Black House

“Could be,” the young person says. “How’m I supposed to know? Dr. Spiegleman doesn’t tell me everything he does.”

Jack points to the telephone at the end of the counter. “I don’t expect you to know, I expect you to find out. Get on that phone now.”

The young man slouches down the counter to the telephone, rolls his eyes, punches two numbered keys, and leans against the counter with his back to the room. Jack hears him muttering about Spiegleman, sigh, then say, “All right, transfer me, whatever.” Transferred, he mutters something that includes Jack’s name. Whatever he hears in response causes him to jerk himself upright and sneak a wide-eyed look over his shoulder at Jack. “Yes, sir. He’s here now, yes. I’ll tell him.”

He replaces the receiver. “Dr. Spiegleman’ll be here right away.” The boy—he is no more than twenty—steps back and shoves his hands in his pockets. “You’re that cop, huh?”

“What cop?” Jack says, still irritated.

“The one from California that came here and arrested Mr. Kinderling.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m from French Landing, and boy, that was some shock. To the whole town. Nobody would have guessed. Mr. Kinderling? Are you kidding? You’d never believe that someone like that would . . . you know, kill people.”

“Did you know him?”

“Well, in a town like French Landing, everybody sort of knows everybody, but I didn’t really know Mr. Kinderling, except to say hi. The one I knew was his wife. She used to be my Sunday school teacher at Mount Hebron Lutheran.”

Jack cannot help it; he laughs at the incongruity of the murderer’s wife teaching Sunday school classes. The memory of Wanda Kinderling radiating hatred at him during her husband’s sentencing stops his laughter, but it is too late. He sees that he has offended the young man. “What was she like?” he asks. “As a teacher.”

“Just a teacher,” the boy says. His voice is uninflected, resentful. “She made us memorize all the books of the Bible.” He turns away and mutters, “Some people think he didn’t do it.”

“What did you say?”

The boy half-turns toward Jack but looks at the brown wall in front of him. “I said, Some people think he didn’t do it. Mr. Kinderling. They think he got put in jail because he was a small-town guy who didn’t know anybody out there.”

“That’s too bad,” Jack says. “Do you want to know the real reason Mr. Kinderling went to prison?”

The boy turns the rest of the way and looks at Jack.

“Because he was guilty of murder, and he confessed. That’s it, that’s all. Two witnesses put him at the scene, and two other people saw him on a plane to L.A. when he told everyone he was flying to Denver. After that, he said, Okay, I did it. I always wanted to know what it was like to kill a girl, and one day I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I went out and killed two whores. His lawyer tried to get him off on an insanity plea, but the jury at his hearing found him sane, and he went to prison.”

The boy lowers his head and mumbles something.

“I couldn’t hear that,” Jack says.

“Lots of ways to make a guy confess.” The boy repeats the sentence just loud enough to be heard.

Then footsteps ring in the hallway, and a plump, white-coated man with steel-rimmed glasses and a goatee comes striding toward Jack with his hand out. The boy has turned away. The opportunity to convince the attendant that he did not beat a confession out of Thornberg Kinderling has slipped away. The smiling man with the white jacket and the goatee seizes Jack’s hand, introduces himself as Dr. Spiegleman, and declares it a pleasure to meet such a famous personage. (Personage, persiflage, Jack thinks.) From one step behind the doctor, a man unnoticed until this moment steps fully into view and says, “Hey, Doctor, do you know what would be perfect? If Mr. Famous and I interview the lady together. Twice the information in half the time—perfect.”

Jack’s stomach turns sour. Wendell Green has joined the party.

After greeting the doctor, Jack turns to the other man. “What are you doing here, Wendell? You promised Fred Marshall you’d stay away from his wife.”

Wendell Green holds up his hands and dances back on the balls of his feet. “Are we calmer today, Lieutenant Sawyer? Not inclined to use a sucker punch on the hardworking press, are we? I have to say, I’m getting a little tired of being assaulted by the police.”

Dr. Spiegleman frowns at him. “What are you saying, Mr. Green?”

“Yesterday, before that cop knocked me out with his flashlight, Lieutenant Sawyer here punched me in the stomach for no real reason at all. It’s a good thing I’m a reasonable man, or I’d have filed lawsuits already. But, Doctor, you know what? I don’t do things that way. I believe everything works out better if we cooperate with each other.”

Halfway through this self-serving speech, Jack thinks, Oh hell, and glances at the young attendant. The boy’s eyes burn with loathing. A lost cause: now Jack will never persuade the boy that he did not mistreat Kinderling. By the time Wendell Green finishes congratulating himself, Jack has had a bellyful of his specious, smarmy affability.

“Mr. Green offered to give me a percentage of his take, if I let him sell photographs of Irma Freneau’s corpse,” he tells the doctor. “What he is asking now is equally unthinkable. Mr. Marshall urged me to come here and see his wife, and he made Mr. Green promise not to come.”

“Technically, that may be true,” Green says. “As an experienced journalist, I know that people often say things they don’t mean and will eventually regret. Fred Marshall understands that his wife’s story is going to come out sooner or later.”

“Does he?”