The Witch of Watergate (15 page)

ROBERT DOWNEY WAS sitting at one end of a long table in one
of Homicide's nondescript interrogation rooms. The vomit-green paint was peeling
and there were large lightning bolt-shaped cracks in the wall. The windows,
despite the fact that they were six floors up, were barred.

He seemed much calmer than when they had seen him the day
before, like a man who had made peace with himself.

"You did the right thing," Charleen said.
"Sooner or later we would have got you." She had not gloated. To her,
Fiona supposed, this was simply the expected course of events, although even
she could not have expected this dramatic a denouement.

"Before you sign your statement, I wanted you to talk
with those assigned to the case," the Eggplant said to Downey. Apparently,
Downey had already made his statement to a police stenographer and was waiting
for it to be typed for his signature.

"I understand," Downey said.

"Do you feel any remorse for this act?" Fiona
asked.

"None at all," Downey said crisply. "She had
it coming."

The Eggplant said, "Officer Evans, would you care to
do the honors?"

She was entitled to that, Fiona thought. It was, after all,
her instinct, her theory.

"Would you tell us exactly how it was done?"
Charleen asked.

"Of course," Downey said. He coughed into his
fist. "It was easy getting in. I came through the garage, hid behind one
of the pillars, waited for a car to come through, then just ducked through the
gate as it closed. No problem at all. Then I went up the rear elevator. I
carried the rope in a shopping bag." He looked at his watch. "It was
just before midnight."

Fiona had a yellow pad in front of her on which she jotted
down notes. Charleen simply watched the man as he spoke.

"Getting into her apartment was also no problem. I
rang the buzzer. She asked who it was. I told her I was Robert Downey, and she
opened the door."

"Just like that?" Charleen asked.

"Oh no," Robert Downey said calmly, smiling. His
complexion was ruddy but had not reddened. Nor did he seem agitated in any way.
He could be discussing a tennis match. "We talked through the door and I
could tell she was looking at me through the door's peephole. I took care not to
look threatening. I told her that I simply wanted to come forward to set the
record straight and that I had new evidence to impart."

"And then she let you in?" Charleen asked.

"Well, it took a lot more time. She probed me pretty
hard. I told her I felt foolish standing out there in the hall." He
laughed. He seemed to be enjoying the attention. "I must admit I was
pretty persuasive. Finally she opened the door. But she did not stand there
waiting for me to enter. She let me in and I closed the door. She was wearing a
nightgown and she ran into the bedroom and told me to wait for her in the
living room."

"Did you?" Charleen asked.

"Afraid not," he said calmly. "I followed
her into the bedroom, taking the rope out of the bag. When I got to the
bedroom, she had her back turned to me while she was putting on a dressing
gown. I simply threw the noose around her neck and pulled it tight. She went
down easy, without a sound."

"And then?" Charleen asked.

Although it was a ghastly, gruesome act, as he described
it, it seemed somehow banal, uneventful.

"Don't forget, my objective was to make this look like
a suicide by hanging. I had to make sure everything was in its place. I
straightened the room out, then dragged her through the apartment to the
terrace."

"Did you wear gloves?" Charleen asked.

"Most of the time. I took them off only to work the
knot that fastened the rope to the stanchion on the terrace. It was hard to do
with gloves on."

They had asked Flannagan to send one of his boys to do
another dusting to see if they could pick up any prints that had been missed.
That report had not come in yet, but they expected it momentarily.

"Was it you who went to the apartment yesterday posing
as her brother?"

He nodded.

"A little ridiculous, wasn't it? But, you see, I had
left the shopping bag. It was one of these plastic bags with the name of the
hardware store where I had purchased the rope. A store in Baltimore, actually.
I was still harboring the hope that I was going to get away with this. Of
course, you'd already ruled out suicide, but if you found the bag, you'd surely
trace the rope to me."

"Where was the bag?" Charleen asked. She was
determined to show the others a healthy skepticism. So far nothing had been
said to dispute her theory.

"Actually, I put it behind one of the potted plants.
It was out of sight. It was so out of sight that I forgot it."

Fiona did not remember looking behind all of the potted
plants.

"Did you find it?" Charleen asked.

"Yes." Downey nodded in emphasis.

"What did you do with it?"

"I burned it," Downey said.

"If it was so simple to enter the building, why did
you go to the front desk?" Charleen asked. It was her first stupid
question.

Downey chuckled.

"There would have been no one inside to open the door.
I needed a key."

Charleen showed the barest flicker of annoyance.

"You realize that we're here to punch holes in your
confession," Charleen said. What she really meant was that she wanted to
corroborate her theory beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"Punch away."

"Why hanging?" Charleen asked.

Again he smiled.

"There was something ... well, appropriate about it.
Something public. Like she did to others. Publicly hung them."

No doubt about it, Fiona thought, the man was convincing.
He seemed to have all the psychological implications in place. On the matter of
the garroting and the dragging of the body across the apartment, that, too, was
convincing, but he might have pieced that together from newspaper and
television stories. She made brief notes of her doubts as Charleen continued.
Of one thing she was dead certain. Charleen was having a ball.

"All right," Charleen said. "You fastened
the end of the rope around the stanchion, then..."

"Actually, I spent about a half hour before I put the
body over the terrace, simply making sure that the scene would suggest a
convincing suicide. As you now know, I made a lot of mistakes. Shows you I'm
not much of an expert on these matters. Then I eased the body over the railing.
She was either dead or dying at that point. I did not stop to find out. Getting
out of the building was no trouble at all. I came out the way I got in."
Again he looked at his watch. "By twelve forty-five I was out."

"Then what did you do?"

"I went home and slept like a baby. I felt, well,
serene, fulfilled. This woman was garbage and I felt that I had struck a great
blow for humanity."

"When did you decide to come forward?" Charleen
asked.

"Somewhere around four this morning. I realized how
important it would be to show the world to what lengths people will go to clear
their names after being assassinated by the media. Pamela Dearborn was a
murderer. She murdered my father. Frankly, I felt proud that I had struck back.
This woman told lies about me and my Dad. In a way, I'd say I vindicated
him."

It was, of course, the convoluted reasoning expected from a
remorseless killer. But so far it was only his word that warranted his act.
More was needed. Missed prints could buttress his confession. Of course, that
might have been the real reason for his returning to the apartment. Fiona's
mind raced with rebuttals.

"We'll see what the tech boys come up with," the
Eggplant said, revealing his own skepticism.

"He might have put them there when he went back,"
Fiona interjected. It was an important distinction and she wanted to be sure it
was emphasized.

"Well?" Charleen asked Downey.

"Yes, it could have been, although I was quite careful
when I went through there that second time. I never took off my gloves. There
weren't any knots to tie."

"Problem is," the Eggplant said, "you can
never be sure. The tech boys always miss things, although they do the best they
can."

"I'm confessing, Captain," Downey said with a
touch of indignation. He had been remarkably cool up to then. Now his knobby
cheekbones were growing redder. "I killed that woman. I'm proud of it. I'm
prepared to accept whatever punishment is meted out. I can assure you I will
die a happy man because of what I did."

"You have a lawyer?" the Eggplant asked.

"No. But a public defender will do if any more
paperwork is needed. There is no need of a trial. I'm guilty."

No need of evidence, either, Fiona thought with some relief
until she remembered the unresolved issue between Barker and Farber. Suddenly,
a ray of hope exhilarated her. Now they could destroy the disks and the hard
copies. No longer would it be a case of withholding evidence. Simple theft was
another matter. All right, it was not a purist notion, but it might satisfy the
Eggplant's pangs of conscience.

On the other hand, said the little devil's advocate that
lurked in a camouflaged part of her brain, if Barker won in his fight for the
possession of the computer, it would ultimately result in the discovery that
disks were missing, creating a further mystery. A clever deducer might one day
get to the answer. Besides, the whole idea of a three-way conspiracy was
anathema to the Eggplant and, for that matter, to Fiona. Charleen, as they had
seen, could be an unguided missile. She shook these gloomy thoughts away. First
things first, she told herself.

The Eggplant suddenly motioned them to leave the room, which
they did. They talked in hushed tones in the corridor.

"What do you think?" the Eggplant asked.

"Open and shut." Charleen said.

They both looked toward Fiona.

"I don't know." she said hesitantly.

"What's troubling you?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "I need time
to think about it."

The Eggplant turned to Charleen.

"Not a shadow of a doubt?" he asked.

"None."

"I'm inclined to go along," the Eggplant said.
"I'm enjoying the prospect of telling that tough bastard Barker that the
Witch of Watergate got knocked off because she ruined a couple of lives. That
I'm going to enjoy."

"Are we really ready to turn it loose?" Fiona
asked. "Convinced beyond all reasonable doubt?"

"I told you. I am," Charleen said.

The Eggplant shrugged.

"If you think he's lying, you'll have to give us more,
FitzGerald."

She needed more time to dance around it.

"What about the other?" Fiona asked, meaning the
business of the computer.

"I've been thinking about how to handle that
one." He looked at Fiona. It seemed a plea for understanding. "You
people have taken enough risks. You're out of it. I want the material in my
hands by tonight. Then I want you both to forget about it. I understand your
motives and I think they're damned fine, but wrongheaded. You don't need that
on your heads. You understand?"

Charleen nodded.

"Whatever you say, Captain," Fiona said, somewhat
reluctantly. It was upsetting having to worry about that when she still wasn't
convinced about Robert Downey. She foresaw long nights of second thoughts, lost
sleep and worry.

"Let me have him for an hour, Captain," Fiona
said.

Fiona and Charleen locked eyes.

"Do you think that's necessary?" Charleen asked.

"I need to be sure," Fiona said.

"The man confessed," Charleen said. Fiona could
sense the anxiety beneath the inscrutable surface. Catching killers was all,
the root of her obsession. Her understanding of Charleen was growing by the
second.

Fiona turned to the Eggplant and looked him squarely in the
eyes.

"I insist on this, Captain. I want to talk to Downey
alone."

The Eggplant hesitated, but he did not turn his eyes away.
See my determination, Fiona begged him silently.

"What's another hour?" Fiona pressed.

"Because it was my hunch, Sergeant FitzGerald,"
Charleen said acidly.

The Eggplant turned to face her, studied her, then turned
back to Fiona.

"You got it, FitzGerald." He swept his arm in a
wide arc and pointed to the room where Robert Downey sat waiting.

"Be my guest."

FIONA KNEW SHE could put holes in his story, undermine it
with technicalities. His counter would be that in the heat of the moment he
might have missed a point or two. He had it close enough and the system might
buy it. Guilty or not, the media would send it sailing round the world and
back.

"Statement ready to sign?" Downey asked. He sat
at the end of the table where they had left him, relaxed and casual. She hadn't
noticed how neatly dressed he was: pressed blazer with gold buttons, clean
light blue button-down shirt, a red paisley tie on a field of olive. His hands
were delicate, the networks of blue veins visible beneath the pinkish freckled
skin covered by reddish hair, the nails clean and clipped squarely.

"They're getting it ready," Fiona said, taking
her seat on the chair closest to him, at touching distance. For the first time,
it seemed, she noticed his eyes set deep behind his knobby cheekbones. They
were hazel, the pupils surprisingly large as they watched her with a feral
alertness and anxious curiosity.

"It got too much to carry, did it?" Fiona asked
pleasantly.

"I feel better with it off my chest," Downey
replied.

"You seem almost euphoric," Fiona said.

"I am. I feel that I have rid the world of a disease.
I hadn't realized it would make me feel so good to confess it. But you have to
admit, it made an appropriate statement. Don't you just love the
versimilitude?"

"You feel you've paid her back for what she did to
your father?"

"In spades."

"What do you think your father would think about your
having done this?"

"He'd understand."

"Did you tell him that you did it?" Fiona asked
casually.

His feral eyes snapped into greater alertness.

"Why are you asking me this? I've confessed. That's
enough. No, I did not tell my father. And, if you don't mind, I'd like him kept
out of this. I did this on my own." He had straightened in his chair and
put his hands palms down on the table. She remembered that gesture from their
meeting at his father's house. He was, she decided, preparing to guard himself
carefully. She recalled how uptight he had gotten when she had crossed the
boundary he had set for himself.

"It certainly is a logical question," Fiona said
reasonably. "You could have told him, and that information might have
triggered his suicide."

"That is a disgusting allegation," Downey said.

"Is it? More than the other?"

"What other?"

"That he killed himself because of the shame of
exposing your incestuous affair."

He stood up abruptly.

"Where is my statement? You have no right to discuss
that. It was a lie. That beastly woman dredged up a lie."

"A lie that you told in testimony before a court of
law," Fiona pressed.

"I was coerced by the cult. I did not know what I was
doing."

Again the knobs of his cheekbones reddened. He was standing
at the table, his fingers pressed to its surface, bent almost backward.

"You deny it, then?"

"Of course I deny it." His head shook, his lips
trembled. "How dare you?"

She knew she had to press forward relentlessly now, give
him no time to mount a defense, rattle him, force him into an emotional
outburst. Still, she wasn't certain that he had concocted the confession, but
she was determined to find out the truth of it.

"Your father blew his brains out because he couldn't
take the exposure, am I right?"

"She was bent on destroying him, would stop at
nothing. Even this terrible, awful lie..."

"But your father killed himself rather than face
it."

"It turned out that he didn't have to," Downey
said, fighting for control. He sat down but kept his hands on the table.

"But he couldn't face it. The taboo was too
monstrous..."

"He couldn't bear the idea that I would suffer."
A sob gurgled in his throat. "He loved me."

"But he left you to face the music."

"No. He did it to spare me."

"But the story never ran."

"He didn't know that."

"But you did and the guilt was too much for you. You
needed to punish yourself. You cooked up this phony confession to expiate your
sins. The sin of incest, this filthy, dirty secret between you and your
father." She sensed the cruelty of her statement, but waved aside all
compassion. For her the bottom line was to find out the truth. The greater
wrong would be for Polly Dearborn's real killer to get away with it.

"You're going too far," he said, still in charge
of himself, still unbroken.

"Not far enough. You're a liar, Downey. You and your
father had this illicit relationship since you were a child, just as you
testified. It was so strong that you continued it all your lives. Nothing could
break it. Nothing could stop it."

"No. No. Absolutely not. That is a lie. I demand you
stop this." His voice rose. "I want my statement. I killed Polly
Dearborn. You are tormenting me."

Still, he wasn't breaking. She had broken others with this
type of staccato interrogation. Perhaps he was telling the truth. Perhaps he
had killed her. Perhaps he had not had this incestuous relationship with his
father. It was, after all, the ultimate accusation, the ultimate disgrace.

"I don't believe you," she said. But she could
tell that the emotional crescendo was lessening, that he was getting himself
under control.

Then, in one of those wildly insightful moments, when an
idea springs from some unknown subconscious wellspring, she took a
three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn in tactics. She was wearing a blue skirt
held up by a thin leather rope-like belt, which her fingers had touched by pure
accident. She unfastened the buckle. He could not see her do this, since that
part of her was out of his field of vision.

"You say you killed Polly Dearborn. Garroted her from
behind, dragged her across the apartment, threw her over the side of the
terrace?"

"It's all in my statement," he said. "If you
don't mind, I'd like to sign it and get it over with once and for all. Let's
end it, why don't we?"

"That's okay with me. But first..." She pulled
the rope-like leather belt out of its loops and threw it on the table.
"Show me how you made the knot."

He looked at the belt in front of him. But he made no move
to reach for it.

"Just replicate the hangman's noose that you used on
Polly Dearborn. Do that and it's case-closed."

Fiona watched him. The color had drained from his face,
even from the reddened knobs of his cheekbones. He had clasped his hands in
front of him but he made no move toward the belt.

"This is ridiculous," he said, trying to override
his anxiety by indignation.

"That was your choice of weapon," Fiona pressed.
"A little demonstration shouldn't be a problem."

"I refuse," he said, his voice shaking.

"You can't. Not now."

He was silent for a moment, averting his eyes. She watched
his hands move toward the belt. He lifted it with trembling fingers.

"You've made me too nervous," he said, his eyes
pleading.

"Your lies have made you nervous, Downey."

He picked up the belt and began to create the knot. For a
brief moment, Fiona thought he was about to get it. His fingers continued to
shake as he made what seemed like the appropriate loops. But when he pulled at
it, the plaited leather rope unraveled. He did not look at Fiona. Beads of
perspiration began to gather on his upper lip.

"It's all right. We're in no rush," Fiona said
soothingly.

He tried again.

"This is not real rope," he muttered, stopping
for a moment to brush away the perspiration.

Again he tried making the right loops. Again the belt
unraveled. It did not deter him as he continued to try, always without success.

"I'm too ... too nervous." He looked toward her.
Perspiration was running down the sides of his chin. Drops were falling on his
tie.

"You can't, can you?"

He hesitated, turned away from her, concentrating once
again on making the knot. After numerous tries, he seemed to have succeeded,
creating what looked like a hangman's knot.

"There," he taunted, throwing the looped end in
her direction. She took it, pulled, and it unraveled. An odd strangulated sound
issued from his throat. Tears of frustration seemed to fill his eyes.

"You didn't," she rebuked. "You didn't kill
Polly Dearborn."

"I ... I..." He couldn't get any further words
out.

"It wouldn't solve it, Robert," Fiona said
gently. "It would always be there, wouldn't it?"

He bowed his head, his shoulders shook with sobs. He had
clasped his hands, knuckles white, and rested them on the edge of the table, a
child's gesture. Fiona reached out and touched them.

"You musn't be too hard on yourself," Fiona said.
The man's agony had touched her. He lifted his head and took deep breaths,
trying to get himself under control.

"How can people possibly understand?" he
whispered. "I loved that man with all my heart and soul and body. And he
loved me. As far back as my memory goes, I loved my father."

"Yes," she said gently.

"It was more than twenty years ago. How dare she
dredge that up. Everybody had forgotten. Even the FBI check on Dad never found
it. We thought we were home free. Pamela Dearborn was a cruel beast, a cruel
beast. She killed him and I needed to kill her." He turned his tearstained
face toward Fiona. "You understand that."

"Of course I do," Fiona said. "But, you see,
our job is to catch her real killer. Forcing the system to punish you wouldn't
help anything, Robert. Leastwise, yourself."

He was gaining control. She took a packet of tissues out of
her pocketbook and gave it to him.

"Do you think we can keep this ... well ... you
know."

"Quiet?"

He nodded.

"I feel like a fool," he said.

At that moment, Charleen burst through the door, followed
by the Eggplant. She threw an envelope on the table.

"They found prints. It's confirmed. They belong to
Robert Downey."

Fiona turned to face her, looking up slowly. Charleen's
eyes glistened with the pride of victory.

"Do they?" she said.

"Captain Greene has his statement for his
signature," she said. Poor Charleen, Fiona thought. No insight. One searching
look at Robert Downey should have convinced her. It quickly convinced the
Eggplant. He took a folded paper from his pocket and ripped it up, sprinkling
the remains on the table.

Even then, Fiona wondered when it would finally dawn on
Charleen Evans.