No Sign of Murder Read online

  Which made me wonder if anyone had seen her.

  Among all the glitter, all the get-ups, all the milling, I wondered if my needle had somehow stood out in the hay. I had her picture, the clothed one, and I went to North Beach with it. The unclothed photo would have drawn more interest, especially in North Beach, but I doubt if it would have helped the case more than the clothed one. I approached merchants and residents, and tried to tell my story in the hopes that it would buy thirty seconds of thought, but thinking is a hard sell these days. A police badge probably would have held more weight than my business card, but maybe not. Foolishness is foolishness. New Year’s was six months past, and not a few people reminded me of that. No one remembered seeing Anita on the night of December thirty-first. I told them she was deaf, in the hopes her disability might have stood out, and might jar their memories, but it didn’t.

  I heard “sorry’s,” and “no’s.” A number of men appreciated Anita’s beauty, and I wished I had a dollar for every one that said, “Never saw her, don’t know her, but wish I did.” But those were the good answers compared to the mummer’s reception I too often faced. Most of those I stopped to ask wouldn’t even look at her picture—they just walked by me. It was hard for me to accept their indifference.

  A street person watched me get the brushoff, watched as someone paused the barest moment to hear me out before continuing on as if I weren’t there. He observed me, so I observed him. He was aged, but ageless, and had the look of a survivor. My discomfiture at not getting a response appeared to amuse him. To survive, he knew how to maintain his equanimity with rejection. He lived daily with refusal, with people who made a point of not noticing him. He was reclined next to a building in what could charitably be called a comfortable position. His legs, housed in dirty dungarees, blocked a good part of the sidewalk, but people managed to skirt by the obstacle without really seeing. A full brown bag also rested horizontally on the sidewalk. The contents of the bag had loosened his tongue. He was the first person to solicit my inquiry.

  “Whatcha looking for?”

  I approached him without much hope.

  “Missing girl,” I said. “Been missing since December thirty-first. She might have been part of the New Year’s street celebration around here.”

  “Lemme see.”

  He waved his hands, and I was reluctant to put a clean picture into fingers that were waving flags of nicotine and grime. But I got by that prejudice. There were other pictures, and this was a man who wanted to help. He didn’t have anything, but he still wanted to help.

  He squinted, the red rims of his eyes closing into what looked like an opened scab. He held the picture for a long time. I wondered what kind of memories it brought back. He gave back the picture reluctantly, like he would a bottle with a swallow left.

  “Nope,” he said. “Never saw her.”

  I thanked him, and was ready to walk on, when the honk of another wild goose sounded in my head. Winter’s law is that when you pursue futility, you may as well pursue it fully.

  “How’s your bottle doing?” I asked.

  The man was immediately suspicious, good will at an end. “Empty,” he said.

  I waved a twenty. “Help me out and I’ll give you money for a refill.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Talk to the street people around here. Get them to come talk with me. Tell them a man’s asking questions. Tell them I’ll take everybody for coffee and doughnuts.”

  “Give me the money and I’ll do it.”

  I committed a federal crime by ripping the bill in half. “You get the other half when you return.”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said. He picked up his bottle, threw it in his coat, and walked away more quickly than I would have guessed possible. I listened to his empty bottle slosh.

  The longer I waited, the more stupid I felt. I had worked with the homeless on previous cases, and the results were rarely satisfactory. Poverty is debilitating enough, and many of the homeless have to deal with mental illness and substance abuse.

  But still I stood. There was a dinner waiting for me, but I knew it wouldn’t settle as well without one last throw of the dice. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty, then half an hour. If Jackson hadn’t already been decapitated, I would have accepted the fact that I was stood up, and even knowing that, I was almost ready to give up my vigil. Then they appeared, as rag-a-tag an assemblage as the City could muster. Vincent might have done justice to the painting.

  There were seven of them, and from the looks on the faces of observers, the zombies were walking the streets. I approached the group.

  “See,” said my messenger, “I told you he’d be here.”

  He waved his hand at me, ready for a paper bonding, but I pretended ignorance, and didn’t have to pretend suspicion. The group massed around me.

  “I have some questions I’d like to ask you,” I said.

  “Where’s the wine?” someone asked.

  I looked at the messenger, who looked away and mumbled something. “I only promised coffee and doughnuts,” I said, an announcement that was met with general disgust. “But,” I added, “seeing it’s getting a little nippy, how about I get a couple bottles of brandy to add to our coffee?” This announcement was better received.

  Finding the brandy was easier than getting the coffee. I directed my troop to a coffee shop, and was met at the door by the manager.

  “No way,” he said.

  I could have argued the point, could have pointed out that we were paying customers, but in his own way he was right. The group of us probably would have curdled the café au lait of all his patrons. And I wasn’t too keen on being in an enclosed space with my newfound friends, either.

  “Seven coffees to go,” I said, “and fourteen pastries.”

  I’ve never had such prompt service. If you’re ever in a rush, just bring along a bunch of the homeless. I followed the group to a nearby alleyway, and there made generous with the brandy. A few managed to spill most of their coffee before I began my pour.

  They finished their pastries and coffee quickly, hungry dogs at a plate, and assembled their cups to finish off the bottles. The preliminaries taken care of, they were more disposed toward talk. I passed around Anita’s picture, and asked everyone to look at it carefully. I told them about her deafness, and asked them to think back to New Year’s. The date was lucky for me. New Year’s is usually the major holiday for the homeless. Drinks are easier to cadge, and people are more inclined to open their wallets. Everybody comes to their turf to get drunk, and usually an extra bottle or two finds its way to the hands of the regulars.

  Most of them remembered New Year’s. They remembered getting a better bottle of booze than usual, remembered getting more free drinks. But they didn’t remember Anita, or didn’t think they did.

  “Saw some pretty girls that night,” said one, “all dressed up, real pretty. But don’t remember that one.”

  They all agreed to that refrain. Everyone except the one they called Shorty, a man who lived down to his name. “I seen her,” he said, but even he didn’t sound like he believed himself.

  “I think I seen her,” he said, and there were a few coughs, and a few laughs.

  In each strata of society there is a pecking order. The term comes from hens in the hen house. They all know who they can peck, and who can peck them. The alpha hen can peck everyone, and not get pecked by any. Then there is the poor omega hen, the hen that everyone pecks with impunity, knowing they won’t get pecked back. Even among the so-called riff raff there is a hierarchy, and Shorty was definitely at the bottom rung. I felt sorry for him, and tried to act like I believed him, even if I didn’t.

  “What do you remember?” I asked.

  “The girl,” he said.

  A few derisive remarks were mouthed, a few people said I was stupid to even be listening.

  “What was she wearing?”

  “A pretty dress.”

  There were a few mo
re laughs.

  “Do you remember the color?”

  “No.”

  “Was she with anyone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Just about everyone was laughing now.

  “Why’d you notice her? Was she using sign language? Doing something out of the ordinary?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Shorty didn’t like the laughter. He had heard too much in his time. His peers had dropped him below the dog droppings. He kicked his foot around the ground, shuffling some garbage from an overflowing dumpster. Then his foot stopped moving, and his head raised again.

  “Her ear,” he said triumphantly.

  “You noticed her hearing aid?”

  “No. Her ear. It was all bandaged. I heard some people ask her about it, but she didn’t say nothing.”

  “Her ear was bandaged?”

  Shorty nodded. He looked proud, looked around to everyone else. They were quiet now, even a bit surprised. I decided not to put any doubt on my face, decided to let Shorty have a moment of glory. I solemnly thanked everyone, and Shorty in particular. They disbanded one by one, scuttling out and away. I was left with my messenger. I handed him the remaining half of the bill. He took it without thanks, and followed the path of his brethren.

  Ellen met me at her door. She looked like she was ready to hug me, but I stopped her with a raised hand. Who said I didn’t know sign language?

  “I definitely need a shower,” I said. “I need one so much I wouldn’t want to hug anyone who hugged me.”

  That made her laugh. She led me to the shower, showed me where the towels were, then lingered around the bathroom. She didn’t pretend to have something else to do, just smiled and watched me strip, and looked ready to apply the soap at the least encouragement.

  I always take short showers. I don’t like to waste the water or the time. But I indulged myself a little longer than usual, soaked away a day of Kevin Bateson, and Vanessa Darling, and Shorty. The shower pulsed and I purred. When I finished, I felt human again.

  Ellen was waiting with a towel. “Is it safe to hug you now?” she asked. I shook some water at her, and she rubbed me down. Then she led me to her bedroom.

  “It’s definitely all right to hug me now,” I said.

  We hugged for a long time, and then she made me feel more than human, which is a good feeling indeed. Sometime that night we remembered to eat our chicken sandwiches. After that, we got around to our before-dinner drinks after dinner.

  “We never go about things in the usual way,” I said.

  “Are you complaining?”

  “No.”

  We talked about nothing and everything. I heard about her parents and her brother. Learned she liked dogs, but that her lease forbade her having one. She told me about getting a new commission for a quilt, and I found myself telling her some things, also. I told her about my work, and even about my life before investigation. I knew better than to mention the current case. Ellen was still jealous of Anita. She would be jealous until she went to her grave, and jealous even if Anita was already in hers.

  We made love again. It was like the wine we had been drinking, gentle, smooth, and warming. When we finished, we were both ready for sleep.

  “Don’t leave this time without kissing me,” she said.

  “I won’t,” I said, “I promise.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  But my dreams weren’t so sweet. I awoke around four, shouting, I think, Anita’s name. She wouldn’t let me go during the day, and now she controlled my nights. It was the same dream as before, the same nightmare.

  Ellen’s back was turned to me. I hadn’t awakened her. I took a few deep breaths, thought about my dream, and remembered the frustration of not being able to communicate with Anita.

  “It’s only a dream,” I told myself, but it was a dream that kept me up thinking. The case was there whether my eyes were open or closed. The images didn’t stop, the pictures of naked Anita, Anita of the glazed eyes and distorted hands. And there were Shorty’s words I kept hearing: “Her ear. It was all bandaged.”

  I got up with the sun and dressed. I kissed Ellen and she stirred. “It’s too early,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I whispered back.

  My lips reassured her again. She read them like lips should be read.

  15

  I TOOK THE BAY Bridge back into the City. San Franciscans are chauvinistic about their home, worse than Parisians or New Yorkers. Mencken wrote about visiting San Francisco, and explained in a sentence what the City is all about: “What fetched me instantly was the subtle but unmistakable sense of escape from the United States.” To a resident, there’s San Francisco, and then there’s a world out there. In that order. And never the twain should meet.

  I gave short shrift to my morning ritual of the Chronicle and Miss Tuntland. For a while I looked at the photos of the nude but lifeless Anita. There wasn’t anything prurient in my interest, or at least not much. The pictures bothered me even if I didn’t know why. Ten minutes produced no revelations, and I finally put them aside.

  A business suit was in order for the day, a conservative business suit with undertaker appeal. I made a few calls, then picked out some appropriate business cards. A card legitimizes some people. They live to hand out their two-by-three-and-one-halfs, and I always accept their offering.

  Today I was Peter Brooks, CPA. I worked for No More Tears Accounting. I didn’t remember Mr. Brooks, but if he thought up the firm’s name, maybe it was a memory I suppressed.

  I drove over to the Berkeley Hills and scouted out the hospitals nearest to the Gorilla Project. The proximity winner wasn’t a hospital, but a quick-care medical center, the kind that dealt with stitches, sore throats, and less advanced cases of syphilis. I took myself and my gray suit to the desk, and asked whom I might talk to about an accounting question. I was directed to Miss Phelps and an office in the back.

  Miss Phelps was a thirtyish veteran of many invoice questions. I presented my card and said good-bye to Peter Brooks. There were four other CPA’s in my wallet behind him.

  “Good morning,” I said, “I’m Peter Brooks. I work for Dr. Harrison and the Gorilla Project, and he asked me to look into something for him.”

  Miss Phelps was all patient boredom.

  “We’ve been getting invoices from your establishment for a patient admitted on December thirty-first. Our records show we paid that bill.”

  Miss Phelps raised one eyebrow. “That’s unusual,” she said. “We usually require payment on the premises. Our policy is to not even bill for insurance. We put that responsibility on the individual who’s being treated.”

  I tilted my head in mock surprise, and added a little eye movement which was supposed to represent accounting umbrage. “Then I don’t understand . . . ” I said.

  “Do you have one of the billings with you?”

  “No. Dr. Harrison just told me about them over the phone. And as I was driving by . . . ”

  “Why don’t we look it up then?”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Do you know the name of the patient?”

  “Yes. Anita Walters.”

  “And that was on December thirty-first?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman entered some information on her computer. She frowned, which made me frown, and then punched a few more keys.

  “I don’t understand this,” she said.

  I readied myself for another explanation.

  “This shows that the bill was paid in full on December thirty-first.”

  Miss Phelps provided me with a computer printout. Without a medical degree I translated the treatment: 36 stitches had been needed to treat Anita Walters’s lacerated external left ear. She had been admitted at five o’clock. Payment by check had been made at seven-thirty by a Dr. William Henry Harrison.

  There was a lot to think about on my way to the Gorilla Project. I made one stop, and one call, befo
re I pulled the sedan up to the gate. I didn’t feel any better for my call. It made me suspect, just a little more, that Dr. Harrison was a murderer.

  I didn’t want to think so. I wanted to be wrong. Dr. Harrison was the Dr. Doolittle of the media. He walked with his animals, and more amazingly, he talked with the animals. His obvious love for his furry charges was well reported. How far his devotion had taken him was what I wondered.

  I drove up the graveled road and parked next to the ranch house. When I had asked Joseph what happened to Anita, he had stared out to the bamboo field. That’s where I walked. The bamboo shoots were up to my waist. I wondered about their fertilizer, and about a lot of things as I stood and looked around.

  Company came in less than five minutes. It was the same young man who had admonished me for interfering with Joseph’s lessons the week before. He had the same complaint this time. He said that Joseph was on his tire looking at me, and that I had to go inside the house if he was to continue with his lessons. I ignored him for a few seconds, and took that time to wave to Joseph. I could see the window, but not him. It was too dark. But I could feel his presence.

  The young man was getting very exasperated. I finally turned to him. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I won’t be leaving this field until Dr. Harrison comes out to talk with me.”

  The young man looked at me as if I were crazy—the young man who taught gorillas their ABCs.

  “Tell Dr. Harrison that Stuart Winter, and Anita Walters, are waiting for him.”

  The message brought Harrison out to the bamboo field. He came out too quickly, and too ready to bluster. His face was flushed and his index finger was already pointing. I interrupted his threats before they began.