Silent Witness (11 page)

‘Yes,' Father Quinn said softly, ‘I know. And that in itself was a sin.'

Tony felt himself tremble. The priest's voice became lower. ‘You haven't told me how she died. Only that you caused it.'

Tony closed his eyes. ‘After we made love, I wanted her again. I waited in Taylor Park for her to sneak back out. When she didn't come, I went to look for her. I found her in her own backyard, murdered.' Tears came to his eyes once more. ‘I know that she died in pain. That she would never have been there except that I wanted her. That she died because of me.'

There was a long silence. Then the priest asked, ‘Is there more you need to say?'

It was a long time before Tony could speak. ‘She died after we made love, Father. I need to believe . . .'

The priest bent forward, his voice parched. ‘You wish to know what has happened to her soul.'

‘Yes.'

For a moment, Father Quinn was quiet. ‘But you cannot know,' he said at last.

Tony felt sick. He had learned the dogma from his own parents: that non-Catholics, let alone a girl who died in sin, could not reasonably hope for salvation. ‘But our doctrine is changing. . . .'

‘Perhaps. But not, I think, for this.'

In bottomless grief, Tony covered his face. ‘Please, Father . . .'

More gently, the priest said, ‘I cannot tell you what is not so, even for the sake of a poor dead girl for whom your acts had consequences, and whose salvation is now between her and God. You may come here only to confess your own sins and to make penance for the sake of your own immortal soul.' His voice hardened. ‘So I must ask you, have you told me everything . . . ?'

‘
Yes
,' Tony said with sudden passion. ‘Father, forgive me, for I committed a mortal sin and sent a girl I loved to Hell for it.'

‘
Listen to me
.' The priest's voice rose. ‘You are speaking not to me but to God, the ultimate judge, and there is no statute of limitations on eternity. He can grant absolution only to you, and only for the sins you have confessed to Him. Are there any others . . . ?'

‘I didn't kill her, Father. I just sent her to Hell.' Tony felt himself fill with a hopelessness and fury he had never felt before. ‘You can absolve me now. Make me feel better. . . .'

Behind the screen was a sharp intake of breath. ‘You're in an emotional state, my son. Maybe you should consider this. . . .'

With a force of its own, torment jerked Tony from his chair. ‘Maybe I should go to Hell with Alison. That way she'll have company. . . .'

‘Anthony,' the priest cried out, ‘this is my obligation to you. Without absolution, you cannot receive Communion. It's
you
I want to help. . . .'

‘You can't, Father. Not in this life.'

Blind with despair and sleeplessness and abandonment, Tony Lord turned and walked away from his church.

A little past five o'clock, sitting alone in the basement, Tony heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

For a moment, Sam and Sue stood in the dim light. Then Sue hurried to where Tony sat, hugging him around the neck. ‘Tony, I'm so sorry. . . .'

Eyes shut, Tony put his arms around her. For a long moment, he held her like that, oblivious to anything except relief at seeing her, the comfort of this sudden warmth. ‘I'm so damn glad that you guys came. . . .'

She pressed her cheek against his forehead, then stepped back. Tony stood, embracing Sam. No one needed to talk.

After a time, Sam and Sue sat on the plaid couch, feet planted on the linoleum. Tony did not ask where they had been; in his charcoal suit, Sam looked awkward and ill at ease; Sue's somber navy outfit was one she wore only to church. Stripped of her vivacity, Sue looked smaller. Softly, Tony asked her, ‘How was it?'

Sue seemed to consider what answer to give. ‘Hard,' she said at length. ‘Alison's father tried to speak, and couldn't. Her mother looked like someone else.' For a moment, she stared at the gray linoleum. ‘I'm glad that you weren't there.'

‘I wanted to be, Sue. Their minister told me not to.'

Sue looked up at him. ‘I know.'

The simple phrase resonated with unspoken meaning. Steeling himself, Tony asked, ‘People think I killed her, don't they?'

Sue did not flinch. ‘People weren't talking much,' she answered, then seemed to decide that this was not enough for a friend. ‘The ones who know you don't think that. I guess some people don't know what to think. I mean, it was just last Friday. . . .'

‘It's unbelievable.' Sam broke in, and Tony saw that his eyes were suddenly moist. ‘I keep thinking about that night. That we were at the maple grove, safe, while this was happening to you. That if I'd just made you two come with us, it never
would
have happened. . . .'

Sue gave him a look of silent remonstrance. But it did not matter: for hours on end, Tony had imagined himself and Alison safe in a parked car with these friends. So recently, he thought, there had been four of them; without Alison, it seemed that the organism that had been two couples had been maimed beyond healing.

‘It's like a dream,' Tony said at last. ‘Like maybe tomorrow I can talk to her about it . . .'

Sam folded his hands in front of him. At length, he said, ‘The papers say you told the cops you found her like that. . . .'

Tony touched his eyes. ‘Yeah.'

‘Was she . . . dead?'

‘Yes.'

Sam watched him, hesitant. ‘The cops came out to see me, Tony.'

Tony felt leaden. ‘What did they want?'

‘It was mostly about what happened that night, whose idea it was for us to split up.' Sam fixed Tony with his clear blue eyes. ‘That prick Dana asked me if you two ever fought. I told him never.'

Tony exhaled. ‘They know better, Sam.'

Slowly, Sue nodded. ‘They talked to me too. They wanted to know if Alison ever confided in me about your problems.'

Tony reddened. ‘Did she?'

‘Yes.'

Shame made Tony silent: Sue must know how much of that was about whether Alison would sleep with him. He could not bring himself to ask what Alison had said about him, or what Sue had told the police. Then Sue said quietly, ‘It's okay, Tony. It's confusing for women, that's all. She said you were never mean about it.'

Tony could think of nothing to say. ‘Is there any way
you
can help things?' Sam asked. ‘Like, did you see anyone?'

Tony touched the bridge of his nose. ‘I
heard
someone in the park, I think running away from Alison's body. It was too dark to see him.'

‘That's all?'

‘Pretty much.' Tony drew a breath. ‘After that, I found her.'

Sam leaned forward. ‘Look, Tony, maybe
we
can help you. It could be rough for you around school for a while. If Sue and I know what you told the cops, we can explain things, tell everyone your side of it. This can't be as bad as the papers made it out.'

There had been much more talk, Tony realized, than Sue had wished to say. But he should have expected this in Lake City: there was never an unwed girl whose pregnancy was not followed avidly, to the moment of delivery, or whose prior ‘affairs' – swollen in numbers by her supposed teenage lovers – were not recounted by her peers. How much more, then, for a murder. All at once, Tony saw that his weakness was that the folk opinion of the town had rewarded him until now; aware of his own innocence, he had imagined that this goodwill was his by right. Belatedly, he recalled Saul Ravin's warning.

‘I'm not sure you guys can help me.' Tony paused, reluctant to finish. ‘At least my lawyer thinks you can't.'

Sam's eyes narrowed. ‘Why not?'

‘He says I shouldn't talk to anyone. Even though I'm innocent, he thinks the cops will keep coming back to you, looking for stuff to hang me with. . . .'

‘So what?' Sam looked and sounded defiant. ‘Who is this guy?'

‘Saul Ravin.' Suddenly Tony felt the need to defend his lawyer. ‘He's the best in Steelton.'

‘Some downtown lawyer who doesn't even live here? Christ, Tony, we're your friends. People will listen to us.' Sam's voice rose in bewilderment. ‘What will they believe if you shut
us
out?'

Beneath Sam's concern, Tony thought, lay something prideful and proprietary – Tony was
his
friend;
his
relationship to Tony was shared by no one else. The knowledge that this was personal to Sam burdened Tony, and saddened him. Quietly, he said, ‘I don't need you to be my lawyer, Sam. I need you to be my friend.' To soften this, Tony turned to Sue. ‘Saul thinks the best thing I can do is tell the cops what I know, and not spread it around to anyone else. The better the cops can do their job, he says, the better it is for me.' Pausing, he saw Sam's look of frustration and doubt. ‘More than anything, I want them to find the bastard who killed Alison.'

Glancing at Sam, Sue put her hand on his knee. Sam looked down at it, then at Tony, and slowly nodded. ‘We'll do whatever you want us to, pal. Or whatever this lawyer wants.'

For an awkward moment, they were silent. Then Sue rose and came to Tony, taking his hand in hers. ‘We all miss Alison, Tony. But we still have you.' Turning, she gave Sam an uncertain smile.

Sam stood, and then draped his arms around Sue and Tony, pulling them close. ‘Sure,' he said. ‘Just like before.'

‘I slept with her,' Tony said.

He sat with McCain and Dana in the same cubicle. But this time Saul Ravin was with him, the door was ajar, and Saul had asked McCain to quit smoking. Looking irritable, the detective fidgeted with a manila envelope.

‘Why didn't you tell us that?' Dana asked.

Tony made himself consider his answer, carefully rehearsed with Ravin. As his lawyer had instructed, he looked straight at the detective. ‘Because I couldn't take in what was happening. All I could think about was that this was Alison's first time, and that it was nobody's business but ours.' He paused, finishing quietly. ‘What happened to Alison wasn't real yet.'

McCain scowled. ‘You seemed coherent to
me
–'

‘If I were you,' Saul broke in coolly, ‘I'd forget about using Tony's prior statement. Just like you forgot to call his parents, or his priest, or give him a Miranda warning, or even tell him where the bathroom was –'

‘He wasn't in custody,' McCain snapped.

‘He's
seventeen
, Lieutenant.' Saul gave the cop an amiable smile. ‘Let's not quarrel about this. If you want to base a murder prosecution on browbeating a teenager in shock, and then look like a jackass in front of God and the daily papers when some common pleas judge throws it out, that's up to you. I don't want to ruin your shot at fame.'

McCain's scalded-looking skin grew redder than before, and he began playing with the flap on the envelope. But Dana never took his eyes off Tony. ‘When you say you slept with her, what does that cover?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean, how did you do it?'

‘Tony glanced at Saul. His lawyer was studying the wall with a slightly bored expression. ‘In the back seat of the car,' Tony answered.

‘I mean
how
. Like, did she go down on you?'

Tony flushed. ‘No.'

‘Now we're getting somewhere. Did you come?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where?'

‘Inside her.'

‘Inside her?' Dana's voice was slightly derisive. ‘Is there some technical name for that?'

Once more, Tony thought of Alison, the way she had looked and felt. In a flat voice, he said, ‘Vagina.'

‘And she wanted that?'

‘Yes.' Tony's voice was tight. ‘Why don't you just ask me if I raped her. We didn't do it to give you thrills. . . .'

Beneath the table, Tony felt Saul's hand on his wrist. Learning forward, Dana said softly, ‘There aren't many thrills in this one, Tony. At least not for me. So tell me, you do anything else with her?'

‘No.'

Slowly, McCain reached into the envelope. He drew forth three color photographs and laid them next to each other on the table, one by one.

‘Not even this?' McCain asked casually.

In the photographs, Alison was lying on the table. Death had frozen her expression in the grimace Tony wished to forget, and now never would: mouth open in a silent cry of agony; tongue protruding slightly; flushed face; burst blood vessels on her cheeks and eyeballs. What Tony had not seen in the yellow beam of John Taylor's flashlight was the irregular necklace of bruises on her throat, the imprints of a hand.

Tony's eyes shut.

When he opened them, Saul Ravin was studying the pictures with heavy-lidded impassivity. ‘I'm glad your job has
some
thrills,' he murmured to McCain. ‘This must be a moment to remember. I know Tony will. But now you've had it, so you can put these away. What I'd appreciate is a copy of the autopsy report.'

Dana stared at him. ‘When we bring charges, you can see it. Not before.'

Saul turned to Tony with a look of deep compassion. ‘Do you have anything else to say to these . . . gentlemen?'

Tony fought for self-control. Then he gazed at the two detectives across the pictures that would become his enduring image of Alison Taylor, and said, ‘Just find the animal who did this –'

‘Now
there
's an idea,' Saul interjected. Rearranging the photographs, he slid them back in the envelope. ‘For example, a perusal of your police blotter in the
Lake City Weekly
shows that there are transients in Taylor Park at night. You file reports on the ones you stop. I'd pull those out, if I were you. Then I'd put out a teletype to every police force in the area, asking for reports on rapes and assaults. Not to mention strangulations.' He stood abruptly and pinned the envelope to McCain's chest with the palm of his hand. ‘Tony's right,' he told the red-faced detective. ‘You should find this guy. Unless you want more pictures to look at.'