“Mrs. Wilkins,” he said, “when I called you yesterday, you told me you’d never heard the name Timothy O’Laughlin, and you were positive he wasn’t anyone your husband had known. I’m beginning to think there is no link between the victims, they were simply chosen at random, which is why I’d like to know a little more about where your husband actually went the night he was killed.”
Debra nodded. This was still very difficult for her. He hated having to talk to her just now, but time was rushing by, and whoever had killed three people was still out there someplace.
“You said he was going to a movie…”
“Yes.”
“Told you he was going to a movie…”
“Yes.”
“I checked the schedule for the theater you gave us, and the show he would have caught—if he left here at eight-thirty—the next show would have been at nine, and it would’ve let out at eleven. Coroner’s Office has estimated the postmortem interval…they have ways of determining the time of death, you see, I don’t even know how they figure it myself, and I’ve been a cop for a long time now. I hate to be talking about this, Mrs. Wilkins, but I have to, I hope you understand that.”
“Yes, please don’t worry. I want to help in any way I can.”
“Well, thank you, I appreciate that. But they can’t be exact about how many hours elapse since the time of death, even though they usually come pretty close. So when they say the time of death was around midnight, it could just as easily have been eleven, when the movie let out. The thing that keeps bothering me is why he went all the way over to Harlow Street, over there near the parkway. I asked the coroner if the body might have been moved…yes, they can determine that, too, in some instances,” he said, “don’t ask me how. It has something to do with the position of the body, the way the blood gathers in certain parts of the body, which—if the body is then moved and placed in another position—the earlier lividity, I think they call it, wouldn’t jibe with the new position. I’m not a doctor, I’m sorry, I just take for granted whatever they tell me on the autopsy report.”
“I understand.”
“But in this case, they weren’t able to tell whether the murder had taken place where your husband was found or whether he was transported there. There wasn’t much blood on the sidewalk, which there would’ve been if that was where he’d been shot, but it was raining all night, and it could’ve got washed away. In any case, they don’t know if that was the murder scene or not. The coroner couldn’t tell from just the autopsy, and the techs didn’t find anything at the scene that would have indicated the body was moved. So we’ve got to assume that’s where the murder was committed, which brings me back to why he went all the way over there to Harlow Street from Stemmler Avenue—in the pouring rain, no less.”
“I can’t understand it,” she said.
“He wasn’t carrying any paint when he left the apartment, was he?”
“Honestly, I didn’t notice. I was in the bathtub when he left.”
“Ah,” Kling said.
“He poked his head in, said he’d be back a little after eleven, and I said okay, see you later, something like that, and he was gone. I was getting ready for bed, you see. I usually take a bath around eight-thirty, nine o’clock, and then get in bed and read till the news comes on at ten. I’m usually asleep by eleven.”
“But not that night.”
“Pardon?”
“You told us you called the police at midnight….”
“Yes, when Peter hadn’t come home.”
“Were you waiting up for him?”
“Yes. That is, I was in bed, but I knew he’d be coming home, so I wasn’t sleeping , if that’s what you mean.”
“Yes, I meant awake. I didn’t mean sitting up in the living room or anything.”
“I was awake, yes,” she said. “But in bed.”
“And when he didn’t come home, you called the police.”
“Yes.”
“At around midnight, you said.”
“I think it was exactly midnight. The clock was bonging. The one in the living room.”
“Did you ever see those cans of paint in his closet? I mean, before we found them the other day.”
“Never.”
“Do you have your own closet?”
“Yes.’’
“Never hung anything in his closet? Put anything in his closet?”
“Never.”
“So those cans were as much a surprise to you as they were to us.”
“A total surprise.”
“He wasn’t working on any art project of any kind, was he?”
“No. He didn’t have any inclinations along those lines.”
“Or a woodworking project. Something he might have planned to paint later on.”
“No, nothing like that.”
“I’ll tell you,” Kling said, “it’s hard to believe your husband was one of these writers…these graffiti writers…but I can’t think of anything else that would have taken him over to Harlow Street. You don’t have any friends on Harlow Street, do you?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. That stretch near the highway approach isn’t a particularly nice area.” He thought for a moment, looked at her, and said, “Mrs. Wilkins, I know my partner was a little clumsy about this the other day, but it’s something I have to ask you now. Do you have any reason to believe your husband might have been involved with another woman?”
“A woman who lives on Harlow Street?” she asked, beginning to bristle.
“A woman who lives anywhere,” Kling said levelly.
“I have no reason to believe that,” Debra said.
“Do you have any idea at all as to why he would have gone over to that wall on Harlow Street?”
“None.”
“a graffiti -covered wall.”
“I don’t know why he went there.”
“In the rain.”
“In the rain,” she repeated. “He told me he’d be coming home straight after the movie. He told me he’d be home a little after eleven. I don’t know how he ended up dead…in the rain…on that street. I just don’t know,” she said, and began crying.
Kling waited.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“That’s okay,” he said. “I know how difficult…”
“Debra?”
The voice was soft, polite, seemingly unwilling to intrude. Kling turned. He saw a slender man some five feet eleven inches tall, wearing a brown suit and brown shoes, a white button-down shirt, and a striped gold-and-brown tie. Some thirty-five years old, Kling guessed. Unhandsome, his plain, craggy face somehow conveying a sense of dependability. He had a mustache, and he was wearing eyeglasses. Behind the glasses, his eyes were the color of the dark suit. It looked as if he, too, might have been crying. The look in his eyes certainly gave that impression. There was ineffable sadness there, unbearable grief. When he spoke again, it was in that same soft voice, as if he were whispering in church.
“I have to go now, Debra,” he said.
He extended both hands to her. Took her hands in his.
“You know how sorry I am,” he said.