St. Paul is a city of neighborhoods—many dozens of neighborhoods—and a man could easily spend a lifetime trying to sort them out. Even then he’d get an argument. I personally had no idea what was the difference between the West End and the West Side. I only know the people that resided there were happy to fight over it.
I lived in a four-story brown-brick building of studio, one-bedroom, and two-bedroom apartments in Crocus Hill, an eclectic, upper-income neighborhood of Victorian manors, carriage houses, and converted mansions that harkened back to the days of F. Scott Fitzgerald and bootleg booze. Some people—real estate agents mostly—insist that Crocus Hill is actually two neighborhoods subdivided by Summit Avenue, which just might have the longest stretch of mansions on a single road in the country. The “for sale or rent” listings refer to the area north of the avenue as Cathedral Hill because the houses are built around St. Paul’s Cathedral. South of the avenue the area is labeled Summit Hill. I don’t know why. It’s the same damn hill.
I liked to jog the neighborhood before the kids lined up to catch their school buses, going east toward the edge of the hill looking out toward downtown St. Paul, cutting north across Summit, east again toward the cathedral, and then a slow southwest circle back to my place. I had measured the route at exactly three-point-four miles. It also took me past the house where Cynthia Grey lived.
It was old and big—twelve rooms including a huge dining room that was perfect for entertaining. Cynthia had agreed to buy it before even setting foot in the place based solely on the recommendation of a real estate agent she had hired to scout properties. She hired another woman to furnish it—the cousin, if I’m not mistaken, of the woman she paid to clothes-shop for her, presenting her with a selection of the latest fashions in the spring and the fall. I promised myself I would never look for her as I passed, yet I nearly always did. Afterward, I’d ask myself the same question—“What the hell is wrong with you?”
* * *
Eight-fifteen A.M. and I knocked on Alexandra Campbell’s front door, hoping she had already eaten her breakfast. She opened the door as if she were both surprised and dismayed that someone would interrupt her morning routine. She glanced at her watch after I identified myself.
“I have time for you, but not much,” Campbell said.
She ushered me into her home and settled me on a sofa. Coffee was offered, and I accepted gratefully, not because I craved it but because I didn’t want her to suspect I was there merely to catch her in a lie or trick her into making contradictory statements. She gave me what was left in the pot and sat across from me.
I was hoping she’d be a bimbo. I was hoping she’d have tats and piercings and speak with the vague uncertainty of someone who was well acquainted with pharmaceuticals—ya know. Instead, Campbell was a well-groomed forty-four-year-old tenured professor in the Department of Horticultural Science at the University of Minnesota. She was attractive but not flashy, intelligent without appearing condescending, and answered questions with the engaging demeanor of a woman who was unafraid of revealing embarrassing details about herself. She didn’t even wear glasses. That, at least, would have been something.
“Professor Campbell, I’d like to ask a few questions,” I said.
“About what I saw that night.”
“About what you told the police and the county attorney.”
“Happy to help. You have to call me Alex, though. You’re too old to call me Professor.”
She clamped her hand over her mouth and laughed into it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That did not come out the way I meant. What I meant, only students and secretaries call me Professor.”
I was torn. On one hand, I liked her. On the other, I knew she was going to be a very tough witness to discredit, and that basically was my job—to discredit her.
I gave her my card and told her to call me Taylor.
She accepted the card and gave her watch another glance.
“I’m not teaching this morning,” Campbell said. “However, I like to maintain my scheduled office hours, especially this time of year. It’s finals week, and panic is widespread. If we can proceed…”
“You live across the street from the house where Emily Denys lives.”
“Lived, past tense. I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”
“But true. Past tense.”
“Terrible thing.”
“Yes.”
“I saw it.”
“That’s what you told the police. What you told the county attorney’s office.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Emily?”
“Yes.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Are you asking for an exact number? A dozen times in the past year.”
“So you recognized her?”
“Of course.”
“Even at a distance?”
“Even at a distance.”
“Would you say you knew her well?”
“Not at all. Our conversations were superficial and usually confined mostly to the weather. ‘Will it ever stop snowing?’ She asked me where I was from and what I did for a living, and I told her. I asked the same questions, and she replied that she worked for a bookstore, that she grew up in Albert Lea, and that she attended the University of Iowa. I told her not to let my students hear her say that, and she asked why, which I found odd. You’d think a UI grad would know that Gophers and Hawkeyes are not on speaking terms.”
“You said you saw the killing.”
Campbell paused before answering.
“I saw it,” she said.
“What time was it?”
I was hoping she’d give an imprecise answer. She didn’t.
“Nine fifty P.M.,” Campbell said. “I like to watch the news before I go to bed, and I was keeping track of the time.” She chuckled at the thought. “That’s such a Minnesota thing—watch the ten P.M. news before going to bed.”
“What did you see?” I asked.
“I saw Emily park her car in front of the duplex. I saw her walk toward the front door. A moment later, another car stopped behind hers. A woman got out and walked up behind Emily. The way she approached, I thought she was a friend and that she had followed Emily home. I saw Emily unlocking her door. I saw the woman raise up her hand. I didn’t realize she held a gun until I saw the muzzle flash and heard the report. Emily fell. The woman walked back to her car.”
“Walked?”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t run?”
“No. She didn’t run.”
“Professor Campbell,” I said, “why did you wait so long before coming forward?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why didn’t you tell all this to the police the night it happened?”
“I did.”
“My understanding is that you didn’t speak to the police until yesterday.”
“I identified the woman who shot Emily yesterday. However, I spoke to the police the evening the shooting took place. I’m the one who called 911.”
“Tell me about that.”
“I called the police. Well, the 911 operator. I told her what happened. She notified the authorities, and then kept me on the line until the police arrived. I spoke to a detective named Casper—I still have his card. Yesterday, he returned, accompanied by another investigator who worked for the county attorney’s office; a man named Martin McGaney. I have his card as well. They presented what they referred to as a photo array consisting of photographs of six different women and asked if I could identify any of them. I told them that the woman with strawberry-blond hair was one I saw kill Emily.”
“Eleanor Barrington.”
“I didn’t know her name until after I picked her out.”
“Had you ever seen her before?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did any other of the women in the photo array have strawberry hair?”
“No, but that made no difference.”
A jury might disagree, I told myself. She must have known what I was thinking because he added, “The woman in the photo was the woman I saw shoot the gun.”
“It was dark out at nine fifty, Professor Campbell.”
“There was a full moon.”
“Aside from the moon, was there any other light?”
“Mr. Taylor—since you refuse to call me Alex as I requested—come with me.”
Campbell rose from her seat and went to her front door. I followed, because what else was I going to do? She stopped on her front steps and pointed to a garden beneath the picture window of her house. Most of the plants were just beginning to grow; tiny signs identified each species.
“I had just finished watering my plants,” she said. “It’s better at night. Illinois advises early morning watering—just before or after sunrise—to provide plants with sufficient water for the hotter and more stressful part of the day. Clemson, on the other hand, recommends nighttime because the maximum water is retained due to lower temperatures and wind speeds.”
“Professor…”
“The point is I was standing right where I’m standing now when the murder took place. See there, there, and there?”
She pointed at three separate streetlights.
“They were all on,” Campbell said. “Also, the light above Emily’s front door was on. It’s always on at night; it’s wired to a timer. So, you see, I could see quite plainly. If you challenge my word, I suggest you return tonight, any night, stand where I’m standing, and look for yourself. The detective did.”
“Still, it’s what, seventy-five, eighty yards between here and there?”
“I wasn’t close enough to see the color of the woman’s eyes, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“Is there anything else, Mr. Taylor?”
“The vehicle that the killer drove…”
“I have no knowledge of cars. All I can tell you is what I told the other investigators—it was black, a very shiny black the way the light reflected off of it. And small. A coupe, I believe they call it. It had two doors.”
I went at her a little more after that, soliciting specific details, repeating questions, challenging her memory of the events. There was nothing even remotely spurious in her responses or defensive in her manner. I expected that Helin would be considerably rougher in his questioning than I had been; yet I doubted he’d have any more success in jarring her testimony. No doubt he’d invite a judge to dismiss Professor Campbell’s statements on their merits, because that’s what criminal lawyers do. I also knew the motion would be flatly denied.
It made me angry to think about it. Unlike Helin, I wasn’t entirely sure Mrs. Barrington was innocent, but I was working for her, and I hate it when my team gets its ass kicked.