John Goldbach - The Devil and the Detective

Crime is law. Law is crime. That much is obvious. Interpret it however you like but it still holds.

Enough abstraction. Time for the case.

The phone call came in the late evening and the woman on the other end of the line was crying.

Mr. James, she said.

Yes, I said.

I need your help, she said. My husband. Hes been murdered.

How did you get my number?

Martin Bouvert. My lawyer. He gave it to me. She started weeping. Mr. James, please. I need your help. Hes been stabbed in the chest. Geralds been stabbed in the chest!

Calm down, maam. I dont even know your name.

Elaine, she said. Elaine Andrews.

Although it was late I was awake, or somewhat awake. Id been reading a book on the couch and drinking whiskies. I was tired and groggy but still awake.

Have you called the police, Mrs. Andrews? Wheres your husband?

Yes Ive called the police and my husbands in the living room, with a knife in his chest Hes soaked in blood

When did you find him?

Just now, when I woke up. When I saw he wasnt in bed I called out to him and there wasnt an answer so I went to go look for him and when I found him he was downstairs in the living room, laid out on the couch, with a knife in his chest!

Where do you live?

Tower Street, 19 Tower Street. Please, come soon.

I will, Mrs. Andrews, but Id like to ask you one more question

Yes

Why have you asked me to come so quickly? I mean, you havent even talked to the police, or at least they havent shown up at your home yet So why call me immediately?

I called the police first, and then my lawyer, and he told me to call a private detective. He gave me your number. He said youd be discreet.

Are there things we need to be discreet about?

He just seemed to think it was a good idea. Thats the doorbell, she said. Probably the police. Come soon please

After she hung up her phone I stood with mine still in my hand, listening to the dead line. I put the phone back on its mount and sat down on the couch and drank my drink. I wasnt sure why she was calling me, a private detective, before the police although useless for anything other than exerting unnecessary force even had a crack at the case. Somethings fishy, I thought, without a doubt. Her lawyer was overly cautious, I thought, sitting on the couch, whisky in hand, contemplating the case. The case of Mr. Gerald Andrews. Gerald Andrews, with his wife, Elaine Andrews, and a knife in his chest. Their names were so boring, so commonplace as to seem improbable. At the very least, I thought, groggy from the drink, Mr. Gerald Andrewss death, whether caused by murder or suicide or some freak accident, would bring considerable excitement to Mrs. Elaine Andrewss life. Elaine Andrews, who is this woman? I wondered, while sitting on the couch, shortly after she called me, shortly after the expiration of her husband, Gerald Andrews. They both had old peoples names, but Elaine Andrewss voice sounded young, or at least not old. Under forty, I suspected, but Im often wrong when it comes to guessing peoples ages, especially over the telephone. There are a lot of things I get wrong when it comes to guesswork. I observe, and then I come to a conclusion, if theres a conclusion to come to, which more often than not there isnt. A lot remains unknown. Things change while you look at them. I better get dressed, I thought, sitting on the couch, so I finished my drink and took a shower.

The water was hot, as always in my building, and the bathroom filled with steam. I stood in the shower, under the hot water, trying to sober up a little, thinking of Elaine Andrews. There was something strange about her voice. She sounded young, and maybe didnt sound sad, though she was crying, crying considerably, and she sounded scared. Of course she sounded scared, I thought, shed just found her husband with a knife protruding from his chest on their chesterfield. Usually I wouldve thought couch, I thought, and wasnt that the word Mrs. Andrews, Elaine Andrews, used when she called? Didnt she say couch, I found my husband on the couch with a knife in his chest? Im sure thats what she said, I thought, standing in the shower, in the steam-filled washroom, under extremely hot water. Her voice sounded strange. Young, quite young, under forty, but perhaps under thirty, though I wasnt sure. Perhaps her voice sounded young because she was crying. Crying tends to be something young people do, or at least hysterical crying older people dont cry hysterically, I thought. Babies cry hysterically, of course, because they are babies and not yet resigned to this world. Teenage girls, too, cry hysterically, though older people dont, I thought, or at least thats what Id observed over the years, the years of my life, which arent many, when considering the history of human life, so perhaps Im just inexperienced when it comes to the hysterical tears of old people. Old people, the ones with dementia, them I could see crying hysterically, I thought, standing in the hot water of the shower. Mrs. Andrews, however, didnt sound old; on the contrary, she sounded young she sounded young and sexy. Why sexy? What led me to believe she was sexy? Perhaps she wasnt, though something in her voice sounded sexy. Desperation? Was desperation sexy? Usually not, I thought. When a man seems desperate, desperate to get laid, for instance, thats when it never happens, unless of course hes willing to pay, but thats different. To be fair, its not that sexy when a woman is desperate, or overly desperate, either but Mrs. Andrewss desperation was different. She was desperate for me to help her. She was desperate for my services. She sounded like perhaps I could help her, that perhaps I was the only one who could, and maybe thats what I found sexy. Maybe she was still in her nightgown, I thought, or maybe thats what made me think she was so sexy sounding, that is to say, the possibility that she was still in her nightgown when she called. Or a silk robe, with nothing on underneath. But the police were on their way. Shed dress for the police, I thought. But when she found the body, the dead body of her husband, after shed called out to him from their bed in the night, she was most likely scantily clad, perhaps even totally nude. This young woman was perhaps totally nude, I thought while showering, when she found her husband laid out on the couch with a knife protruding from his chest. Or at least she was probably totally nude before finding him, when she was alone in bed. I thought about this for a few more minutes while I finished my shower.

When my cab pulled up near Mrs. Elaine Andrewss house formerly Mr. Gerald Andrewss house, too there were two police cars in the driveway: one a black-and-white squad car, the other a dark blue unmarked car of the same make and model. Mrs. Elaine Andrews, Elaine Andrews, Elaine, was standing on the porch, crying, dressed, wearing a tan raincoat. It looked like she was giving a uniformed officer her statement. She didnt see me right away, which was for the best. It gave me an opportunity to appraise the situation, to get a good look at the scene and observe everything before the knowledge of my presence corrupted things as they were. Elaine sniffled into a handkerchief while looking down at her shoes. The uniformed officer took notes in his notepad something I never do till afterward while she stood there crying; it didnt look like she was saying much. Nevertheless, he kept scribbling away, taking notes in situ. Perhaps, I thought, he wasnt only recording what she was saying; perhaps he was writing about what he was thinking about what she was saying, or speculating on why she wasnt saying anything when she wasnt saying anything, and when she was talking perhaps he was writing that down, too: