A Novel Murder - Episode 9

The black box

Bob was waiting for me at the hospital’s patient pickup roundabout. I pulled in along the curb, stopping the car when the door handle was in Bob’s reach so he didn’t have to stretch. He looked pale and seemed close to toppling over. I winced as I watched him ease his body onto the passenger’s seat. “How’d it go?”

He grimaced as he shut the door. “They stuck me like a pincushion. Gallons of my best blood. I needed that blood, Al.”

“It sucks to be old.”

“Don’t I know it. But they finally gave me an appointment for the surgery.”

“Outpatient?”

“Yup. Just one day to put in a new hip. I’ll be home in time to watch Jeopardy, and running marathons in no time. Where we headed?”

“I want to talk to a friend of Stephen’s.”

“You got a theory?”

Satisfied that Bob had his seat belt buckled, I shifted the car out of park and merged into the rush hour traffic. “As a matter of fact, I do. So far, everyone’s blaming everyone else. Everyone wanted Stephen to become a big shot writer. Everyone benefited. Only one person needed Stephen to stay who he was.

“And who would that be?”

I told Bob my theory. He listened without interrupting, then looked out the window, sighed at the prospect of resolution, and said, “Makes sense to me.”

We pulled up to the bar. Happy hour was in full swing and the place was loud and crowded. We pushed past trust fund man-babies and disaffected gum-chewing b-school ingenues fully engrossed in their mixed-drink mating rituals. Once upon a time Bobby and I would have gotten intimidated looks from the white-collar clientele as we walked among them, they avoiding eye contact with two tough, grizzled cops unwilling to put up with any yuppie bullshit. Most of them were holding weed, coke or ecstasy, but we weren’t there for that.

Baby fat faces smirked as the crowd pulled back to let Bobby and me pass: two lost old men who must have accidentally stumbled into the wrong joint to order drinks we couldn’t pronounce nor afford. At least the last part was true.

Nick was sitting at the bar, apparently off work. He didn’t seem happy to see us.

“Hey Nick - good, you’re off the clock. Is there a place we can talk?”

“This is kind of a bad time...”

“It’s not a request. And bring that.” I pointed to the black lacquer box next to the cash register.

The small windowless manager’s office was made even more claustrophobic by cardboard containers of toilet paper and cleaning supplies stacked along the wall. I gestured for Nick to take a seat. He placed the box on the desk. I pushed the lid open. “This isn’t one of Nick’s antiques, is it?”

“It was his, but he gave it to me.”

“Was it Nick’s idea to try selling it to Roger?”

Nick shifted in the chair, looked down and shrugged.

“You left something in it, didn’t you? This little bag’s got some gimmicks in it, I bet.”

The kid looked up at me with acknowledgement but tried his best to act befuddled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I pulled the leather bag out of the box, opened it, then tilted it downwards. A plastic medical-grade syringe, a small burnt spoon, a roll of cotton wadding and a few packaged hypodermic needles spilled onto the desk. “What did you two shoot? Crank? Tar?”

Bob chimed in with the hoary old trick of interrupting and speaking to me as if we were alone, even though Nick was literally seated between us. “Don’t sweat it Al - we’ll test for all that good stuff. And dust and swab it.”

I shifted my gaze from Bob back to Nick. “We’ll find Stephen’s prints and DNA on it, won’t we?”

Nick was trying to conjure some plausible denial, but I shook my head. “It’s too late to come up with a lie. Too many loose ends.”

Bob barked a cynical laugh. “Not the time for improv Nick.”

“Coming clean is the smartest move for you. We can help you if you tell us the truth.” It was stock interrogation patter, but it’s also what anyone in Nick’s position wants to hear. “Was it an accident Nick?”

Nick looked back at Bob, who had his arms crossed and was in a gangster lean against a stack of cardboard boxes. “Don’t look at me, kid.” He spun his hand in a circle for Nick to turn back to face me.

Nick looked at the black lacquer box with an expression like he was working out a calculus problem. He was close to telling me what he desperately wanted to say and I wanted to hear - but would also seal his fate. I didn’t move. “I don’t think you’re a killer, Nick.” I said flatly, as if I was handing him his only way out.

Outside the office door, the low roar of a hundred drunk, laughing voices floated over the thumping bassline of a decades-old pop song: raucous joy on the other side of the wall, yet a million miles from what was going on in this dank little room. After a few long seconds, Nick looked up at me. He seemed about to cry. He murmured, “I didn’t mean to hurt him that bad.”

“It was an accident then?”

His shoulders sagged, and with an expression of relief, he nodded.

Bob stepped toward Nick and put a big hand on the young man’s shoulder. His voice was now modulated to a soothing fatherly baritone. “Kid, it’s time to go downtown.”