The Suspect - L R Wright (4 page)

Gainer returned from talking to the ambulance
attendants. "They say they'd just as soon hang around," he
said. "The hospital can get them on the radio, if they need
them."

Alberg sighed. "Better get the ropes up fast,
Sid. This place is going to be the Number One attraction around here.
Come on, Freddie. Let's take a look inside."

The flower beds in front of the windows were
undisturbed. The concrete steps were unmarked. The constable standing
by the half-open door stood stiffly aside as Alberg approached. He
looked a bit pale.

"This your first homicide, Constable?" Ken
Coomer had joined the detachment in January, after a two-year posting
in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan.

"It's the first one I've actually been involved
in, Staff. That is—I mean, the first one I've been on the scene
of." He looked to be about sixteen, which of course was
impossible. "I've seen road-accident stuff that's a lot worse
than this. It's just that—it's deliberate, you know what l mean,
Staff?" His forehead crinkled as he tried to explain. "I
mean, it's just a lot different, that's all, when it's deliberate."

Alberg nodded and went past him, into the hall,
followed by Gainer.

The house smelled of flowers. That was the first
thing he noticed.

At the end of the hall he stood looking at the body,
which lay directly ahead, on a rug in front of a large window. Then
he gazed around the room. It was remarkably serene. The sweet scent
of blossoms was stronger; apparently it came from a vase of large
pink flowers, lush and frilled, that stood on a coffee table in front
of a chesterfield. Alberg could see nothing in the room that hinted
of violence or even dissonance; nothing but the body. And two books
on the floor nearby, one of them splayed open, face down.

Gainer was breathing heavily at his shoulder. Alberg,
hands in his pockets, walked closer to what had been Carlyle Burke.
He lay on his right side, almost graceful, a tall man, thin, legs
arranged with peculiar elegance on the polished hardwood floor, head
and upper torso resting on a brightly colored, homemade-looking rug.
Very near him was a rocking chair, half on and half off the rug, one
of its motionless rockers poised above his left hip.

"It's neat, for a homicide,” said Gainer
behind him. Alberg glanced over his shoulder at the constable. "Tidy,
I mean,” said Gainer, almost cheerfully.

There were no rings on the dead man's fingers.
Carlyle Burke had been wearing a pair of white trousers and a pale
blue shirt when someone shattered his skull. There wasn't much blood
on his clothes, but his head, which was almost bald, lay in a pool of
it. Sokolowski was right; he hadn't been dead for very long. His left
eye looked hopelessly out across the floor. Alberg reached down,
gently, and brushed the lid closed.

Nothing appeared out of order in the rest of the
house. In the bedroom, a single bed, a straight-backed chair, a small
dresser with a mirror. On the dresser sat a large rectangular lump,
covered with a red-and-white checked cloth. Alberg lifted a corner of
the cloth. Beneath it was a cage containing a large green bird with a
hooked beak. It let out a shriek.

"Jesus," said Gainer, whirling from the
closet, which was full of clothes hanging from rods and stacked in
drawers. Alberg dropped the cloth, and the bird was silent. In
another room they found a great many bookshelves and a large ivory
piano. ln the bathroom, clean towels. In the kitchen, the salmon in
the sink.

"
Okay, Freddie," said Alberg. "Let's
go see this Wilcox.”

"What's your rank?" said George Wilcox. He
was sitting on a bench in the middle of a small lawn behind the
house.

Alberg noticed more flower beds, and a tall pine tree
close to the beach, and under it, set upon wooden blocks, an
overturned aluminum rowboat. He heard the sea washing upon the sand.

"I'm a staff sergeant," he said. "The
fellow with the curls here is a constable."

The old man was probably in his late seventies, not
very tall, maybe five feet seven or eight, 160 pounds or so, with
longish white hair that curled out from the sides of his head in
waves. He had bright brown eyes and looked strong and fit, despite
his age. He was slightly pale but composed. He watched Constable
Redding disappear around the front of the house. "Where's he
going?"

"
The sergeant's going to put him to work.”

"Going to be a hell of a hullabaloo around here,
once people find out what's going on,” said George Wilcox. "They
must know something's up already. Those fellows, they came up here
with their lights flashing and all that, did they?"

"Probably," said Alberg, thinking of
Sanducci. The old man seemed relaxed as he sat there, hands on his
knees, peering up at them. He was enjoying the fact that he'd sent
for them, and they had come.

"And now you two. You're the boss, right? That
why you aren't wearing a uniform?"

"
Yeah," said Alberg. "I'm the boss.”
He pushed his hands into his pockets and continued to study George
Wilcox, content to let him chatter on. The man wasn't disheveled. His
gray sweater, white shirt, and gray trousers bore no stains, his face
and hands were unmarked.

"They said you'd want to ask me some questions,”
the old man said.

Alberg nodded. "First I'd like you to show me
how you happened to find him. Can you do that?"

"Of course I can do it.” George pushed himself
up from the bench. They walked around to the front of the house,
single file, Gainer leading the way, George in the middle.

On the steps, Constable Coomer stepped back to let
them through.

George Wilcox leaned shakily against the doorjamb.
"Give me a minute," he said.

Alberg stood waiting, polite and watchful; he was
suddenly aware of his own excitement, which was almost predatory.
George straightened, tried to smooth his white hair. "Okay.
Let's go in."

"Just a minute," said Alberg. "Was the
door open like this when you got here?"

"No. Closed. I banged on it, no answer, started
back up the path. Then I decided I'd better check up on him. He's
eighty-five, you know. Was."

"Was he in ill health?” said Gainer. Alberg's
quizzical glance seemed to confuse him.

George Wilcox stared up at the constable. "Ill
health? How the hell should I know? I just told you, the man was
eighty-five." He jabbed a finger against Gainer's blue-jacketed
chest. "The fact of the matter is, sonny, at eighty-five the
whole shitteree is fast wearing out. Any minute, something essential
could go on you." Again he tried to tame his hair, but the waves
sprang back, undeterred. "How do we go about this, then?"

"You started back up the path,” said Alberg.
"And then you decided you'd better check on him."

"
Yes," said George Wilcox, nodding. "I
came back to the door and banged on it harder, and hollered, but
nothing happened. So I tried the door, and it opened. He never locked
his doors."

"Okay,” said Alberg. "When you went
outside, after you called us, did you close the door behind you?"

The old man shook his head. "Didn't think about
closing it. Must have left it open."

"
Now,” said Alberg. He motioned inside. "Go
ahead. Show us."

George Wilcox stepped across the threshold into the
hall.

"
I came in here," he said, and immediately
lowered his voice. "I came in here, and I called out to him. No
answer. So I walked down the hall." He stopped and said over his
shoulder, "I knew he wasn't in the kitchen. I'd looked in the
kitchen window, waiting on the step." He began walking again.
"So I came down the hall. 'Where are you, Carlyle? I said, or
something like that, and I got to the living room." He emerged
into the sunshine and stopped. "Had to blink my eyes a few
times. The sun made me blurry for a minute. And I looked around, and
I saw him lying there."

He started to point; then his hand began to shake.
"His eyes were open," he said in a whisper, "I know
they were." He turned to Alberg. "You'd better check,"
he said urgently. "Maybe he isn't dead after all. His eyes were
open, I know they were.”

"
We checked,” said Alberg gently. "He's
dead. I closed his eyes.”

George Wilcox shut his own eyes for a moment. When
they fluttered open, Alberg said, "He was a friend of yours,
right?”

"I knew him,” said George.

"
Do you know the house well? Did you come here
often?”

"
Sometimes. I used to come here sometimes. Not
very often.”

"Okay. Look around. Take your time. Tell me if
you see anything unusual, anything that's out of place, or anything
that seems to be missing.”

"
That,” said George, pointing at the body.
"That's unusual.”

"
Right,” said Alberg, soberly. "Anything
else?”

With an effort, George Wilcox looked away from the
body. For a few seconds he seemed to have difficulty actually seeing
anything. His eyes skittered over chesterfield, china cabinet,
flowers in the vase, bookshelves, without focusing. Then they
concentrated on the rocking chair.

"
That,” he said finally. "It's supposed
to be facing the window more. He sat in it, watched the boats go by
or some damn thing, I don't know."

He could have been sitting in the chair when he was
struck, thought Alberg; or maybe he fell against it.

"Anything else?" he said.

The old man studied the room. He had regained most of
his self-control. "Those books on the floor, there. Those are
mine. Library books. I dropped them, when I—when I saw him lying
there." He shivered. "Bloody cold in here, don't you
think?"

"Just a few more minutes, Mr. Wilcox. Look
carefully. Do you see anything else?”

"
It all looks just like it ought to,” said
George. "No, wait. He got himself a parrot lately. I don't see
the parrot."

Gainer cleared his throat. "It's in the
bedroom."

George looked at him sharply. "Is it dead, too?"

Gainer was nonplussed. "No, sir, " he said.
"It's fine, I think."

"What are you going to do with it?" George
demanded.

Alberg watched him, curious.

Gainer glanced at the staff sergeant. "Call the
S.P.C.A., I guess. Unless he—Mr. Burke—maybe he's got a friend,
or a relative—" '

"
We'll take care of it,” said Alberg.

George turned away from them. "That's it,"
he said. "Can't tell you anything else.”

"
Okay, then, Mr. Wilcox. We can get out of here
now.”

"
Fingerprints,” said George, on the front
steps. "You'll want my fingerprints, I guess. For comparison."

Alberg led him up the path toward the hedge and
stopped halfway to the gate. He could see the police investigation
ribbon strung across it. "First of all, Mr. Wilcox," he
said, "why did you happen to call on Mr. Burke today? You say
you don't come here often. Why today?"

George Wilcox shrugged. "Spur of the moment. It
was one of those spur-of-the-moment things.”

"Did you bring him a salmon? On the spur of the
moment?"

George looked astonished. "What would I be doing
with a salmon?"

"Maybe you caught it. Do you fish, Mr. Wilcox?"

"I'm a gardener, Staff Sergeant, not a
fisherman. I'm not fond of fish, myself."

"Okay," said Alberg equally. "Now,
would you tell us, please, where you were today, and what you were
doing, before you came here to see Mr. Burke."

Gainer pulled a notebook from his jacket and clicked
open his ballpoint pen. George, hearing this, shot him an irritated
glance.

"
It would be a great help," said Alberg
smoothly. "Start from when you got up and just go through your
day for us."

George shoved his hands in his pockets and looked
down at the gravel path. "I got up early. Around seven. Went out
to turn the sprinkler on in my garden." He looked up. "Best
time of the day to water, early morning. You wait until the sun's
hot, the plants get burned.”

Alberg stored this information away. It might be
useful, in the unlikely event that he should ever find it necessary
to water his jungle.

"Let's see." George Wilcox looked up at the
sky. "Then I had breakfast. A bun and some coffee and I think an
orange. By this time the paper had come, so I had some more coffee
and read it." He looked at Alberg. "You really want to hear
all this?"

Alberg smiled. "Please.”

"He's not writing much of it down.” He glared
at Freddie Gainer.

"I use a kind of shorthand,” said Gainer
apologetically.

"
What time was it when you finished your second
cup of coffee?" said Alberg.

George thought about this. "Must have been about
nine o'clock. Then I turned on the radio. I don't want to hear
anybody talking to me until I've had two cups of coffee and read the
paper. Then, it's okay, it's company. So I turned on the radio. And
then what did I do." He considered. He turned quickly to Alberg.
"I forgot to tell you. When I went out to get the paper, I
turned off the sprinkler. That would be about eight o'clock. An
hour's plenty of watering? He looked relaxed, almost mischievous, and
Alberg felt a spurt of annoyance.