He doesn’t blink. “I was home until about seven o’clock, then I drove to Paterson.”
“Why did you do that?”
“My father called and asked me to. He said he had something to show me that I needed to see right away.”
“Did he say what it was?” I ask.
“No, but he sounded upset, and I was worried because my father never sounded upset. He was always in complete control of everything.”
“And you had no idea why?”
Steven shakes his head. “I assumed it had something to do with his work.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“He had just been very intense and secretive about it lately. But his calling me might have had nothing to do with that. He certainly wasn’t doing any of the work in downtown Paterson.”
“Did you meet your father that night?”
Steven shakes his head. “No, I went to the restaurant he specified, I think it’s called Mario’s, but he never showed up. He told me to wait outside, but after about an hour I went in and had a beer. I waited another hour after that, then tried to reach him on his cell. When I couldn’t get him, I went home.”
This part of the story checks out. Steven got a parking ticket outside Mario’s, probably when he was in having his drink, which is how the police and prosecution knew he was there. Walter Timmerman’s body was found about two blocks away.
“Why didn’t you tell any of this to the police?”
“They never asked; they never talked to me at all. Then they arrested that other guy, and I figured he had done it, so I didn’t think to go to them with it. Is that somehow bad for me?”
“We’ll deal with it,” I say, even though we may not be able to. “Were you and your father close?”
“Yes and no. It was kind of day-to-day.”
“He took you out of his will.”
Steven surprises me by laughing. “About a hundred times, but he always put me back in so he’d have something he could threaten me with.”
“But you didn’t care?” I ask.
“No, and it drove him crazy. I mean the money would have been nice, but having an actual, real-life father would have been nicer. Once I enlisted in the marines, things were never the same between us.”
“He was opposed to that?”
“As opposed as a human being could be. Which I’m sure a shrink would say is why I joined.”
“And you became an expert in explosives.”
He nods. “Is that why they think I blew up the house?”
“It doesn’t help,” I say. “What did you and your mother argue about that day?”
“Stepmother.”
I nod and stand corrected. “Stepmother.”
“Waggy. She didn’t care about dogs at all, but he was a possession she wanted, because of who he was. A future champion.”
“Did you resolve anything?”
“No, I was hoping you would do that. I still am.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted your father and stepmother dead?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Steven, I need to show you a picture of your father’s body taken at the murder scene. It’s not going to be a pleasant thing to look at, but it’s important.”
“Why?”
“Some information has come up about him experimenting with his own DNA. We have to make sure that he was really the victim.”
“No one identified the body?”
“Your stepmother.”
He nods. “Okay, let me see it.”
I can see him tense up as I take the photograph out of the envelope. I put it on the table and he looks at it for a few seconds, then closes his eyes and pushes it away before reopening them.
“It’s him,” he says. “That’s my father.”
“You’re one hundred percent sure?” I ask. I’m disappointed, even though I thought it was very unlikely that Walter Timmerman faked his death. But it would have been far easier to defend Steven from a charge of murdering someone if the victim was not actually dead.
“I am completely and totally positive.”
We talk some more, and he asks me how Waggy is doing. It reminds me that Hatchet had been pressing me to find a solution to the issue of at least temporary custody.
“Are you familiar with Charles Robinson?” I ask.
“Sure, he was a close friend of my father’s. We called him Uncle Charlie.”
“He’s trying to get Waggy,” I say. “How would you feel about that?”
“Charles shows dogs as a hobby, like my father did. I think they even co-owned a few dogs. He wouldn’t mistreat Waggy or anything, but he’d put him into training.”
“Anything wrong with that?”
“Depends on your point of view,” he says, leaving no doubt what his point of view is.
When I leave the prison my gut feeling is that I’m somewhat relieved. He answered my questions head-on and did not give the appearance of having something to hide.
Which is to say, my gut tells me that either Steven is telling the truth, or he isn’t.
In case you haven’t noticed, my gut isn’t that gutsy.
DR. ROBERT JACOBY readily agrees to talk to me, but he warns he can’t talk to me.
I called ahead and told him that I wanted to discuss Walter Timmerman, though I did not mention the strange e-mail that Sam found. Jacoby agreed, but alerted me that he regarded his interactions with Timmerman as confidential.
Crescent Hills Forensics Laboratory is located in Teaneck, not far from the campus of Fairleigh Dickinson University. The outside looks like a white spaceship, with a flat, oval, sweeping roof sitting atop a mostly glass building like a white sombrero. It seems to have been the work of a blindfolded architect who was given the mandate to make the building as modern as possible, so that clients would assume the work done inside was state of the art. He was obviously instructed not to be concerned if the building turned out to be embarrassingly ugly.
Jacoby’s office is a study in chrome and glass, with not a test tube or Bunsen burner to be found. He is dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that certainly never knew the indignity of spending a moment on a clothing store rack. This guy has his clothes custom-made as surely as I don’t. And if he’s going to roll up his sleeves and get to work, he’s going to have to take off his gold cuff links first.
I accept his offer of a glass of Swedish mineral water, and then ask him about his business relationship with Walter Timmerman. He smiles condescendingly and then shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carpenter, but our communications are confidential.”
“I wasn’t asking about specifics,” I say, though I’m certainly planning to.
“The line is hard to draw,” he says, “so I prefer not to say anything. Even though Mr. Timmerman is deceased, our reputation is such that-”
This is getting me nowhere, so I interrupt. “Were you Mr. Timmerman’s personal physician?”
“No.”
“His lawyer?”
“Certainly not. But-”
“Are you a priest? A rabbi?”
