To Play the Fool km-2 Read online

  However, he still didn’t know why the hell she had come back.

  ♦

  At four o’clock that afternoon, across town at the Hall of Justice, the question had not been answered so much as submerged beneath the complexities of the case.

  “So,” Hawkin stretched out in his chair and tried to rub the tiredness from the back of his neck. The coffee hadn’t helped much. “Have you managed to make any sense of this mess?” He might have been referring to the case in general, or to the unruly drift of papers covering the desk’s surface, which now included roughly transcribed interviews, printouts of arrest records for the people involved, as well as the records from the earlier dog incident. This last report had been couched in phrases that made clear what the two investigating officers had thought of their odd case, wandering as it did between a recognition of its absurdity and downright sarcasm at the waste of their time. The recorded interview with the dog’s owner had been perfunctory and less than helpful, and Hawkin’s interview with the officer involved had stopped short of scathing only because he knew that his own reaction would have been much the same as the younger man’s.

  “A bit, but we have to find this man Erasmus. He organized the cremation of the dog last month, though everyone was quite clear—those who were clear, that is, if you know what I mean—that he wasn’t here this time. They seem to have decided that what was good enough for the dog was good enough for the dog’s owner. Crime Scene’s going back tonight to check the whole area with Luminol, but it looks like one patch of blood that bled slowly and stopped with death rather than blood pouring out from, say, a knife wound. Could have been shot, but Luis, one of the men who found him, said his head looked bashed. And of course we know what happened to every loose stick in the whole damned park. Sorry? Oh, yes, I’ll have another cup, thanks.

  “Where was I?” Kate thumbed through her notes a moment. “Okay, who found the body. Harry Radovich and Luis Ortiz both claim they saw him first, but they were together, and their stories mesh—though Harry’s is a little clearer in the details. They saw his kit abandoned behind a bench at about six p.m., went looking for him, and found him. You saw the place, about three hundred yards from where they tried to burn him this morning. At first they thought he was asleep, lying facedown, slightly tilted onto his right side, under that tree with the branches that touch the ground. They were worried, seeing him lying on the ground just in his clothes, and thought he might be sick, this flu that’s going around. So they shook his legs, got no response, pushed their way in and turned him on his back. There was dried blood covering the right side of his head and face, his eyeballs were slightly sunken and dry-looking, the corneas cloudy, his facial skin dark with no blanching under pressure, and he was getting pretty stiff in his upper body.”

  “A couple of drunks told you all that?” asked Hawkin, turning from the coffee machine to look at her in astonishment.

  “Luis was a medic in Vietnam for three years,- he knows what a dead body looks like.”

  “So you think his judgment’s good on this?”

  “Large grain of salt, but he swears he didn’t get truly smashed until after finding the body, and he seems shaky now but sober. His testimony is worth keeping in mind, that’s all, until we hear the postmortem results.”

  “Which probably won’t tell us much about time of death unless the stomach contents are good.”

  “Any idea when they’ll do the postmortem?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “Good,” she said evenly, as if talking about the arrival of a tidy packet of information instead of the participation in an ordeal of burned flesh and the smell of power saws cutting through bone.

  “Meanwhile, though,” he said, “what are we talking here? Middle-aged alcoholic on a night just above freezing, how many hours to rigor?”

  “John didn’t drink. They all agree on that. Or use drugs.”

  “Okay. So assuming they recognize liver mortis when they see it, which I doubt, that’d put it, oh, say some time before noon on Tuesday morning. Just as a guideline to get us started.”

  “I agree, though I’d lean to the later end of that. His body looked on the thin side.”

  As Hawkin had studiously avoided any close examination of the remains, he couldn’t argue.

  “Any of them have a last name for him, any ID?” he asked.

  “Nope. They just knew him as John.”

  “Theophilus’s owner.”

  “Who?”

  “The dog. Means ‘one who loves God,” I think.“

  “What is this, a mission to the homeless? Lover of God and Brother Erasmus. Batty names.” Kate snorted.

  “Erasmus was a philosopher, wasn’t he? Wrote The Praise of Folly. Seventeenth century? Sixteenth?”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, this Erasmus is across the Bay somewhere, Berkeley or Oakland, not due back until Sunday, and they were afraid the body would smell, so they didn’t wait for him to get back. Just hauled in every scrap of wood they could find, shoved his body on, added a few bottles of various flammable liquids, and lighted it. With prayers, read by Wilhemena and one of the men. Rigor mortis may have been beginning to wear off, by the way, at six this morning. His head was floppy when they moved him onto the woodpile.”

  “Right. Let’s hang on to Harry, Luis, and Wilhemena, at least until we get the postmortem report to give us a cause of death. Charge them with improper disposal of a body, interfering with an investigation, whatever you like. The rest of them can go. And we might as well go, too. There’s not much more we can do until the results come in, except find the good Brother Erasmus. You want to do that?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll take the postmortem.”

  How interesting, Hawkin thought. I’ve only worked with Martinelli for a total of a few weeks, and most of that was months ago, but I can still read her face. She’s trying to decide if she should insist on taking the shit job, to prove herself capable. No, can’t quite do it. Can’t quite admit she’s relieved that I took it, either.

  Kate was still wrestling with gratitude when Hawkin’s phone rang.

  “Hawkin,” he said, and listened for a minute. “I am.” Another longish pause, then: “Sure, bring her up.” He hung up and looked at Kate. “There’s a homeless woman downstairs, came in with information on the cremation.”

  ♦

  THREE

  ♦

  Water his sister, pure and clean and inviolate.

  The woman who entered a few minutes later wasn’t quite what Kate had expected. She was quite tidy, for one thing, her graying hair gathered into a snug bun at the nape of her neck,- her eyes darted nervously about, but they were clear, and her spine was straight. She wore the inevitable eclectic jumble, long skirt with trouser cuffs underneath, blouse, vest, knitted shawl, and rings on five fingers, but she wrapped her clothes around her with dignity and sat without hesitation in the chair Hawkin indicated. Kate turned another chair around to the desk and took out her pen. Hawkin looked down at the paper he’d just been given and then up at her, a smile of singular sweetness on his rugged face.

  “Your name is Beatrice?” he asked, giving the name two syllables.

  “Beatrice,” she corrected, giving it the Italian four.

  “Any last name?”

  “Not for many years.”

  “What was it then?”

  “The men downstairs asked me that, too.”

  “And you didn’t give it to them.”

  “I was not impressed by the manners of your police department.”

  “I apologize for them. Their youth does not excuse them.”

  She studied him thoughtfully.

  “Forgive them,- for they know not what they do. That’s what Brother Erasmus would say, I suppose.”

  “Who is this Brother Erasmus?” he asked her.

  “Jankowski.”

  “Erasmus Jankowski?” Hawkin said, polite but amazed.

  �
��No! I hardly know the man,” Beatrice protested. Kate rested her elbow on the desk and pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment. “Well, no, I admit I do know him, as well as anyone you brought in this morning, which isn’t saying much.”

  “It’s your last name, then? Beatrice Jankowski?”

  “You can see why I gave up the last part.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Hawkin, rising to gallantry. “It has a certain ring to it.”

  “Like a funeral toll,” she said expressively. Hawkin abandoned his flirtation.

  “What do you know about what happened in Golden Gate Park this morning, Miss—is it Miss Jankowski?”

  “Call me Beatrice. I told them they were imbeciles, but even men who fry their brains on cheap wine don’t listen to women.”

  “You tried to dissuade them… from the cremation.”

  “There is a difference between a man and a dog, after all.”

  “You were there when the dog was cremated—what was it, three or four weeks ago?” Hawkin asked.

  “That had a certain beauty,” Beatrice said wistfully. “It was appropriate. It was also—well, perhaps not strictly legal, but hardly criminal. Wouldn’t you agree?” she asked, and blinked her eyes gently at Al Hawkin. He avoided the question.

  “Did you know the dead man?”

  “I knew the dog, quite well.”

  “And the man?”

  “Oh dear. He was…” For the first time Beatrice Jankowski looked uncomfortable. “You don’t really want to know about him.”

  “I do, you know.”

  She met his eyes briefly, looked down at her strong fingers with their swollen knuckles, twisting and turning one ring after another, and sighed.

  “Yes, I suppose you do. I’d rather talk about the dog.”

  “Tell us about the dog first, then,” Hawkin relented. Relief blossomed on the woman’s weathered face and her hands lay still.

  “He was a real sweetheart, white, with a black patch over his left eye. His coat looked wiry, but he was actually quite soft, picked up foxtails terribly. John—that’s his owner—had to brush him every day. Very intelligent, particularly when you consider the size of his skull. I saw him cross the road once, looking both ways first.”

  “So how did he die?”

  “We… They… No one saw. He must have made a mistake crossing the road. John found him, in the morning. He’d hit his head on something.”

  “Or something had hit him.” She nodded. “Or kicked him.” Her face contracted slowly and her fingers began to wring each other over and over.

  “How did John die?”

  “I don’t have any idea. I didn’t even see him.”

  “How did you hear about his death?”

  “Mouse told me late last night. He was sorting through the bins behind a restaurant on Stanyon Street.”

  “Which one is Mouse?”

  “They call him Mouse because he used to be in computers, before his breakdown. Lovely man. His other name is Richard, I believe.”

  “Richard Delgadio. Tall black man, hair going gray, short beard?”

  “Is that his last name? Delgadio. What a lovely sound.”

  “What time did he tell you about John’s death?”

  In answer, the woman pushed her left sleeve up her arm and looked eloquently at the bare wrist.

  “Roughly what time, then?” Hawkin asked patiently.

  “Time,” she mused. “Time takes on rather a different aspect on the streets. However, I do remember that the dress shop was closed, but the bookstore was still open, so that would make it between nine and eleven. Is it of any importance to your investigation?”

  “Probably not.” Beatrice giggled, and Hawkin gave her a smile. “But you didn’t go to the—what did they call it? The cremation?”

  “I did not. I told Mouse then and there he was a cretin and a dunderhead, and that he should tell Officer Michaels about John.”

  “Michaels is one of the local patrolmen?”

  “He’s a hunk.”

  “Sorry?” Hawkins asked, startled at the unlikely word.

  “He is. Gorgeous legs, just the right amount of hair on them. Don’t tell him I said anything, though. He might be embarrassed.”

  Kate thought she recognized the description.

  “Is this one of the bicycle patrol officers?” she asked.

  “Gorgeous,” Beatrice repeated in agreement. Al Hawkin’s mouth twitched.

  “But you didn’t report John’s death?” he asked.

  “It was not my place.”

  “You knew they were planning on burning the body first thing in the morning.”

  “Mouse found a half-empty bottle of paint thinner and asked me if it would burn. And I saw Mr. Lazari at the grocer’s giving Doc and Salvatore a couple of old wooden crates. I told him, too.”

  “Mr. Lazari?”

  “Of course not. He’s quite sensible.”

  “You told Doc. That John was dead?”

  “Inspector, are you listening to me?”

  “I am trying, Ms. Jankowski. Beatrice.”

  “Ah, you are tired, of course. I apologize for keeping you. No, I told Doc that he and Harry and the rest were a parcel of half-wits and were going to find themselves in trouble. I told them Brother Erasmus would be unhappy. Doc listened, Salvatore didn’t. He even had a Bible, although I didn’t think much of his choice of readings. Song of Songs is hardly funereal.”

  “Salvatore had the Bible? So Salvatore led the… funeral service.”

  “I was surprised, too, considering.”

  “Considering what, Beatrice?”

  “Well, you know.”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  “Oh, of course, how silly of me. You never met the man.”

  “Salvatore Benito? I spoke with him earlier.”

  She sat in her chair and gave him a look of sad disappointment.

  “Or do you mean John? No, I never met him.”

  “Lucky old you,” she muttered.

  “You didn’t like John?”

  “He did not deserve a dog like Theophilus.”

  “That surprises me. The others seemed to think he was a nice guy.”

  “One may smile, and smile, and be a villain. Did Erasmus say that, or did I read it somewhere? Oh dear, I am getting old.”

  “John was friendly on the surface but not when you got to know him? Is that what you mean?”

  “I did not know him,” she said firmly. “Unfortunately, he knew me. But he couldn’t make me go to his funeral, and now he can’t—” She caught herself, looked down at her hands, and twisted her rings before shooting a chagrined glance at the two detectives. “He was not a nice man.”

  Hawkin leaned back in his chair and studied her.

  “He was blackmailing you?” he suggested.

  “That’s a very ugly word.”

  “It’s an ugly thing.”

  “I didn’t like it, but it wasn’t anything nasty. Maybe a wee bit nasty,” she amended. “Just a sort of encouragement, to make me do things I otherwise might not have.”

  “Such as?”

  “They were such big shops, they could afford to lose a bit to pilfering.”

  “He had you shoplifting for him?”

  Her head came up and she flushed in anger.

  “Inspector! How could you think that of me? I would never! There’s a world of difference between actually doing something like that and just not… tattling.”

  “I see. You witnessed John shoplifting and he made you keep silent,” Hawkin translated.

  “After that he would show me things he’d taken. He knew I didn’t like it, that it made me… uncomfortable.”

  “Did he blackmail others?”

  “It wasn’t really blackmail,” she protested. “He never wanted anything. It was just a sort of… control thing. He liked to see people squirm.”

  “Who were these others?”

  “I’ve only known him for two years.”
>
  “Their names?” he asked gently.

  “I… don’t know for sure. I wondered, because there were a couple of men he seemed friendly with who suddenly seemed to be uncomfortable around him and then moved away. One of them was named Maguire—I think that was his last name—and then last summer a pleasant little Chinese man named Chin.”

  “Any who didn’t move away?”

  “Well, I…”

  “Salvatore, perhaps?”

  “It did seem very odd, him conducting the funeral like that, when he’s never been all that close to Brother Erasmus.”

  “Was John? Close to Brother Erasmus, I mean?”

  “He thought he was.”

  “But you felt Brother Erasmus was keeping some distance?” Kate was very glad that Al seemed to be following this woman’s erratic line of thought, more like a random series of stepping-stones than a clear path.

  “Brother Erasmus has no friends.”

  “But John thought he was Erasmus’s friend?” Hawkin persisted.

  “Undoubtedly. He always steps in when Brother Erasmus is away. Stepped.”

  “Do you think John was blackmailing Erasmus?”

  “I don’t think that is actually his name.”

  “John? Or Erasmus?”

  “Why, both, come to think of it.”

  “Was John blackmailing Brother Erasmus?”

  “Brother Erasmus isn’t the sort to be blackmailed.”

  “Do you think John was trying?”

  “Oh, Inspector, you are so pushy!”

  “That’s my job, Beatrice.”

  “You’re as bad as John was, in a way, though much nicer with it, not so sort of slimy.”

  “Do you think—”

  “I don’t know!” she burst out unhappily. “Yes, all right, it seemed an unlikely friendship, partnership, liaison, what have you. But Brother Erasmus is not the sort to submit to overt blackmail.”

  “But covert blackmail?” Hawkin seized on her word.

  “I… I wondered. There was a sort of—oh, how to describe it?—a manipulative intimacy about John’s attitude toward Erasmus, and in turn Erasmus—Brother Erasmus—seemed to be… I don’t know. Watching him, maybe. Yes, I suppose that’s it. John would kind of sidle up to Erasmus as if they shared a great secret, and Erasmus would draw himself up and, without actually stepping back, seem to be stopping himself from moving away.”