‘But those marks on my face, I didn’t – that wasn’t in the woods. That was in her room. Outside her room. We had a fight.’
‘When?’
‘Tuesday evening. Around midnight.’
‘Midnight you said?’
‘Yes.’
Spencer said, ‘You told me you didn’t see her that night after eleven-fifteen.’
‘I did.’
Spencer pushed his coffee cup aside. ‘Conni, I’d recommend calling your family and asking them to arrange for a lawyer.’
‘You think I still need a lawyer?’ she asked lamely. ‘But I’m telling you the truth.’
‘The truth? What is that?’ said Spencer. ‘I don’t know what that is anymore. The three of you have made me doubt the truth of my own name.’
Conni exclaimed very loudly, very insistently, ‘I did not put my knees up on Kristina’s chest. I did not kill her! This is ridiculous. You know I didn’t kill her.’
Spencer shook his head slowly. ‘Do I know that? No. I know nothing. In any case, you won’t have to prove it to me. You’re going to have to prove it to twelve of your peers.’
Conni got quiet, and then said, ‘Really, you must believe me. I didn’t do it.’ Whatever facade she had had was gone. What was left was a Cold Spring Harbor sunny day that she couldn’t see because she was inside the air-conditioned house. What was left, Spencer mused, was twenty-one years of instilling in your kids that they could do whatever they wanted if only they put their minds to it and then spoke loudly about truth. Well, Constance Tobias did what she wanted. She put her mind to it, and when at first she didn’t succeed, she tried again.
Conni went on, ‘Why are you torturing me like this? I’m telling you the truth. We had a fight. I don’t know what happened. I just lost it and went for her. She tried to push me away, and things got out of control for a second, but only for a second. I was angry, you know?’
Spencer leaned forward, wanting to grab her by the shoulders. ‘Angry enough to kill her?’
‘I told you, I told you several times. Why won’t you believe me? I didn’t kill her.’
Spencer went on, ‘Wouldn’t be the first time you tried to kill her, huh, Conni?’
Falling back against the chair, Conni paled, her mouth opening. Spencer couldn’t look her in the eyes and lowered his gaze.
‘Lieut – Detective – O’Malley,’ she stammered, ‘I don’t – please, you have to believe me. This time – no … I didn’t kill her.’
‘You can’t really confess to me, Conni, can you? You can’t say, yes, I did it, because if you confess, there’s only paperwork and sentencing left for you. No, you have to have a fighting chance. But you did kill her, didn’t you?’
Rubbing her face and sounding frightened, Conni said, ‘Look, that thing, last year, what? Did Frankie tell you that, too? God, that Frankie. Who needs enemies, right? Well, that thing, last year –’ She giggled uncontrollably, and then cried.
Spencer reached into his pocket and pulled out some tissues, handing them to her. She wiped her face. They said nothing. ‘Oh, God, it’s really bad, isn’t it? I didn’t see it before, why didn’t I see it? But it’s just so bad …’
‘Yes,’ Spencer agreed. ‘It’s pretty bad.’
‘Does everybody know that?’ Conni asked with a glimmer of hope. ‘Or just you?’
Just you, officer, is it just you who knew I was going too fast, why, aren’t you handsome, maybe you’d like to go out sometime, you and your blue eyes, maybe –
‘Miss Tobias, everybody knows it, everybody and their aunt. Besides, you weren’t going to suggest that I keep vital evidence as to motive and your state of mind away from the DA’s office?’
‘No, of course not,’ she said dejectedly. ‘Look, it’s true, obviously, I mean, I did – I was enraged, I did … sort of … you know, push her, I shoved her –’
‘Like you shoved her into the snow?’
‘The snow? What are you talking about? Please. No. That time, I pushed her legs –’
‘Why did you do that?’ Spencer interrupted.
‘Why? I already told you. She drove me crazy. I loved her and hated her. I understood why Albert would be smitten with her and hated her for it, I just wanted her to go away –’
‘Forever.’
‘Just go away!’ Conni cried. ‘I admit, it was dumb, I don’t know what got into me, but it’s true, I pushed her off the bridge to make her fall. She was drunk – it was likely she’d just fall herself someday.’
‘What happened?’ Spencer quietly asked.
‘What happened? What, didn’t Frankie tell you that part?’
Spencer said, ‘Obviously Kristina survived.’
‘Yeah, she survived,’ Conni said intensely. ‘I pushed her right near the foot of the bridge. I didn’t realize the slope would break her fall. She was pretty banged up and everything, she looked like a – like a –’
‘A pledge gone badly wrong,’ Spencer finished.
‘Something like that. But she was okay.’
Spencer scratched his head, nodding. ‘Conni, I don’t get something. You pushed her, you tried to kill her. Why would Kristina leave you any money?’
‘We made up, I apologized.’
‘How do you make up after something like that? How do you do it?’
‘I said it was an accident, and she, I think she was too drunk, she believed me. You just go on, pretending everything is okay, pretending nothing happened …’
‘Is that possible?’
‘We did it.’
‘Not well, I see,’ said Spencer.
Conni remained silent. Spencer watched her. ‘If you didn’t kill her, who did?’
‘How should I know? A crazy man. I don’t know. I wasn’t there.’
Spencer persisted, ‘It must’ve been hard for you with Albert. Lies can do that. Never knowing the truth can do that.’
‘No, you have no idea,’ Conni said. ‘This is such a small campus, and we were always together, we were such good friends. I trusted them so much, Kristina was a wonderful person, you know? I mean, how could she do that to me?’ Conni lowered her voice. ‘It took me a long time to even get suspicious.’
Spencer leaned closer to Conni and said, ‘Conni, who is Albert? What do you know about him? I tried to check out his background yesterday and had little luck. Did you know his infirmary emergency card has no emergency contacts on it? Just the name of a law firm here in town.’ Spencer sat back. ‘And when I called Clairton, Pennsylvania, to find a Maplethorpe, I was told there were no Maplethorpes in Clairton, Pennsylvania.’
Looking perplexed, Conni said, ‘Clairton, Pennsylvania?’
Spencer nodded, tapping on the table with his coffee spoon. ‘Yes. That’s where he told me he was from.’
Conni laughed. ‘He’s not from Clairton, Pennsylvania, he’s from Fort Worth, Texas. And he doesn’t have any family. He’s an orphan –’
Spencer jumped up, knocking over his chair and dropping his spoon. ‘Oh my God,’ he muttered. ‘Oh my God.’
Conni got up with him. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing, I gotta go, I’ll …’ He was already out the door and running to his car.
Spencer drove out onto Interstate 89, put on his police siren, and flew to Concord police headquarters, where Ed Landers worked. He asked Landers to show him the fingerprints from Kristina’s room and to accompany him to the basement, where the FBI data terminal was kept.
‘I’ve never scanned in anyone’s prints,’ Spencer said, panting, as if he had run to Concord. ‘Could you help me with that?’
‘Sure,’ said Landers. ‘I’m here to help. Is it the girl’s prints you’re interested in? I hear they’re going to arrest her.’
‘No, the guys’ prints. Albert Maplethorpe’s and Jim Shaw’s.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘That’s it,’ Spencer said, putting his hand on Ed’s back, trying to hurry him along downstairs.
‘Here, it’
s not so hard,’ Landers was saying when all Spencer wished was that Ed would get it done. ‘You put the picture of the prints facedown on this scanner, close the cover, push this green button –’
‘This one?’
‘That’s right.’ Landers smiled. ‘You’re getting the hang of it.’
Get on with it, get on with it, get on with it, Spencer thought, smiling politely, blood draining from his tense fingers.
‘We open up this scanning software, scale the photo of the prints. Is this sharp enough for you? Do you want them enlarged?’
Spencer nodded to everything.
‘Now we choose a print path, now … here we go.’
Spencer stopped listening and closed his eyes.
‘Now we wait a few minutes. Let’s sit down.’ Ed sat down in front of the monitor. Spencer sat down, and thought he wanted to bolt back up again, he willed himself to stay down. ‘It’ll come up in a minute,’ Ed said.
It was one of the longest minutes of Spencer’s life.
‘Okay, look here. The prints are in the machine. Now the computer wants to know if we want to search for possible matches.’
‘Say yes, of course.’
‘Of course. We press F5 for search, and wait.’
We sure wait a lot, Spencer thought.
The readout on the monitor said, Can you narrow the criteria?
‘What does that mean?’ said Spencer.
‘It means it wants something more specific. Maybe there is another print close to this one but it can’t be sure. Shall we say, male?’
‘By all means.’
Landers entered the data and waited. The same message for narrowing criteria came up.
‘Oh,’ said Spencer. ‘How often does that happen?’
‘Well, you have to be fingerprinted sometime in your life, like for citizenship or extensive traveling, diplomacy work, investment banking, and of course committing a federal offense. The last group is usually the first to be classified.’
‘Can you try all the categories?’
‘Of course. Let’s try male traveler.’
They waited. The basement reminded Spencer of the Dartmouth-Hitchcock morgue. But this wasn’t as clean and well-tended.
Now they had something. The hard drive cranked over and made some humming noises, then up came a photo of Jim Shaw, along with ten of his fingerprints and a short bio.
‘How’s that?’ Landers asked.
‘This is okay. Ed, can we scan in the other set of prints?’
‘Sure, bear with me.’
Spencer bore. His fingertips, white with strain, were pressing into his legs.
Ed scanned in the prints. ‘What exactly are you looking for?’
‘A name,’ replied Spencer. ‘Just a name.’
‘Is a name important?’
‘I don’t know,’ Spencer said in agitation. ‘Depends what it is.’
This time they didn’t have to wait so long. The computer cranked immediately, and on the screen appeared Albert’s face. Spencer glanced at the name under the photo and let out his breath.
The name did not read Albert Maplethorpe. It read Nathan Sinclair.
Spencer stood numbly behind Landers. He heard the hum of the computer, and a printer in another room. He heard people talking; eventually he saw Landers turning around.
‘Are you all right, Spence?’
Spencer came to. ‘Yes, yes, of course. I’m fine. Let me look at this some more.’ And he bent over the screen, trying to focus. The text was swimming in front of his eyes.
Nathan Sinclair had been arrested at age seventeen in Brooklyn Heights, New York, for juvenile delinquency. He and some friends got caught while bungling a convenience store robbery. He had served three months of a two-year sentence, and had been released on probation. According to police records, he had never reported to his probation officer, and, in fact, had never been heard from again.
‘God, what was this person doing in Krishna’s room?’ said Ed.
Spencer leaned away from the screen, away from Ed. His emotions were as high-pitched as Conni’s voice. ‘I don’t know, Ed. But this is what I needed. Could you print that?’
After he received a copy of the report on Nathan Sinclair, Spencer, clutching the manila envelope, walked out of the building.
He wanted to go home. To think that only four days ago, he had sat behind his desk at work, bored, restless, and frustrated because a college girl hadn’t called.
Four days.
Sometimes he didn’t leave his apartment for four days, doing nothing, feeling nothing. He ate – eating, now that must have been a treat! – he drank, he slept, he watched sports on TV, four days passed, and absolutely nothing happened.
Spencer drove slowly back to Hanover. It was dark again; another day without food. He made himself stop and go into Murphy’s and order a beer and a burger. He didn’t eat the burger, but the Molson’s tasted pretty good. He ordered another one. It was still early; the place was empty.
‘Looks like you got troubles, pal,’ said Marty, his old friend the bartender.
‘You could say troubles.’ Spencer smiled thinly. Nathan Sinclair rang through his ears.
‘Have something to do with that dead girl?’
‘Yeah. About everything.’
‘Well, you know – I’m sure you must – they made an arrest this afternoon. Incredible. Arrested some girl. Nobody can figure it out. I thought we were looking for a rapist. A girl. Can you believe it?’
‘Almost no,’ Spencer replied.
‘Apparently she’s guilty.’
‘Well, we don’t know that, do we? Let’s not jump to any conclusions.’
‘What do you mean? They wouldn’t have arrested her if they didn’t have enough evidence. They gotta have enough to go to the grand jury with, especially for murder. I can’t believe it.’
‘I almost can’t believe it myself.’ Spencer liked Marty, but tonight he wished Marty would just go away. ‘Marty, how do you know all this stuff about the grand jury? Are you a lawyer on the side or something?’
Marty waved him off. ‘Nah. What you see is what you get, Detective-Sergeant Tracy.’
Spencer sipped his beer.
‘I hear she’s not even denying it,’ Marty said, as if that closed his book on her guilt or innocence.
‘She does have the right to remain silent, you know,’ said Spencer.
‘Yeah, but I think she’s not opening her mouth because if she does, they’ll get a confession out of her.’
Spencer knew he should go to the station, but he wanted another drink. He wanted to sit quietly at his usual spot in the subdued bar and go to sleep.
He hoped it would all be over soon.
‘You really look like shit, pal. Even in this light.’
‘Thanks. You’re too kind.’ Spencer smiled.
‘Tracy, you know you’re always welcome in my bar, and I’m happy to see you. But go and fight crime.’
Before he left, Spencer took a long look at Marty and said, ‘You know what, Marty? One of these days I sure as hell wish you’d stop calling me Tracy.’
‘Ah, but Trace –’
‘I mean it, Marty. It pisses me off.’
Marty looked almost hurt. ‘Spencer, I’ve been calling you Tracy for five years.’
‘And it’s been pissing me off for five years, Marty,’ said Spencer, unsmiling and tired. ‘Just thought I’d tell you. Good night.’
Marty mumbled something.
Spencer walked slowly home to clear his head and change his clothes before heading down to headquarters.
Spencer knew he’d catch hell from the chief. He clutched the manila envelope tighter, turning the corner to Allen Street, slowly making his way home past Stinson’s, EBA, and the Dartmouth Music Shop.
It was almost too hard to be alone with the knowledge of Nathan Sinclair.
Oh, if only Conni had known. If only she’d known. She would have run from Kristina and Albert, screaming, and told Jim Shaw,
and he would have run screaming, too. As it was, Conni’s hatred had gotten the better of her, and for what? For who? Spencer was almost sure Constance Tobias had done away with the wrong person. As Ruth Ellis – the last woman to be hanged in Britain – had done, Conni should have dealt with the disease, not the symptom.
Going up the stairs and turning the key to his apartment, Spencer wished he had someone to go home to. For someone to listen to him and then say, this is where you’ve gone wrong, this is where you’re mistaken.
Secretly Spencer was afraid Will Baker was a better cop than he, because Will Baker had a wife. Will went home, and he talked about his day for ten minutes, and if there was something to add, Ginny Baker would add it, and then they would forget it and go on with their evening.
Spencer couldn’t go on with his evening. He could only go on with himself. Usually he could bear it, but there were times when he looked at his dark, empty apartment and the forces of universe would combine and stifle him. When he wished someone else would be angry for Kristina and at Conni, and at Nathan Sinclair. When someone else would be mad at the chief for chewing him out and calling in the henchmen.
When someone would be angry for him.
When someone would be anything for him.
Spencer dropped his keys on the little table and, out of habit, looked in his refrigerator. Nothing. It was six on Monday evening, and no one would be home later, or tonight. Or tomorrow morning. No one but himself, and tonight he just couldn’t stand himself anymore. He was sick of the sight of him.
He showered and changed, and then drove back to the station. He left Nathan Sinclair’s manila envelope on the kitchen table.
Spencer was unprepared for the pandemonium at the station.
The press was everywhere with their cameras and lights and insistent microphones that had a life all their own. How did everyone get here so quickly? Spencer wondered. There were TV cameras from a station in Oklahoma, and two journalists from the Los Angeles Times shoving their live mikes at him. He pushed past them, muttering no comment, no comment. He barely even heard their questions, because his own questions were screaming in his head.
The blue-and-red lights of the police sirens flashed. There was still snow on the ground, and it was very cold.
Spencer went straight to the chief’s office. Gallagher glared at Spencer as if he were mud.