Final Exam: A Legal Thriller (66 page)

Thirty minutes later, the man rose and moved to the door, cutting the lights before opening it.
 
He peered out from behind the door.
 
Seeing nothing, he moved out into the hallway and headed up the stairs, slowly and deliberately.
 
He stayed to the right side, near the wall, where the stairs seemed to creek less.
 
When he reached the landing 24 steps later, he took a quick glance to the left and then back to the right, where light leaked out of a room at the end of a long hallway.
 
The smell of cigarettes grew stronger the closer he got to the end of the hall, a door to a bedroom on the left standing half-open.

When he reached the doorway, the man paused and stood just out of view of the inside, listening for the sounds of movement.
 
All he could hear was the television, an infomercial for a chicken fryer was playing.
 
He stepped inside and looked around.
 
To his right, was the main part of the bedroom, complete with master bath.
 
The sitting area was straight ahead and around the corner to the left.
 
The bedroom looked as though it hadn’t been picked up in weeks.
 
The bed stood unmade, blankets pulled to the floor, and clothes were strewn everywhere.
 
Two empty jugs of vodka sat on a nearby dresser.
 
The room smelled strongly of cigarettes, mixed with spilled vodka and body odor.

The man took several steps into the room, far enough to see the back of the television in the sitting room, and put his right hand in the pocket of his jacket as he walked.
 
He listened again.
 
Still nothing but the television.
 
He moved silently to the doorway and looked inside.
 
Lindsay appeared to have fallen asleep on a small, worn loveseat, once a blue plaid and now a dirty grey, with collapsed cushions and cigarette burns throughout.
 
Three more empty jugs of vodka and four dirty glasses sat on a nearby coffee table.
 
He wore gray sweatpants, a pale blue golf shirt and no socks.
 
His salt and pepper hair was wild and uncombed.
 
He looked like he hadn’t bathed in days.

The man took a deep breath and sighed, before reaching around and turning off the television with his left hand, his right hand remaining in his pocket.
 
The silence seemed to startle Lindsay awake and he gradually began to come around.
 
Through the haze of sleep and alcohol, a vague glimmer of recognition crossed his features.
 
“
Wha
?
 
Who’s that?” he stammered trying to sit up.
 
“What?
 
Is that you?
 
What are you
doin
’ here?”

The man smiled.
 
“How are you, Pat?
 
It’s been a long time.
 
Too long.
 
It’s good to see you.”
 
The man spoke calmly in a very quiet voice.
 
“When no one answered the bell I let myself in.
 
Hope you don’t mind.
 
Don’t you remember our appointment?
 
I’m sorry I’m a little late.
 
Traffic.”

Lindsay smiled and blinked at his visitor, trying to
will
himself to remember, but then seemed to grow confused.
 
“I don’t quite, well, you know, I guess I’d forgotten that you were coming.”
 
He looked at himself, growing a little embarrassed.
 
“I would’ve gotten cleaned up or something.
 
Sorry.”

The man smiled a kind smile.
 
“That’s okay, Pat,” he said standing very still.
 
“You look comfortable.
 
A man should look comfortable in his own home.
 
There’s nothing wrong with that.
 
I know you’ve had a lot on your mind.”
 
The man was prepared for this.
 
“You remember, I was coming by to meet with you about a new case.”
 
The man nodded.

This seemed to put Lindsay at ease somewhat.
 
He nodded back, even though he didn’t know what the man was talking about.
 
“That’s right,” he said.
 
“Tell me again.
 
What’s the case about?”

“It’s a murder case.
 
But we’ll get around to all that.”
 
The man nodded in the direction of the empty bottles.
 
“You look like you’ve got some dead soldiers there.
 
I could go for a drink.
 
Do you have a fresh bottle downstairs?
 
A vodka
on the rocks might hit the spot about now.
 
What do you say?
 
Want to have a quick one with an old friend?”

Lindsay brightened.
 
“Why sure.
 
Sounds like a great idea.
 
I think I’ve got a couple of bottles downstairs in the kitchen.
 
I sent my girl, you know, the maid, out to get a couple of bottles.
 
I was thinking of having a party, you know.
 
She usually leaves food and stuff on the counter in the kitchen.”

The man smiled again, his right hand still in his pocket.
 
“Then it’s a plan,” he said.
 
“Why don’t we head down to the kitchen?
 
We’ll talk downstairs over a drink.”
 
Even though he was still wearing gloves, the man was careful not to touch anything.

Lindsay struggled to his feet.
 
He had probably gained at least fifty pounds since the man had last seen him and he hadn’t looked very good even then.
 
Now he looked bloated and red-faced, a stroke waiting to happen.
 
But the man didn’t want to wait.
 
Lindsay looked outside, suddenly very aware of his surroundings.
 
“Hey,” he said following the man through the bedroom, “what time is it anyway?
 
It’s late, isn’t it?”

The man smiled like a doctor trying to reassure a small child getting his tonsils checked for the first time.
 
“Yes, it is late.
 
Sorry about that.
 
I just got in from Europe and my flight was delayed.
 
Meeting with your new client.
 
I was supposed to be here a couple of hours ago.
 
You must’ve dozed off waiting for me.
 
That’s why you didn’t hear the door.
 
That’s okay, I’ll make it up to you.
 
I promise.”

Lindsay didn’t remember any of this, but went along.
 
Sometimes he forgot things, he knew, and he had to cover for it.
 
Maybe he should cut back on his drinking.
 
Maybe he’d be busier with this new case.
 
That would be a good thing.
 
He could get himself in shape again.
 
He took another look at the man as they made their way slowly down the hallway toward the stairs, craning to get a better look at the man without being too obvious about it.
 
It was tough because the man’s face was largely in the shadows.
 
The man noticed, but said nothing.
 
“You look different,” Lindsay said sounding a bit befuddled.
 
“I can’t place it.”

The man laughed a jocular laugh.
 
“I’ve lost a little weight since you’ve seen me last.
 
You know, clean living and exercise.”
 
He rubbed his chin with a gloved hand.
 
“That, and I’ve got this beard now.”

Both men laughed now.
 
“That must be it,” Lindsay agreed.
 
“Maybe I’ll try that exercise thing.
 
I’m too old an Irishman to try clean living.”
 
They laughed again.

By now they had reached the landing, Lindsay trailing a little behind.
 
The man waved his arm and made a big display out of looking down at the foyer.
 
“You’ve got quite a house here, Pat,” the man said.
 
“You should be quite proud.
 
The well-earned fruits of your labors.”

Lindsay made a show of being modest.
 
“Thanks, I appreciate that, but I’ve let the place go a little bit,” he said understating the obvious.
 
“I need to spruce things up.
 
Maybe after we’re done with this case you’re here about.”
 
He gestured toward the stairs.
 
“Shall we?”

The man nodded.
 
“After you,” he said, placing his left hand on Lindsay’s back in what seemed to be a friendly gesture.
 
But just as Lindsay took the first step down the stairs, the man quickly moved closer to him, turned and placed his right leg in front of Lindsay’s, while at the same time pushing Lindsay hard in the back toward the stairs.

Lindsay lost his balance, said, “Ugh,” and tumbled over the man’s leg down the steps.
 
He struggled to catch himself, but in his physical condition, really had no chance.
 
He rolled down, picking up steam as he went.
 
About a quarter of the way down, just as the stairs begin to curve to the right, Lindsay’s head struck the wall hard on the left side, the force of which drove him back toward the iron rails on the right, where he scraped along while somersaulting around the curve, arms and legs flopping like a fish on the deck of a boat.
 
Lindsay briefly disappeared from view and the man moved over to his right to look down over the rail and get a better vantage point.
 
Lindsay appeared to be tumbling in slow-motion now, head over heels, as he headed for the bottom.
 
The man heard the sound of glass breaking just as Lindsay reached the bottom of the stairs, his head bouncing off of the tile floor with a crack.
 
Then all was silent.

The man stood looking down over the railing into the dark foyer.
 
He could see Lindsay’s body through the iron rails and he watched it for a moment waiting for signs of life.
 
There were none.
 
Lindsay didn’t move.
 
He took a deep breath, let it out and nodded, then slowly descended the stairs.
 
He saw a smear of blood on the left wall where Lindsay’s head had struck it and carefully navigated the rest of the stairs so as to make sure there would be no evidence of his presence in the house this evening.
 
As he rounded the final curve of the stairs, Lindsay’s body came into full view.
 
He was more or less face down in a semi-fetal position, his head perched awkwardly at the bottom, his legs splayed out behind him pointing back up the stairs.
 
He held the remnants of a broken tumbler in his left hand.

The man carefully stepped around the body, and hopped over the final two steps, which were littered with parts of the broken glass and a slowly expanding pool of blood.
 
He could tell instantly from the angle of Lindsay’s head that he had broken his neck in the fall and was now very much dead.
 
Nevertheless, he removed the glove from his left hand and checked Lindsay’s pulse with the knuckles of his forefinger and middle finger.
 
It was as he thought.
 
Lindsay was gone.
 
He studied the body for several moments, then whispered, “Sorry, Pat, I didn’t have a choice.
 
It’s probably better this way.
 
You’ll have one last moment in the sun.
 
At least I gave you that.
 
Merry Christmas.”
 
Then the man turned toward the kitchen and left the same way he came.

2

The man adjusted the rearview mirror of the Camry and looked at his face.
 
Did he look like a killer?
 
He wasn’t sure.
 
What did a killer look like?
 
Not like him, he thought, at least not yet.
 
He called himself Rich and that’s what his driver’s license, insurance card and Social Security card said as well since money can buy almost anything.
 
He was still trying to get used to people calling him that though.
 
He knew what at least one killer looked like, and that man got away with it.
 
Would he get away with it too?
 
He had to.
 
After all, he was a whole lot smarter than the actor.
 
But the actor was walking around free, just like the rest of the innocent people, flaunting his guilt in the faces of his victims’ families.
 
At least everyone knew the actor was really guilty.
 
On the other hand, if things went as planned, no one would ever know that Rich was guilty of anything, anything like this anyway.
 
His task was a lot more complicated than just one night of rage.
 
He looked at himself again for a long moment.
 
No, he didn’t look like a killer.
 
But maybe that was a good thing.
 
Maybe if he didn’t look like a killer, then killing would be just that much easier.
 
No, better to look like a normal guy… harmless… safe… a father… well, maybe a grandfather.
 
Either one, just not a killer.
 
His wife had always told him that he looked a little
stern, that
he didn’t smile enough.
 
Once, she had even accused him of scaring the children when they were trick-or-treating on Halloween.
 
All he did was answer the door and give them candy, for crying out loud.