“Could you explain what you mean?”
“You know.”
“I’m not sure.”
“You know, her being in a nightgown and all.”
“Yes, what about that?”
“The police might have got the idea I’d done something to her. Like, you know, molested her or something.”
“Did you molest her?”
“No, sir. No, I didn’t.”
“You held her in your arms, though. You embraced her.”
“Yes, but I didn’t... you know... I didn’t do... I didn’t do what the police might think I’d done if I... if I went to them and told them... told them... what I’d done.”
“You embraced Emily, too, isn’t that so?”
“Yes, but I didn’t...”
“Go on. I’m listening.”
“Didn’t do anything to her.”
“But you were afraid the police would think you’d done something to her.”
“That’s right.”
“Something sexual?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Not to Emily or to Maureen.”
“She was... you know... the nightgown was all torn.”
“Maureen’s nightgown.”
“Yes, but I didn’t do anything to her, I swear to God.”
“And the reason you didn’t go to the police at first—”
“They might think I’d done something.”
“You were afraid they’d think you had sexually abused her.”
“Yes.”
“Maureen.”
“Yes.”
“And that they’d beat you up if they found out.”
“If they found out, yes. If they thought I’d done it, do you understand?”
“Mr. Purchase, why did you kill Maureen?”
“I don’t know why.”
“Why did you kill Emily?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or Eve?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mr. Purchase, I’m going to turn off the tape recorder now, and have this interview typed up in transcript form for you to read before you sign it. At that time, if you want to change anything or add anything to it, you can do so. In the meantime, before I turn off the machine, is there anything you’d like to add to your statement?”
“Nothing.”
“Then that’s everything,” Ehrenberg said.
8
Jamie and I got back to my office at a little before one-thirty. I was ravenously hungry, but I didn’t want to have lunch with him, and so I said nothing about it. His personal tragedy had lurched into the realm of genuine horror. I was numb and wanted no more of him or his son for a little while at least. I got out of the Ghia, and walked to where he was parking his car. Immediately, he began talking about Michael. Listening, I had the same feeling I’d had in that two A.M. bar last night — that he was talking to himself, soliciting my nods or my grunts only as punctuation to what was essentially a monologue.
“I thought he was over it by now,” he said. “He was at the house only last Tuesday, he and Maureen sat at the kitchen table half the night, just talking. A real heart-to-heart talk. About my having stopped the alimony payments, about his going back to school — they’d have gone on forever if I hadn’t told them I was going to bed, I had a busy day tomorrow.”
Tomorrow would have been Wednesday. And Jamie would most certainly have had a busy day in the cottage at the beach. On Tuesday night, nonetheless, his son Michael sat at the kitchen table and had a long heart-to-heart talk with Maureen. This did not sound like someone who five days later would sit at that same table and abruptly reach for a knife.
“He was the one it hit hardest, you know,” Jamie said. “He was only ten when I left his mother, it took me a full year and a half to reach an agreement with her, she made things miserable for all of us.” He opened the door, climbed in behind the wheel. “But you know,” he said, “I really thought he was over it. Came down here to live in September, started at U.S.F.... well, all right, he dropped out again in January, but I honestly think he was planning to start again in the fall. I honestly think he was beginning to... respect me again. Love me again.”
Jamie shook his head. He was not looking at me. His hands were on the steering wheel, he was staring through the windshield at the bright white wall that surrounded the office complex.
“Then this afternoon, alone in the office with him, I said, ‘Michael, why’d you do this? Michael, for the love of God, why’d you do this?’ And he looked at me, and he said, ‘It’s your fault, Pop, you caused it,’ and that was when I called him a son of a bitch, a little son of a bitch, and grabbed him by the throat. Because he was... he was right back where we’d been, don’t you see? He was ten years old again, and blaming me again, only this time he was blaming me for the terrible thing he himself had done — it was my fault, he told me, I was the one who’d caused it. Matt, I... wanted to kill him. I was ready to kill him. If Ehrenberg hadn’t come in... I’d have done it. God forgive me, I’d have done it.”
The moment I stepped into the office, Cynthia said, “Galatier was here.”
“I thought I asked you to cancel.”
“I did. He came anyway.”
“All right, get him for me. No, just a second, order me a sandwich and a bottle of beer first. Then call Galatier.”
“What kind of sandwich?”
“Ham on rye, I don’t care, anything.”
“There’s a list of calls on your desk.”
“Fine, where’s Frank?”
“At First Federal. The Kellerman closing.”
“Hurry with the sandwich, I’m dying.”
I went into my office, took off my jacket, and loosened my tie. There had been a dozen calls while I was gone, only one of them urgent. I assumed Frank had dealt with that one, since it had to do with the closing at First Federal. The bank had called to say that the interest rate had just been reduced by a quarter of a percent, and they were willing to permit the lower rate if we could change the papers before closing. The call had been clocked in at twelve-thirty, and the closing had been set for one-thirty. I picked up the phone and buzzed Cynthia.
“I ordered it already,” she said. “They were all out of rye, I settled for white.”
“Good. Cynthia, on this call from First Federal about the interest rate...”
“Frank dictated the changes, and I typed them for him before he left. Promissory note, mortgage, and closing statement. That was nice of the bank, don’t you think?”
“Yes. When the sandwich arrives—”
“I’ll bring it right in.”
“Who saw Galatier when he was here?”
“Karl offered to talk to him, but he refused. Said he wouldn’t deal with an office boy.”
“All right, get him for me, please.”
Cynthia came in ten minutes later with my ham sandwich and beer. Eating the sandwich, sipping beer from the bottle, I gave her a list of calls I wanted her to make, starting with Mrs. Joan Raal to tell her we’d be free of the lunatic Galatier come morning, and ending with Luis Camargo who was buying an apartment building we’d had examined for him by an engineer. The engineer had called while I was out, to say he’d found both the boiler and the electrical system deficient. I wanted Cynthia to ask Luis whether he still wanted to buy, or would he insist that the seller repair at his own expense.
“Is that it?” Cynthia asked.
“Yes. I’ll be leaving here in a few minutes. I may be back later, but I’m not sure.”
“Where can we reach you?”
“You won’t be able to,” I said. “I’ll be on a boat.”