/her really good – belittle her singing, mock his performance in order to proclaim that even us ‘rubes out here in the sticks’ knew the difference between ‘class and trash’. And if you inhabited one of the great cities of the American plain, you dared not cross the one who ruled your town lest you earn his enmity and ever after suffer the poisonous bite of his pen.
When Tony leaves us to fill drink orders, I tell Pam I didn't like Waldo Channing much.
"He was small time and a snob. I also think he was anti-Semitic. He wrote some mean things about my dad before and after my parents broke up."
"Anti-Semitic stuff?"
"He couldn't get away with that, though genteel anti-Semitism was an unspoken given in his set. No, he ran a gratuitous item about ‘a well-known local shrink’ whose marriage was ‘on the rocks.’ And just weeks before the killings, he ran a blind item implying my dad was having a closer than professional relationship with Barbara Fulraine. He didn't name names, didn't have to. If you were in the know, it was obvious whom he meant. I wish he were still alive. I'd ask him about that item, whether Barbara planted it. They were great pals. I'm sure he knew all about her affairs."
"But why would she plant something mean about your dad?"
"Maybe to divert attention from her affair with Jessup. Jack Cody wasn't stupid. He had to know something was going on."
"Why didn't she just break it off with Cody?"
"She was afraid of him. At least that's what she said."
"Seems to me that if he was that dangerous, it was riskier to have an affair behind his back than to break it off."
"He had some kind of hold over her."
"The kidnapped child? If she was so smart why didn't she see through that game?"
"Maybe it wasn't a game. Maybe he was on to something. If the au pair did turn the kid over to her pornographer friends, Cody had the resources to track those people down."
"But surely the kid was dead."
"Yes, according to the odds. But a grieving mom will hold on to even the slenderest of threads."
Since I revealed myself to her two nights ago, I've been itching to spill the rest – my strange ambiguous intersection with the Fulraine kidnapping that filled me with guilt through my youth.
Back up in her room, Pam turns to me: "If you're obsessed with the Flamingo case, David – and I believe you are – there must be more to it than that you knew the teacher, went to school with the Fulraine kids, caught occasional glimpses of their mom. You told me about your dad's connection, but I still have a feeling that you left something out."
She's shrewd, I'll give her that. She's also gotten to me in a way I hadn't expected. But then, I wonder, what did I expect? A simple location affair? That we'd each serve the other as bedmate without complications for the duration of the trial?
That kind of shallow relationship usually suits my nature. But I'm really starting to like this girl. She turned out to be a lot more than a routinely ambitious reporter. I view her now as both generous and compassionate.
"Come on, David. Let me help you."
"I told you, I do better on my own."
"I don't mean as co-investigator. I mean as your friend. Talk to me. You'll feel better if you do."
Which is what I myself often tell eyewitnesses when they start to close down on me during an interview. But confession comes hard for me. Tonight, I decide, will not be the night.
7
7:00 p.m.
I'm sitting in a conference room at the Calista County Sheriff's Department just down the hall from Mace Bartel's office. The setting sun paints the opposite wall, covered by framed photos of former sheriffs, with sumptuous light. The result is a reddening of the images, a bloodying. An appropriate effect, I think, considering the material heaped on the conference table in front of me.
A two-foot-high stack of file folders constitutes the entire written record of the Flamingo Court killings investigation. Three additional boxes contain physical evidence taken from the crime scene. An Aladdin's Cave of treasure for the true crime connoisseur; for me, in a way I've yet fully to comprehend, these are ‘the family jewels.’
I spend an hour working to gain an overview. Mace, thorough police professional that he is, has attached a detailed index to the documents. The first one I examine is the write-up of interviews
conducted by a Detective Joe Burns with Dad.
My heart speeds up as I read: DR. THOMAS RUBIN
First interview, 8/24, phone:
Witness states he treated victim Fulraine for depression over past five months. Witness, citing doctor-patient confidentiality, states he's reluctant to supply information about therapy sessions. Witness states that much as he'd like to assist, he must refer matter to his personal attorney.
Second interview, 8/26, witness' office:
Witness states that having consulted attorney he is now prepared to answer questions about victim's psychotherapy in limited way. Witness states he was shocked by victim's death. Witness states he was ‘personally greatly saddened’ as he was ‘very fond’ of victim and felt ‘great empathy’ for her sons, who will now most likely go to live with their father who has been seeking custody.
Witness states he has no idea who might want to kill victim. Witness states it is common knowledge that victim was involved in long-term love affair with Mr. Jack Cody, and that in therapy she occasionally spoke of her fear Cody might lose control if he discovered she was having ‘a fling’ with co-victim Jessup. Witness states victim was not specific about this nor was it clear to him what she meant. Witness states victim's greatest fear centered around possibility her ex-husband would find out about her love life and use said information to gain custody of sons. Witness states that victim, having already lost one child to kidnappers, had long been obsessed by fears of losing other children as well.
Witness states he has no specific knowledge of victim's love-life habits and practices. Witness states his sessions with victim dealt with her ‘precarious emotional state, occasionally debilitating depression, and fear that bordered on terror aroused by a haunting recurrent dream.’ Witness refuses to divulge the contents of dream, again citing doctor-patient confidentiality. Witness adds that in any case, dream is not relevant to homicide investigation. Witness states that if he can think of anything helpful he will immediately pass said information on. Meantime he will review all notes on victim's sessions to make certain he has not forgotten anything relevant.