'I went to Detective Fitzroy to find out what the police were going to do now. Actually I didn't go to him directly. I went to one place and they sent me to another place. They passed me around, you see, no doubt hoping I'd get discouraged somewhere along the way and leave them alone. I finally wound up with Detective Fitzroy, and he told me that they're not going to do anything about finding Barbara's killer.'
'What were you expecting them to do?'
'Reopen the case. Launch an investigation. Fitzroy made me see my expectations were unrealistic. I got angry at first, but he talked me through my anger. He said the case was nine years old. There weren't any leads or suspects then and there certainly aren't any now. Years ago they gave up on all eight of those killings, and the fact that they can close their files on seven of them is simply a gift. It didn't seem to bother him, or any of the officers I talked to, that there's a killer walking around free. I gather that there are a great many murderers walking around free.'
'I'm afraid there are.'
'But I have a particular interest in this particular murderer.' His little hands had tightened up into fists.
'She must have been killed by someone who knew her. Someone who came to the funeral, someone who pretended to mourn her. God, I can't stand that!'
I didn't say anything for a few minutes. I caught Trina's eye and ordered a drink. The straight goods this time. I'd had enough coffee for a while. When she brought it I drank off half of it and felt its warmth spread through me, taking some of the chill out of the day.
I said, 'What do you want from me?'
'I want you to find out who killed my daughter.'
No surprise there. 'That's probably impossible,' I said.
'I know.'
'If there was ever a trail, it's had nine years to go cold. What can I do that the cops can't?'
'You can make an effort. That's something they can't do, or at least it's something they won't do, and that amounts to the same thing. I'm not saying they're wrong not to reopen the case. But the thing is that I want them to do it, and I can't do anything about it, but in your case, well, I can hire you.'
'Not exactly.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'You can't hire me,' I explained. 'I'm not a private investigator.'
'Fitzroy said-'
'They have licenses,' I went on. 'I don't. They fill out forms, they write reports in triplicate, they submit vouchers for their expenses, they file tax returns, they do all those things and I don't.'
'What do you do, Mr. Scudder?'
I shrugged. 'Sometimes I'll do a favor for a person,' I said, 'and sometimes the person will give me some money. As a favor in return.'
'I think I understand.'
'Do you?' I drank the rest of my drink. I remembered the corpse in thatBrooklyn kitchen. White skin, little beads of black blood around the puncture wounds. 'You want a killer brought to justice,' I said.
'You'd better realize in front that that's impossible. Even if there's a killer out there, even if there's a way to find out who he is, there's not going to be any evidence lying around after all these years. No bloodstained icepick in somebody's hardware drawer. I could get lucky and come up with a thread, but it won't turn into the kind of thing you can spread out in front of a jury. Somebody killed your daughter and got away with it and it galls you. Won't it be more frustrating if you know who it is and there's nothing you can do about it?'
'I still want to know.'
'You might learn things you won't like. You said it yourself-somebody probably killed her for a reason. You might be happier not knowing the reason.'
'It's possible.'
'But you'll run that risk.'
'Yes.'
'Well, I guess I can try talking with some people.' I got my pen and notebook from my pocket, opened the notebook to a fresh page, uncapped the pen. 'I might as well start with you,' I said.
* * *
WE talked for close to an hour and I made a lot of notes. I had another double bourbon and made it last. He had Trina take away his drink and bring him a cup of coffee. She refilled it twice for him before we were finished.
He lived inHastings-on-Hudson inWestchesterCounty . They'd moved there from the city when Barbara was five and her younger sister Lynn was three. Three years ago, some six years after Barbara's death, London 's wife Helen had died of cancer. He lived there alone now, and every once in a while he thought about selling the house, but so far he hadn't gotten around to listing it with a realtor.
He supposed it was something he'd do sooner or later, whereupon he'd either move into the city or take a garden apartment somewhere inWestchester .
Barbara had been twenty-six. She'd be thirty-five now if she had lived. No children. She had been a couple of months' pregnant when she died, andLondon hadn't even known that until after her death.
Telling me this, his voice broke.
