“No thank you, Paul. I think I’ll take a room in La Jolla tonight. Maybe leave in a few minutes. If you don’t need me.”
“All right,” Martin said. “We’ll do some more questioning this evening, but nothing else. I think you should be here for the first entry.”
“I will be,” Albigoni said. “Thank you.”
As Albigoni left, Lascal resumed his seat. “His heart isn’t in this now,” he said. “It’s hit him hard. I think until now he didn’t believe Betty-Ann was really dead.”
Martin blinked. It was easy to lose track of the human element here. Carol regarded Lascal coolly, lips pursed. Clinical distancing, he thought. The others looked faintly uneasy as if they were intruding on a family tragedy, which they were.
In the last session of the evening, with Erwin, Margery and Lascal in the patient room, Erwin asked most of the questions. As before, Martin, Carol, David and Karl watched the screen in the observation room.
Erwin took Margery’s slate and began with the questions Martin had written down.
“It’s eight o’clock. How are you feeling, Mr. Goldsmith?”
“Fine. A little tired.”
“Are you unhappy?”
“Well, I suppose, yes.”
“Do you remember when this all began?”
Pause. Two seconds. “Yes. Quite clearly. I’d like to be able to forget.” Distant smile.
“Do you think very often about Africa now?” Erwin asked.
“No, I don’t think much about Africa.”
“Would you like to go there?”
“Not particularly.”
“Many American blacks think of it as their homeland, as others might think of England or Sweden…”
“I don’t. Have you been to Africa? White folks’ history hasn’t left much for me to go home to.”
Erwin shook his head. “Would you like to go to Hispaniola?”
“I’d prefer that over going to Africa. I’ve been to Hispaniola. I know what to expect.”
“What do you expect in Hispaniola?”
“I…have friends there. I’ve sometimes thought about living there.”
“Is it better in Hispaniola than here?” Erwin was improvising now; there was only one more question in the list Martin had written down and the time was not ripe for that question.
“Hispaniola is a black culture.”
“But John Yardley is white.”
“A mere blemish.” Again the same disengaged smile. “He’s done so much for all Hispaniolans. It’s truly beautiful there.”
“Would you go there now if you could?”
(Martin half expected some sign of irritation from Goldsmith, but of course it did not come. Goldsmith maintained his pleasantly neutral calm.)
“No. I want to stay here and help you.”
“You mean, you want to help us discover why you murdered those young people.”
Goldsmith looked away, nodded.
“Would you go to Guinée if you could?”
Goldsmith’s expression hardened. He did not answer.
“Where is Guinée, Mr. Goldsmith?”
Softly, “Call me Emanuel, please.”
“Where is Guinée, Emanuel?”
“Lost. We lost it centuries ago.”
“I mean where is your Guinée?”
“That’s a name the Haitians, the Africans on Hispaniola use for their homeland. They’ve never been there. It isn’t real. They think some people go there when they die.”
“You don’t believe in a homeland?”
(Martin smiled and tipped his head in admiration. Erwin was doing a better job than he himself might have at zeroing in on this associational knot.)
“Home is when you die. There are no homes. Everybody steals our homes. Nobody can steal what’s left to you when you die.”
“You don’t believe in Guinée?”
“It’s a myth.”
Erwin had leaned forward during the last few questions, staring at Goldsmith. Now he leaned back and relaxed. Glanced at Margery.
“Tag team,” Goldsmith said. Casual, accepting.
“Who are you?” Margery asked. “Where do you come from?”
“I was born in—”
“No, I mean, where do you come from?”
“Excuse me. I’m confused.”
“Where does the person who murdered the eight young people come from?”
Eight second pause. “Never refused to admit guilt. Here to accept responsibility.”
“You murdered them?”
Pause. Five seconds. Again the hard expression, the glint of something beyond casual interest in Goldsmith’s eyes; a carnivorous gleam, frightened cat. (Martin wished they had a body trace on Goldsmith at this moment; but that could come later if it was necessary.)
“Yes. Murdered them.”
“You did.”
“It isn’t necessary to hound me. I’m cooperating.”
“Yes, but Mr. Goldsmith, Emanuel, you murdered them, is that what you admit?”
“Yes. Murdered them.”
Lascal cleared his throat. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.
(Martin shifted his eyes away from Lascal’s image, keyed a closeup of Emanuel through the screen controls. Flat. Casual. Eyes dull.)
“Can you tell us what happened then?”
Goldsmith looked down at the floor. “I’d rather not.”
“Please. It would help us.”
He stared at the floor for forty two seconds. “Invited them over to hear a new poem. Actually hadn’t written a poem. Told them to come individually, fifteen minutes apart; that the old poet would give them a piece of the poem to read and think about and then they would all gather in the living room and criticize. Said it was a kind of ritual. When they came into the apartment one by one took each of them into a back room.” Pause of twenty one seconds. “Then took the knife father’s knife a big Bowie knife. Walked behind each one grabbed by the neck brought up the knife…” He demonstrated, lifting his arm up with elbow out, glanced at Margery and Erwin curiously. “Cut their throats. Bungled two. Had to cut twice. Waited for the blood to stop you know…shooting out.” He arced his hooked finger to show the stream. “Wanted to keep clean. Eight of them came. Ninth never showed. Lucky for him, guess.”
Margery referred to her notes. “Emanuel, you’re avoiding using personal pronouns. Why is that?”
“Beg your pardon? I don’t know what you mean.”
“When you describe the murders, or confess to having done them, you don’t use any personal pronouns.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” Goldsmith said.
Margery closed her notebook. “Thank you, Emanuel. That’s all the questions for tonight.”
Lascal cleared his throat again. “Mr. Goldsmith, do you need more books tonight, or anything else?”
“No thank you. The food wasn’t very good but I didn’t expect it to be.”
“If you need anything,” Lascal said, “there’ll be an arbeiter attending. Just tell it what you want.”
“Am I guarded here?”
“The guards are gone now. The doors are locked,” Margery said. “Not your room door, but other doors in the building. You can’t get out.”
“Okay,” Goldsmith said. “Good night.”
Rejoining in the observation room, they sat quietly comparing notes. Martin listened to Carol and Erwin discussing the key “punctures” through the mask. “He refuses to discuss Guinée, which may or may not be important,” Carol said. “He refuses to use the personal pronoun to admit guilt.”
Martin visualized mythical lands, paradises, heavens and hells. Shivered. Stood and stretched. “Let’s call it a night,” he suggested.
Odd not to even feel mild concern about Carol’s attitude toward him. For the moment Martin was aware of how focused he was on Goldsmith and the probe. Then he pushed that awareness aside and walked out the door, bidding the others, and Carol, good night.