Halberstam’s become chatty. He’s somehow concluded that he and we are buddies. He can brag about the games he plays with his patients and we’ll approve. There’s nothing we can do about it, at least until we’re free of him. But he’s no longer a threat, thanks to Marshal and Kirk, and that’s enough for now. True, I tend to leave his office feeling soiled (perhaps the way Eleni’s supposed to feel, and never does, after a one-night, multipartner stand) but that’s a small price to pay and we don’t intend to miss any appointments.
Bobby’s waiting for me when I turn onto South Portland Avenue, standing in front of our building, one hand jammed into his pocket, the other holding a plastic bag that can only contain a bottle of wine. He takes a moment to recognize the particular Carolyn Grand advancing toward him. Then he smiles and kisses me on the cheek.
“Hi, Martha.”
Is he disappointed? Bobby’s not only added Serena to his sleep mates, he’s got Victoria in his sights. I joke about it with him. Sheikh Bobby and his concubines. It’s gotten to the point where he’s embedded so deeply in our lives it feels like he’s always been there. That doesn’t mean I trust him. Too many games, like our trip to the morgue. I lead him upstairs, sit him on the couch and head for the kitchen. As I open the wine, he calls out to me.
“The DNA’s back, Martha.”
I think he means to rattle me, but I’m not fazed. If our DNA had been found at the crime scene, we’d not only be under arrest, it would be Detective Greco come to do the arresting.
“Do I hear the rattle of handcuffs?” I call back.
He laughs but doesn’t speak until I come into the living room with the wine (a pinot noir) and a couple of glasses. Then he says, “They recovered fragments of DNA at the crime scene that don’t exclude you, fragments too small to be used as evidence. Seems they also don’t exclude six suspects on our list, not to mention seventy or eighty thousand other city residents.”
I think I’m supposed to celebrate, but something in Bobby’s tone puts me off as I listen to Kirk’s voice in my ear: Don’t you dare ask. Don’t you dare.
Kirk thinks we can avoid an answer, that he and Bobby can watch another baseball game or go to the bar for a drink. He thinks we can leave our questions on a dark shelf we’ll never visit. I like Bobby too much—Eleni’s in love with him—and we have to know. We have to.
“Do you think O’Neill did it, Bobby?”
“No, I don’t.”
“What about the others? The prostitutes and the pimps, one of them.”
I watch Bobby withdraw to a place where every atom is weighed and measured, a cop again. He’s been thinking about this for a long time. Just like us.
“Let’s start with the crime scene, the way it appeared when I first arrived at one thirty-seven a.m. That was before the Crime Scene Unit or a death examiner from the ME’s office. I was standing in the doorway, looking into a small, dirty room. The paramedics had already pronounced the victim dead, leaving me without an excuse to enter, so I contented myself with a quick inventory. There was a table against the wall closest to me with a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s and an empty glass on top. A chair next to the table was covered, seat and back, with the victim’s clothing. On the far wall to my left, a sink, also dirty, hung at a slight angle. To my right, the wall was broken by a secured door leading into the adjoining room.”
He stops long enough to stare into my eyes for a moment, then continues. “Hank Grand was lying on a bed opposite the door. He presented as a man in late middle age, paunchy but well-muscled with tattoos on either side of his chest, one of an angel, the other a demon. Half of his body, his bare torso, was exposed, while his legs were tangled in a pair of faded green blankets. From what I could see of his head and his torso, there were no wounds on his body.” He pauses long enough to glance around the room, maybe for reassurance. “Detective Greco arrived as I was standing by the door and CSU came up a few minutes after that. They cleared a path to the bed and we finally approached the body. From the foot of the bed, I counted three distinct stab wounds in the victim’s back. In addition, a section of the blanket was soaked with drying blood. From the consistency of the bloodstains, I judged the victim to have been killed within the last six hours. That was the death examiner’s opinion as well.”
I raise a hand, and he stops speaking, his expression quizzical. I want to remind him that we lived without his presence for thirty-seven years. If necessary, we can live another thirty-seven. But I don’t. I simply nod once and he continues.
“First things first, me and Greco spent the next six hours working the hotel. We were hoping the killer was close by or that at least, between the hookers, pimps and johns, we’d develop a lead. That didn’t happen, but we managed to pick up a few things from the hookers and the slimeball who sits behind the desk. First thing, every bed in the hotel had a fitted sheet covering the mattress and there was a towel in every room. Neither was found in Hank Grand’s room. Without doubt, they were taken because they contained trace evidence. Second, Hank Grand rented that same room every night, he and a pal named O’Neill. The pair of them, according to the hookers we questioned, were selling ten-dollar bags of heroin. The clerk also told us that Hank Grand rented the same room every night and that made the inn’s regulars, all of them, potential suspects. In any event, we came to your apartment straight from the inn, mainly to do the notification. By then we knew you were—”
“Emotionally disturbed? Crazy as bedbugs?”
Bobby’s expression doesn’t change, though he appears tired now. He doesn’t respond to my challenge, either. “Homicide cops think in terms of means, motive, and opportunity. Though it wasn’t dated, the note I read most likely provided you with the opportunity. As for motive and means? You had motive aplenty and a long-bladed knife can be purchased at thousands of stores.”
I finish my wine, refill the glass. “You had no right to read those messages.”
“Sure, I did, but I wasn’t looking for notes when I wandered around. I was looking for bloodstains. Anywhere on anything.” This is ground that’s already been covered and Bobby moves on without pausing. “The autopsy determined that the first stab wound passed between Hank Grand’s third and fourth ribs on the left side of his body. It penetrated to a depth of seven inches, slicing through the right ventricle of his heart. This wound was fatal by itself and he probably died before the second and third strike.” He turns his head to face me. “Postmortem, the front of Hank Grand’s body had been washed from head to knees, probably with a disinfectant meant to clean the hotel’s floors and bathrooms. No killer would do that, spend extra time with a victim, without a very good reason. I took it to mean the perpetrator expected to become a suspect and feared a DNA comparison.”
Bobby’s interrupted by a knock on the door. It’s Marshal, who’s been a good friend to us. I send him off anyway. Bobby’s in the kitchen when I return. He emerges with a plate of cookies, chocolate chip, baked not from an old family recipe but from the directions on the back of a box. Bobby lays the cookies on the table and sits beside me. He begins again as though we hadn’t been interrupted.
“I don’t have this part in exact order, the bits and pieces that drifted in from the various labs, but here goes. Blood tests showed Hank Grand’s blood-alcohol level at time of death was two point one. In addition, his blood tested positive for a significant concentration of a drug called Temazepam, which works like Valium. Between the two, according to the pathologist, Hank Grand was almost certainly unconscious and maybe comatose at the time of the attack. Then a second lab discovered traces of Temazepam on the one glass in the room, so we knew how the drug got into his system. That led us to look harder at the Golden Inn’s prostitutes because robbing johns is probably the world’s second-oldest profession. But we also showed your photo to everybody we questioned, which is how we dug up the witnesses. While this canvas was still in progress, our own crime lab reported that the front of the body had been thoroughly scrubbed with a highly concentrated floor cleaner, confirming the ME’s impression. Thus, the initial report we received from the DNA lab came as no surprise. The lab only managed to isolate small amounts of DNA, which they were attempting to amplify.” He pauses long enough to grab a cookie. “I can teach you how to bake these from scratch, Martha. If you’re interested.”
“I already know how. I was just too lazy. Meanwhile, you need to get back to your theory. Before I do to you what you think we did to our father. You’re having too much fun, Bobby. Especially for someone who committed what amounts to a murder.”
He only smiles, but I’m not letting it go. “You didn’t have to kill O’Neill,” I tell him. “You could have called for backup, enough force to convince him to surrender. But you wanted him dead.”
“I didn’t force O’Neill to draw his weapon. Remember, he got off two shots. Murderers, as a general rule, try real hard not to get shot at.”
“That’s not the issue. Why you did it is the issue. Why you risked your life to protect us and why you’re here, sounding like a prosecutor making his closing argument.”
Bobby shakes his head. Not now. “The blood we observed on the blankets originated on the side of the blankets closest to Hank Grand’s body. Most likely, the perpetrator used the blankets to wipe the knife blade as it was withdrawn, eliminating potential blood spatter. Personally, I think Hank Grand’s murderer came away clean, closing off that avenue of investigation.”
I watch him pop the cookie he’s been holding between two fingers into his mouth, the wafer at some crazy cop communion.
“It’s pretty obvious,” he continues, “to me if not my partner, that the killing was carefully planned, from the initial contact to the cleanup. Oh, and one thing I failed to mention. I ran into a prostitute who works from inside the hotel. Seems there’s something of a brothel on the second floor. She told me that she knocked on Hank Grand’s door at nine o’clock that night and nobody answered. So, you got lucky, too, lucky you weren’t interrupted, that nobody got a good look at your face.”
I shake my head. It’s the wrong time for a detour. “What about Greco? What did he think?”
“He was too focused on O’Neill and the pimps to get it. But there’s no way O’Neill or some anonymous pimp would stick around long enough to clean the body or carry away the sheet and the towel. Or for that matter, to carefully drape two blankets over an unconscious man to eliminate blood spatter. Your IQ, by the way, is one thirty-five. O’Neill’s is eighty-eight.”
I’m listening for advice, but my brother and sisters aren’t talking. Maybe that’s because there’s nothing to say. “I assume you’ve got a theory of how it all went down.”
“More like a movie.”
“And who’s the star?”
“We need to start earlier than that, Martha. It’s not all that easy to make a plan if you don’t know who’s going to show up when the time comes to run it. This implies an element of control, don’t you think?” He stares at me for a minute, then smiles. “Last chance to confess.”
“No go, Bobby. I’m stickin’ to my story. We’re innocent. You got the wrong psychotic.”
“Alright, have it your way.” His smile fades, and his eyes turn inward. “I don’t think your father expected you to show up. Not after all those years. Most likely, he was playing with you, like claiming he wanted to reconcile. Psychopaths love to manipulate. But he had to be worried about having his parole violated, too. Believe me, it doesn’t take much, not for a convicted pedophile, and Hank Grand, after twenty-seven years in the system, had to know it. So, when you arrived, he would have been on his guard, suspecting, maybe, that you’d come to set a trap. Meanwhile, you’re carrying the Temazepam, already ground up, maybe in a pill bottle. How do you get it from the bottle into his body? Not while he’s watching. Not while he’s standing there, wondering what to make of you. No, you came there to kill him, no matter the personal cost, no matter how much it hurt, and so you took him to bed, knowing he wouldn’t resist. What happened then? Already drunk, maybe he fell asleep for a few minutes. In fact, in my movie, you carry the spiked drink to his bed. You wait until he sits up, then hand the glass to him. ‘Here, Daddy, you must be awful thirsty.’”
“You’re a bastard, Bobby.”
“What can I say? I’m a cop and bastard is what cops do.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to dissect us. We’re not specimens.”
His expression momentarily softens, but his tone remains firm. “It’s the planning that impresses me the most. Who was going to go in first? And who would be kept in the dark, like Serena? Me, I don’t believe that Serena just happened to be present when Greco knocked on the door. Serena was sent forth to do battle precisely because she was defenseless, because she wasn’t armed with the truth. Likewise for the identity—God, how I hate that word—who knocked on Hank Grand’s door. She had to be carefully chosen. For sure, it couldn’t be you or Kirk, no way. As for Serena, leaving the interrogation aside, she’s far too timid. She could never bring it off. And try to imagine fastidious Victoria stripping out of her dress. Imagine her displaying herself for a moment before reaching out to touch Daddy’s flesh.”
It’s like Bobby’s inside me, opening doors, and I don’t like it. I’m thinking about relief, but there’s no relief coming.
“Eleni would be the obvious choice. But Eleni has this habit of only sleeping with men she wants to sleep with. Could she fake that attraction with her father? Make him feel comfortable? Eleni is the most fearless among you, but she has no guile, and game plans are far from her strong suit. No, Eleni wouldn’t do and that leaves—”
“Tina.”
“No, not Tina. Carolyn Grand went to the Golden Inn that night. She knew her daddy better than he knew himself and she had murder in her heart. Already drunk, Hank Grand never had a chance. This was his most sordid prison fantasy come to life. Yes, Daddy. No, Daddy. I’ll be good, Daddy. Do you think Eleni could pull that off?”
I stand up and walk to the window, just as if there were something I really want to look at. No, I can’t imagine Eleni saying those words. I can’t imagine anyone saying them. Nor do I want to. At the same time, I know they must have been said.
“Once your father was unconscious, Carolyn laid both blankets over his back, then straddled him, her torso above his hips. Most first-time killers hesitate at this point. The initial wound is usually the most shallow. Carolyn, by contrast, raised the knife above her head and drove it straight down with all her might. As a matter of pure luck, it passed between two ribs and Hank Grand bled out in less than a minute. If the knife had been driven into a rib, on the other hand, the tip would probably have broken off and Carolyn would’ve had a really pissed Hank Grand in her face. But it wasn’t. The blade went in clean. The essential goal was accomplished. Now for the cleanup.”
I know I’m wasting my time, but I can’t help myself. “How can you think that Tina, after everything—”
“Martha, there is no Tina. The being you call Tina is what’s left of Carolyn Grand.”
“I just don’t understand how you can believe that Tina, and I’ll call her that until the day I cease to exist, could—”
Again he stops me. “I think Carolyn Grand is the bravest human being I’ve ever known. She protected her brood and I admire her tremendously. And there’s no use pretending anymore. You were all she had, you and Kirk and Eleni and Victoria and Serena. Insane? Four pretend children living in the same body? I don’t give a shit, Martha. I only know that she stood up to the monster who took her childhood. And the revenge she sought and got? It was for all of you, just as her remembering was for all of you.”
A minute passes, then another. Bobby wants me to speak first, but I won’t. Finally, he gives up. “Carolyn wouldn’t know a toilet cleaner from dishwashing liquid. She didn’t sanitize the scene. She called in a self-described drudge named Martha. And it worked. You were thorough enough to prevent a positive ID, but we both know who killed Hank Grand and it wasn’t Alfred O’Neill or some broke hooker who needed a fix. The fatal blow came from the hand of Carolyn Grand. You became an accessory when you cleaned up.”
I stare into his eyes. Cop or friend? There’s a question out there, waiting to be asked, but I can’t manage to say the words as I watch him pour the last of the wine into our glasses. I can’t speak, but I have to speak.
“Let’s say you’ve got it right, every detail. What are you going to do about it?”
“Do you still think I’d hurt you, Martha?”
“Just answer the question. What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. Nothing I want to do and nothing I can do. That’s because there’s no evidence to back my theory. Greco can’t even prove that you left your apartment on the night your father was killed. No, everybody’s agreed, Ford, Greco, and myself. We’re gonna put the murder on Alfred O’Neill.”
“How do you explain the cleanup afterward?”
“Hank Grand’s body was sanitized with a floor cleaner used by the hotel. There are gallon jugs in cleaning closets on every floor. As for why …” Ortega’s thin smile broadens. He’s tickled about something. “This’ll blow your mind. Greco’s working theory for the past month is that your father and O’Neill were lovers in prison. And why not? Both men were serving long sentences, both had committed sex crimes in the past and they definitely knew each other while they were incarcerated. So, according to Greco, it was O’Neill who needed to destroy DNA evidence.”
Bobby stops for a moment, but I find myself with nothing to say. “If it sounds stupid, that’s because it is. So what? We don’t have enough hard evidence to convict O’Neill at trial. Or even to secure an indictment. But O’Neill’s dead, so there won’t be a trial. He’s guilty because we say he is. In the cop business, we call this exceptional clearance. As in exceptionally good for the bosses.” Bobby leans forward to gently touch the back of my hand. “Hey, you wanna hear a cop’s definition of a perfect murder?”
“Sure.”
“A perfect murder is any murder you get away with.” Bobby raises his glass, waits until I join him, then says, without a trace of irony: “Here’s to perfect murders and perfect victims.”