"Early supper," said Brower as the doctor hit the nurses' call button at the side of my bed. "But I'm afraid you missed the July Fourth barbecue. You've been unconscious for a day and a halt."
Tommy Kramer came into the room with a young woman carrying a stenographer's case. The cop relinquished his chair, and she set up. When she nodded to Tommy, he said, "Stan, I'd like to speak to Mr. Cuddy alone first."
"No," I said. "I want everyone here to realize that I'm speaking without advice of counsel."
"John, I have to advise you-"
"No, Tommy, I'm being set up, and not by Mr. Brower's office. My only conditions beyond your presence and your stenographer's taking notes are one, that nothing of what we say will be off this record, two, that I will be allowed to speak in a narrative style instead of answering questions, and three, that nothing we say will be communicated to any of the Kinnington family by anyone except you, Mr. Brower."
Kramer looked at Brower. Brower said, "Agreed."
Kramer looked at the young lawyer with the tape recorder. Kramer said, "Stan?"
Brower sighed. He looked at the kid and said, "Doug, leave the room."
The young DA started to open his yap, then closed it. He handed the tape recorder to Brower.
"You, too," said Brower to the cop.
"The chief told me-"
"I said leave," said Brower in the same tone.
The cop and Doug left. Brower had each of us identify ourselves and our voices for the tape. He gave background on time, place, and purpose. It was the investigation into the deaths of Blakey and the judge.
"I assume that you've spoken with Stephen, and he has told you that I killed Blakey or the judge."
Brower said, "The boy told us you killed both."
I drew a long breath. "Stephen is lying. Stephen is psychopathic. He was institutionalized in a sanatorium four years ago after he shot his mother to death. The judge covered it up to protect his own ambitions and got Blakey to help him in it. Stephen killed Blakey and the judge. Stephen's insane, but has an incredible intellect, and he therefore must be examined by at least three of the smartest psychiatrists you can find, because I'm betting he'll fool at least one. What I want to do now is tell you what really happened?
I then droned on for more than two hours, going through the entire chronology of the case, both before and after I entered it. When I wasn't sure what really happened, I stated that I was assuming facts. The only parts I deleted were my meetings with Nancy DeMarco in the bar and with Thom Doucette in the park, and I also held back a few of Kim's statements. "Therefore," I concluded, "it is vital that you protect the following pieces of real evidence: Stephen's fingerprints on the plastic phone jack in the judge's library, his fingerprints on the wooden handle of my thirty-eight, the pistol-oil traces that have to be on the inside of the crotch of his pants and have to match the oil from my thirty-eight, the trajectory paths of the bullets in the judge and in the wall, which will show they were fired from Stephen's chair, not mine, and these," I said, extending my hands. "The rope bums on my wrists. And ankles. Add these to the fact that with a broken rib I could never have handled Blakey. Add them to the fact that if I were going to kill Blakey and the judge, I'd need a motive. And if I were going to kill them, tell me why I'd try to pin it on a fourteen-year-old and do such a damned poor job of it."
Brower had sat at the foot of my bed about fifteen minutes into my monologue. He listened with his arms folded across his chest.
"Are you finished?" he asked.
"Yes." I was fighting my sleep reflex.
Brower made some concluding remarks for the tape and the stenographer. Then he turned off the tape, and the stenographer disassembled and exited.
Brower looked at me, then at Tommy. "Two days I've been chewing on this case," Brower began. "No motive for Cuddy past a routine pissing contest with Blakey, an angelic little kid with a home life like a soap opera, guns galore, deputies digging by a ranger station in the forest, and a flower bed Stephen told us about behind his house. It didn't add up, but I had to be awfully right before I acted. I couldn't afford to be wrong here. Not with this family."
Brower turned to me. "Nancy DeMarco called me just before lunch and told me she'd talked to you, and she corroborated enough of what you just told me. She's also bringing me a letter that she says she received from you, spelling out where you were going and why. Not the sort of thing a murderer precedes his crimes with. Cal Maslyk called me with similar support. I did enough other checking on you to be pretty sure you wouldn't be doing something like this. Keep in touch for testifying." Brower headed for the door.
"By the way," I said, "Nancy DeMarco is likely to be in the job market soon. You'd do well to give her a shot with your office."
Brower squared himself to face the press and replied over his shoulder. "Thanks, Cuddy, but I didn't get where I am today by following staff advice from private eyes who get taken by fourteen-year-olds."
I looked over at Tommy, who'd been sweating bullets and would probably never forgive me.
TWENTY-NINTH
– ¦ The good doctor advised me that my marathon with Brower had weakened me so that she wouldn't release me for another day. She also instituted some sort of sedative-painkiller for the hole in my shoulder. The nurse gave it to me, then said, "The schoolteacher is here to see you. I told her you'd be sleeping again in about fifteen minutes."
"Send her in." The nurse left.
Valerie edged in. We exchanged the sort of pleasantries you hear at high school reunions between acquaintances who don't see anyone else to talk to. There really was nothing there for her, and she sensed it. She left. I drifted off
Something woke me. The nurse stuck her head in the door. "Stil1 awake, bright eyes?"
"Yeah."
"More visitors."
"Do they have an appointment?"
She looked behind her. "One of them has probably never needed one."
I blinked my eyes. "Send her in."
The nurse beckoned over her shoulder and held open the door as Mrs. Kinnington came in, crablike on her braces. Mrs. Page followed and arranged a chair near my bed. Mrs. Kinnington leaned the braces against the side of my bed. The housekeeper gave me the same look she'd greeted me with that first day and then exited with the nurse.
"Mr. Cuddy, you accomplished that which no one else was able to do. For that I am grateful."
"Much better, thank you for asking."
She dropped her eyes to her purse and opened it.
"Couldn't we eliminate the sarcasm? My grandson is and has been all that has mattered to me. I am sorry you were injured, but"-and she extended a check to me-"I am sure that this will cover all expenses and fees."
I took it and folded it without looking at it. "I'm sure it covers even the speech I'm about to make. Mrs. Kinnington, there was never anything between Blakey and your grandson, was there?"
"I certainly hope not, but as I explained to you, I have no way-"
"Mrs. Kinnington," I interrupted, "I'll cut the sarcasm if you'll cut the bullshit. That 'relationship' was something out of Miss Pitts's imagination that you fanned."
"I've no time to listen to raving." She reached for her braces. I got them first and flung them into the corner. My left shoulder seared, then simply throbbed as they clattered against the wall.
"You unspeakable bastard!"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Kinnington, but I'm not finished yet. Stephen is a very sick boy in a whole lot of trouble."
"If you mean that pack of nonsense that Brower man…"
"It is no nonsense, Mrs. Kinnington," I said. I found I had to keep my eyes closed. "Your grandson has by my unofficial count violently killed three people, two in my presence. The third was his mother after she drunkenly provoked him by telling him he was illegitimate. Your grandson may be an intellectual prodigy, Mrs. Kinnington, but he desperately needs professional help. For his mind. And not just Willow Wood and arts and crafts and canoeing." Mrs. Kinnington did not answer for a moment. I kept my eyes closed. She broke first.