It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder, page 14
"And then?"
"Mr. Maciborski reached into his coat pocket. I guess I should have seen it coming, but when he pulled his hand out from inside his coat, instead of the receipt, he was brandishing a knife."
Oliver Berryhill shuddered as he recounted the events that followed. "I tried to remember my crisis training, tried to block Mr. Maciborski's attack. We got tangled up and Mr. Maciborski lost his balance and stumbled, falling backwards. As he tried to catch his balance, he reached out, but before he could right himself, he banged into the edge of the stall, falling backwards and accidentally slitting his throat."
Oliver paused, remembering the blood. "I thought I was going to be sick."
Eggs watched a wave of nausea cross Oliver's features. "Then what happened?"
"Blood was spurting everywhere. It was horrible. I realized he must have hit that artery. You know the one I mean."
"The carotid artery," volunteered Detective Bebedict.
"Yeah. That's right. Anyway, I knew right away that he was gone. I ran down the hall to call the police. And then I ran back to the men's room and waited for you to show up."
Oliver Berryhill fell silent. Detective Bebedict allowed the silence to deepen before asking his question. "So was it before you called the police, or afterwards, that you wiped down the knife?"
"Huh?" Oliver didn't understand the question.
"It's a simple question. Did you wipe the knife before you left the men's room, or when you first returned?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Detective."
Eggs Bebedict looked for evidence on Oliver's face. "I mean the lab found no fingerprints on the knife." He paused. "There should have been fingerprints."
"I didn't do anything with the blade, Detective. Really."
"So how do you explain that Big Mack's prints weren't on the knife?"
"I can't explain it, Detective."
"If things didn't happen in quite the way you've told me," suggested Detective Bebedict, "this would be a good time to tell me, Oliver."
"No, Detective. To the best of my memory, that's exactly how it happened." Oliver took a deep breath. "I guess it's possible that my memory could be playing a trick on me. After all," he added, taking another deep breath, "it was a pretty traumatic experience."
Eggs Bebedict waited, but Oliver volunteered no further explanation. "Are you telling me that your memory is playing a trick on you . . . on us both?"
"No, Detective. No. No. No. No. No. I'm just saying if it was, I wouldn't know that, now would I?"
"No, Oliver. I guess you wouldn't. Do you think it's possible that maybe, in some small way, your memory of this tragic accident is flawed? Is it possible that your police report doesn't reflect the full story?"
"I don't think so, Detective." Oliver paused, considering how to ask his question. "If I remember something differently now, what kind of trouble would I be in?"
"I'm no psychologist, but I know that sometimes the brain protects itself from traumatic memories by blocking them out. If you're starting to remember things differently now, I think it would be very wise of you to tell me those new memories."
"I'll try to keep that in mind, Detective . . . in case that starts to happen."
Detective Bebedict watched Oliver closely. "But those new memories . . . that hasn't started yet?"
Oliver Berryhill stared at the ceiling. "Not yet."
On the Road to Manderley
When word spread throughout the mall of a second dead body, even the most avid of shoppers stopped mid-list, and streamed for the mall exit. Within an hour, the final die-hard shoppers were pulling out of the parking lots. They would go home and tell all their friends about the horrible experience, and then, in a day or so, they would return in even greater numbers to finish their holiday shopping. Not even two dead bodies could permanently kill the Mall of New Jersey.
The police had finished up at the mall and, except for one remaining officer there to protect the integrity of the crime scene, there was no evidence of an ongoing investigation. Salespeople stood around wondering what to do; cashiers and clerks made small talk. To Oliver, it seemed as though everyone was looking at him; their whispers confirmed his suspicion that they were talking about him as well. It was as if they held Oliver responsible for the second dead body. As if the dead man was somehow his fault. He'd brought murder to the mall and now it refused to depart.
Cassie wasn't sure why she was still hanging around the mall. She needed a smoke and went in search of Santa, hoping to bum a cigarette. Santa's Workshop was deserted, shoppers long gone, their children gone with them, the photographer gone, even the elves had wasted little time packing up, waiting impatiently for mall management to give them permission to leave early. It saddened Cassie, so close to Christmas, to see a lonely Santa Claus, sitting by himself, alone in his workshop.
"Hey, Santa."
Santa looked up at Cassie and smiled. "Hi."
"Strange, huh?"
Santa nodded. "Yeah."
"Smoke?"
Santa dug inside his red coat for a pack of Newports.
Cassie started to get up, heading for their cigarette spot just outside the mall, but Santa didn't bother to get up. "The hell with them." He lit a cigarette and handed it to Cassie. She took the cigarette and sat back down.
"The hell with all of them." Santa peeled off the itchy Santa beard. He was going to enjoy his Newport.
Cassie stared at the beardless Santa Claus. There was something oddly familiar about Santa's five o'clock shadow.
For Oliver Berryhill, the rest of his shift passed by in a paranoid blur. He wasn't sure which was worse, that Detective Bebedict didn't believe his story, or that Little Mack did. Oliver had no doubt that Little Mack intended to avenge his father's death. He had no clear sense of the detective's intentions.
When Oliver left the Mall of New Jersey at the end of his shift, it was early in the evening. The sky was gradually darkening, a winter chill in the air, a light rain starting to fall. He looked but did not see Little Mack anywhere. He was not comforted by Little Mack's absence. Oliver Berryhill thought about the second dead body. He did not believe in coincidence. Two dead bodies don't just happen.
Oliver wondered about the relationship between Teddy Maciborski and this latest dead body. There was a connection between the two deaths, of that Oliver was certain. There was at least one killer on the loose. Oliver realized there was more for him to worry about than Little Mack. More than Detective Bebedict. He just didn't know who or why.
Oliver walked to his car and got in. He started up the ignition, turning on the headlights and the windshield wipers. It promised to be a gloomy ride home. As he pulled out of the lot, he kept his eyes focused on the road ahead. He tried not to think about the dangers. It was an uneventful drive home, but Oliver had seen enough movies to know that the solitary drive— peering out through the rain streaked-windshield, the wipers keeping time like a metronome, the headlights illuminating a quiet country road—would be scored with an ominous soundtrack, cuing the movie audience to the impending danger. It was an uneventful drive home, but if Oliver listened hard enough, he could hear the ominous soundtrack as clearly as if he were already home watching the DVD release of one of the old Hitchcock classics. He was Joan Fontaine, in the car with Laurence Olivier, on the road to Manderley. Or Joan Fontaine, in the car with Cary Grant, driving along the cliff. In either case, he was Joan Fontaine. The ominous soundtrack was scored for him.
Oliver breathed a sigh of relief when he pulled into the parking lot at his apartment complex.
Official Police Business
Morris spent two days trying to make contact with a certain Jersey rocker. After perhaps a dozen phone calls, Morris had to admit that the multiple layers of management served the rock star well. Email was no better. Morris sent missives to everyone associated with the rocker, his manager, agent, body guard, tour director, road crew, and nanny, without success. Finally, he received a return email, threatening legal action if Morris didn't cease and desist. Morris read the email and smiled. Let 'em sue. The text of the message threatened a lawsuit, but the subtext—Morris was an expert at reading between the lines—the subtext clearly implied the guitar was legitimate. Morris printed out a copy of the threatening email for Louie. Late the next morning, he hopped in his aging Buick—the engine rattle was new since its extended stay at Deep's Quick Lube—and set out for Woodbine.
Morris parked in front of the pawnshop and immediately noticed the autographed guitar displayed prominently in the window. He looked at the price tag—$1500—and let out a string of invective. Louie better be prepared, he decided, to put more cash on the table.
Morris turned the doorknob and pushed, but the front door to the pawnshop failed to open. He looked in the window. All the lights were off. The store was empty. Louie's was closed in the middle of the day. Counting on the additional cash payment, uncertain what else to do, where else to go, Morris pounded on the locked door at Louie's.
It didn't take long before Detective Bebedict had a positive identification on the second dead body at the mall. Louie Feldman was a small businessman from Woodbine, a mostly honest pawnbroker who was not above fencing stolen property when the circumstances were favorable. The detective decided to make a visit to the dead man's storefront in Woodbine. He called Cassie and asked her to ride along.
Something about the detective's gruff but gentlemanly demeanor struck Cassie once again as vaguely southern. Batting her eyelashes, she responded in kind. "Why, Detective, are you asking me out on a date?"
Eggs let loose a gravelly guffaw. "You're a pistol, Cassie, you know that?"
"Well . . . are you?"
"When I ask you out on a date, you'll know it."
When, not if. Cassie liked that. "Okay, then. When are we leaving for Woodbine?"
"I'll pick you up in half an hour."
"Okay, then."
"Yeah," said the detective. "Okay."
Cassie felt foolish, running around her condo, changing clothes for her official police business, unofficial date with Eggs Bebedict. She hated thinking about clothes, especially in the winter. Finally she settled on a tight pair of low-riders, cashmere sweater, and kickass pair of pointy-toed boots. Detective Bebedict pulled up in front of her condo right on schedule. He didn't bother to get out of his car, honking the horn and waiting in the parking lot for Cassie to come down. She was ready but decided to make the detective wait. Next time, she told herself, he'll get out of the car. Cassie was surprised to discover she was already imagining a next time.
Cassie felt awkward in the detective's car on the ride to Woodbine. Eggs Bebedict was apparently a fan of conservative talk radio. Cassie tried to change the station, but Eggs growled and she pulled her hand back from the radio controls.
"Sorry," she said.
"Maybe later," Eggs offered.
Cassie listened to the local talk show. They were talking about the recent killings at the mall. Cassie realized Eggs was working. She sat back in the passenger seat and relaxed, allowing Eggs to monitor public opinion about the killings as he drove.
"Anything new being reported?"
"Not really. But everyone's got something to say about it." Eggs took a philosophical approach. "Opinions are kinda like bellybuttons, you know? Everyone's got one." He grinned. "But they're all pretty damn useless."
When they pulled up in front of Louie's, the first thing they noticed was Morris pounding on the door.
Eggs was suddenly on full alert. "What the hell is going on here?"
"Holy shit, Eggs. That's Morris."
"Who?" Eggs was already climbing out of the car, turning his attention to Morris. He flashed his badge. "Police."
Morris turned red and gradually stopped pounding on the door, caught in the act of . . . well, he realized, in the act of nothing. He wasn't doing anything wrong.
"What's the matter, Officer?"
There was an awkward moment as Cassie scrambled out of the car, explaining to the detective who Morris was, explaining to Morris who Eggs was.
"But what are you doing here, Morris?" asked Cassie.
"Yeah," growled Eggs. "What she said."
Morris pointed at the display window. It took Cassie a moment. "Your guitar! Why? How?"
"What?" growled Eggs. "Where?"
Morris pointed to his aging green Buick parked across the street. "I hocked the guitar so I could get my car back."
"So you came back today to get your guitar out of hock?"
"No, I came back today 'cause Louie owes me another three bills." Morris explained the situation to Detective Bebedict.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," Eggs growled, "but you're not gonna get anything more from Louie."
"I don't understand. Is he under arrest or something?"
Cassie stepped back into the conversation. "He's dead, Morris."
"That doesn't make sense. I just saw him a coupla three days ago. When did he die? How did he die?"
Detective Bebedict stared at Morris. "Someone shot him. A coupla three days ago."
The Great Directors
"I didn't do it!" blurted Oliver when he discovered Little Mack sitting at his kitchen table. "I didn't do it," he repeated, as he tried to modulate his tone.
Little Mack stared at Oliver Berryhill, saying nothing.
"You gotta believe me."
Little Mack smiled. "Sit down, Oliver."
Oliver sat down.
Little Mack sighed. It seemed to Oliver that he was distracted. "I came here tonight to avenge my father's death. Do you understand?"
Oliver didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.
"I ask myself what my father woulda done, you know, if it was me dead. My pop, no problem, you wouldn'ta seen Oliver Berryhill Day."
"Please." Oliver searched Little Mack's face, hoping for a chance to explain. He saw no empathy, but he did see fatigue in Little Mack's bloodshot eyes.
"I got obligations here. It's a matter of honor." Little Mack pulled himself up straight in the chair.
"Just hear me out, okay?"
Little Mack nodded imperceptibly. "Go ahead," he mumbled.
Oliver Berryhill had told the phony version so many times, it took effort to get the real story straight.
"I was making my rounds in the mall." Oliver started slowly, easing his way into the truth. "But I didn't go in the men's room looking for anything. Truth is, I had to take a dump." Oliver looked at Little Mack who sat there impassive, at his kitchen table.
"I didn't even realize your father was in the men's room until I discovered there was no toilet paper in my stall."
Oliver remembered feeling trapped in the stall without paper; he remembered the frustration when the man in the adjoining stall ignored his plaintive request. He looked up at the ceiling in his kitchen.
"Your father was already dead when I found him sitting on the toilet, fully dressed, blood pooled around him on the bathroom floor." He looked at Little Mack. "I'm sorry." Oliver found it nearly impossible to read Little Mack's reaction.
Little Mack stood up from the table, unkinking his back, rolling his shoulders, the shoulder holster peeking out from under his jacket as he stretched. "You told the police my father was a thief. You said he died fighting with you in the bathroom. You said the same and more to the press." Little Mack towered over Oliver.
Sitting at his kitchen table, looking up at Little Mack, Oliver Berryhill began to cry.
"Be a man, Berryhill."
Oliver sat at the table, blubbering.
"You're pathetic, Berryhill."
Oliver wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, trying to compose himself.
Little Mack's voice grew icy cold. "We're going for a ride."
"Where?" Oliver sniffled.
"You'll see."
When Oliver didn't stand up, Little Mack patted his jacket, on top of the shoulder holster. "Now, Berryhill."
"I didn't do it," said Oliver, but he stood up. Little Mack unholstered his piece and used it to point to the door.
Oliver followed the gun's direction. "Where are we going?" But the gun didn't answer.
Outside the house, even in the dark, the moon mostly hidden behind clouds, Oliver wondered how he had missed the black Lincoln Town Car.
"Get in." Little Mack waved at Oliver with the gun.
Oliver opened the passenger side door and climbed in. "Where are we going?"
Little Mack turned the key in the ignition and pulled the car into the street, saying nothing.
Oliver Berryhill talked nervously, continuously, about nothing, about everything, his life, his job, the mall, his childhood, movies.
At the mention of movies, Little Mack grunted. "You a movie buff, Berryhill?"
Oliver thought maybe he had found a common interest, launching into a monologue about the great directors—Capra, Hitchcock, Spielberg, Coppola—and the great movies—Manchurian Candidate, Cuckoo's Nest, Casablanca, Lord of the Rings, The Godfather . . ."
"You like the Godfather movies?" asked Little Mack.
"Yeah," said Oliver, concerned he had wandered into dangerous territory.
Little Mack smiled. "Me too."
Meanwhile, Little Mack drove the car, heading deeper and deeper into the Pine Barrens. For the first ten or fifteen minutes, Oliver was able to recognize landmarks and maintain his bearings, but gradually he lost all sense of place. When Little Mack pulled the car to a stop, at the end of an old abandoned road, deep in the forest, Oliver was completely disoriented.
"Let's take a little walk, okay, Berryhill?" Little Mack wasn't asking. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and used it to point to a barely noticeable trailhead heading off to the right. The two men started walking, picking their way slowly along the overgrown trail, following the beam from Little Mack's flashlight.
Oliver tried to restart their conversation, but for the first time in his adult life, Oliver could not think of anything to say about film. He stumbled on a tree root, twisting his ankle. "Dammit!"
