“Come on, Mr. Rios,” she said in a friendly voice, “I’ll walk you out.”
I shrugged and followed her out of the office, down a bright corridor, past the crowded front desk to the steps of the police station. It was a cool afternoon, cloudy.
“Your colleague’s an asshole,” I said out of frustration.
“Sam’s been around a long time and he’s set in his ways. He’s not a bad cop, just tired.”
The mildness of her reply knocked the air out of my anger. “Well, thanks — Detective.”
“Terry,” she said, extending her hand.
“I’m Henry,” I said, shaking hands.
“I think you’re right about Hugh Paris,” she said. “I think someone killed him. I just can’t figure out who or why.”
I looked at her. “Can you talk now?” She nodded. “Let’s get a cup of coffee, then.” I gestured to a Denny’s across the street.
“You look beat,” she said, once we were seated in an orange vinyl booth. I took a sip of coffee, tasting nothing but hot.
“It’s been a long day and it started at the morgue. Why do you think Hugh was murdered?’’
“I was the first one from homicide at the scene this morning,” she said. “Are you familiar with the footbridge?”
I said yes. San Francisquito Creek ran along the eastern boundary of the campus at the edge of the wood that fanned out in both directions from the entrance to the school. As the creek flowed north into the bay, it descended, ultimately becoming subterranean as it crept into town. By the time it reached the edge of campus, there was a six-foot embankment down to the water.
Across from the creek was the edge of a shopping center. The footbridge forded the creek at this point, allowing pedestrians access to the shopping center from the walking paths through the wood. The area around the bridge, some of the densest wood on campus, had a bad reputation since it had been the scene of a couple of rapes a few years earlier. It wasn’t the kind of place people visited at night.
Terry Ormes was saying, “I was there before they lifted the body out of the water. It was just at dawn and I was watching from the bridge. I swear I saw footprints down there on the bank, and they weren’t made by just one pair of shoes.”
“How many pairs of shoes?”
“At least two pair. The sand kept the impressions pretty good.”
“Anyone take pictures?”
“I went back to my car to radio for a photographer,” she said, “but by the time I got back, the paramedics had gone charging down the embankment and pulled him out of the water. They walked all over the place. There was no way to tell.”
“That doesn’t help much,” I said glumly.
She lowered her coffee cup. “That’s not all. I walked up that embankment six or seven times. I didn’t see anything, not a scrap of clothing or blood or hair or even any broken grass. If Hugh Paris slipped down the embankment, he was awfully careful not to leave any traces behind. And there’s one other thing. You saw the body?” I nodded. “Did you see his back?” “No.”
“There were bruises around his shoulders. I think someone held him face down in the water until he drowned.”
All I could manage was, “Jesus.” There was a long, still moment between us. “Did you tell any of this to Torres?”
“Sure,” she said, “but it didn’t make it into his report. Like I said, Sam’s tired. This one just looked too tough to make out a murder.”
I sighed. “Well, he’s right, maybe. A jury wouldn’t convict a guy of a parking ticket on the evidence we’ve got.”
She gazed at me, coolly. “Why do you care?”
“Hugh was my friend. He told me someone was trying to kill him, but I didn’t believe him. Now I owe him the truth, whatever it may be.”
“Is that all?”
“You really want to know?”
“No,” she said abruptly. “If it’s personal, keep it to yourself, but if it’s something I can use to investigate, don’t hold back. Is that fair?”
“Very fair, detective,” I said. “I need more time before I can tell you anything else.”
She took out a business card and scribbled a number on the back of it. “My home number,” she explained. “This investigation is officially closed, so don’t call me at the office.” She handed the card to me. “I’ll help you if I can.”
“Why?”
“I’m a cop,” she said, a little defiantly. “We’re not all like Sam.”
I finished my coffee then found a phone and called the coroner’s office to ask when they’d release the autopsy report and their official findings. I was informed that the body had been claimed by the family and there would be no autopsy. The preliminary findings — death by misadventure — would stand. It was hard to get additional information from the sexless bureaucratic whine on the other end of the line but, finally, it told me that Hugh’s body had been turned over to his mother, Katherine Paris, who gave a local address and listed the university as her place of employment.
It was dark as I drove home. The tree-lined street where I lived was still and from the windows of my neighbors’ houses came the yellow glow of light and domesticity. My own apartment would be dark and chilly. For a moment I considered driving past my building to the nearest bar but I was too tired. I felt the weight of the day and its images like an ache that wracked my brain. Surely we were never meant to live in the appalling circumstances in which we so often found ourselves, alone, fearful, mute. I parked, got out of my car and stood indecisively in the driveway. With whom could I share this loss?
I could think of no one. I walked to my apartment and slipped the key into the lock. I pushed the door open, walked through the living room into the bedroom and lay on the bed, fully clothed. Despite my exhaustion I made myself relive the last day I spent with Hugh, scouring my memory for clues to his death. He’d risen early, put on a tie and blazer. He said he was going out on business and asked me to meet him at the St. Francis around noon. I’d become accustomed to Hugh’s solitary comings and goings and once I was satisfied they didn’t involve drugs, I relaxed.
I’d arrived at the St. Francis early and had just turned the corner from Geary when I spotted Hugh, his back turned to me, engaged in emphatic conversation with a tall old man. They’d talked for a moment and then the old man got into a silver Rolls.
Uncle John. John Smith.
That’s how Hugh referred to the old man, as Uncle John. But he wouldn’t tell me anything more and we argued over lunch about it.
“I’m protecting you,” I heard him say. Uncle John. That afternoon we made love. And then I woke up four hours later, rolled myself over onto my back and sat up. I was certain someone else was in the apartment. I switched on a lamp and made a lot of noise getting out of bed. Then, like a frightened child, I went, noisily, from room to room talking to the darkness as I turned on every light in the apartment. Eventually, I found myself standing in the middle of the living room. I was alone. I stood there for a few minutes, not feeling or thinking anything, not knowing what to do. Then, my stomach, which had been patient all day, roared and demanded food.
I rummaged through the refrigerator coming up with a shriveled apple and a carton of spoiled cottage cheese. In the end, I made my meal out of a bottle of Jack Daniels and a packet of peanuts left over from some long-forgotten airplane trip. I sat down to think. It seemed a waste of time to devise fancy theories about a crime when the evidence was barely sufficient even to establish that a crime had occurred. I believed Hugh had been murdered, but the basis of my belief consisted of Hugh’s unsupported assertions and Terry Ormes’ unrecorded observations. Clearly, I needed to know more about the Paris family and Hugh’s last few months.