In the living room, framed photos crowded the mantel above a fireplace. Danziger himself was in most of them, smiling behind his tortoiseshell glasses and walrus mustache. Another man appeared in these photos — handsome, younger than Danziger — and it occurred to me that Danziger was gay. The idea brought me up short. It was the first human detail I’d learned about him.
Until now Danziger had been little more than an abstraction. Occasionally in my thoughts I’d dignified him with the title victim, but it is a peculiarity of murder cases that the victim is unknowable and therefore unreal. The detective has only the body, and even that must be objectified as evidence for professional and psychological reasons, for how else could the detective handle the constant reminder of his own mortality, of the ease with which flesh is ruptured and life ended? Children who are murdered seem to evoke a more visceral, emotional response, but in general the homicide investigator keeps his distance. In his own home, though, for the first time, Bob Danziger was no abstraction. He was a living presence. You felt him. I remembered Danziger as he’d been when he first approached me in Versailles. He seemed about to ask for directions or some other routine business. Chief Benjamin Truman? I was wondering if I could have a word.
I studied the family photos. In one snapshot, Danziger and his partner stood side by side at a party of some kind, both wearing tuxedos. Another photo showed them at the beach, standing with arms draped over each other’s shoulders like old pals. In this picture, Danziger wore a gold Star of David around his neck; a Claddagh ring was discernible on his partner’s finger. Such pregnant images, so suggestive of the infinite complexity of Danziger’s life, of any life.
I wandered through the empty house, opening drawers and cabinets. I looked inside the medicine chest in the master bathroom. (A partial inventory: green plastic toothbrush and a full tube of Crest Extra Whitening toothpaste, a Panasonic beard trimmer, tweezers, Edge shaving cream, a Gillette disposable razor, a stiff brush with red hairs caught in the bristles, a fine-tooth comb for the mustache, moisturizer with SPF 15 sunblock for Danziger’s fair skin, two prescription bottles containing codeine pills prescribed in 1995 for back pain.)
In the den, I sat down in the flattened chair facing the TV. A hardcover edition of Updike’s Rabbit at Rest lay beside the chair where, I presume, Danziger had put it down. He had used the flap of the dust jacket to hold his page, and I opened the book to read a few lines there. The book was signed on the inside cover in blue ink, Robt Danziger, 1/17/92. Practiced, Palmer Method letters.
I imagined him then, on January 17, 1992, inscribing his book for posterity. He couldn’t have known, could he? When Bobby Danziger bent over this page and signed his name, when he decided after some hesitation to abbreviate his first name to Robt — an artifice calculated to mask the attention he was lavishing on the signature — he could not have known that the fatal trajectory of his life was already set, the string of coincidences already in motion, bearing him toward that cabin in Maine five and a half years later. In fact, the chain of causation had begun even earlier, in 1977 with the cop killing at the Kilmarnock Pub — an event I’d already linked with the first murderous cells dividing and metastasizing in my mother’s brain. Maybe, I imagined, Fasulo fired the death shot into that policeman’s head at the precise moment the first malignant cell pinched itself in two. There ought to be a pattern in these things, a system, otherwise it is all just chance and absurdity, isn’t it? Otherwise it is just stupidity — trucks skipping over guardrails, plaque encrusting the arteries of men’s hearts, hydraulic systems failing over the North Atlantic. Each of us marching ignorantly toward his own random, pointless finish. And yet on a day like today — rustling with dry leaves and the smell of winter coming on, alive with the sense of degeneration and regeneration; the sort of day that is New England’s special gift — who would want to know? Who would reverse the flight of the arrow? Why would Danziger ever want to preview his own perishing, the when, where and how? Why would he want to foresee his own body on that cabin floor, the slurry of blood and bone chips sprayed on the walls? So he could choose a different path? If he had seen the end, would he have left Artie Trudell’s murder unsolved? Run off to a monastery somewhere and hidden from his fate? Maybe. But he did not know. He followed the branchings until he reached that cabin, and, stupid or not, that is the way it has to be. None of us knows.
In a small office on the second floor, I sorted through papers and files looking for anything connected to the Trudell case. I searched Danziger’s personal papers, through files tabbed Auto and Taxes and House. There was nothing about Raul or Trudell or anything else. The air in the room was warm and close. Dust motes hung in the sunlight.
Behind me a hoarse, grinding voice — a voice out of a gangster movie — said, ‘What are you doing here?’
I jumped.
Edmund Kurth stood at the office door.
‘Jesus, Ed! Do you always sneak up like that?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m — I’m doing a search.’
‘A search? You have a warrant?’
‘I don’t need a warrant to search a dead guy’s house.’
‘You don’t need a warrant if you’re a cop. You’re not a cop, so it’s trespassing. I could arrest you.’
‘Do you need to see my badge, Ed?’
‘Your badge doesn’t mean shit here. You’ve been told to leave.’
‘So you’re going to arrest me for trespassing.’
‘Maybe.’
Kurth lingered in the doorway. He glowered with the flamboyant ferocity of a boxer in the prefight staredown. The evil eye. There was such feral, unaffected menace in it — the sense of energy held just barely in check — that his mere presence implied a threat.
‘This won’t help you, you know, being found here. You’re only making it worse.’
I pressed my temples between my two fists, looking, I’m sure, like the very model of a guilty man.
‘What is it you’re looking for?’
‘I don’t know exactly’
‘We already searched this place.’ He drifted into the room. ‘There’s nothing left for you to find.’
From Danziger’s desk, Kurth plucked a crude-looking shiv, a souvenir of an old trial, no doubt. The weapon was little more than a five — or six-inch strip of metal with cloth tape wound around one end as a grip. ‘Ever seen one of these, Chief Truman?’
‘No.’
‘They make them in the prisons. They take the leg of a bed or a table and sharpen it into a knife like this.’
‘Interesting, Ed. Thanks for the information.’
He ignored the sarcasm. ‘It’s not a very good knife, it’s not that sharp. But it gets the job done.’
He held the blade about a foot from my nose. He let it rest in his open palm, presumably to demonstrate that he did not actually intend to stab me. Small comfort. He stood pondering the thing a moment longer, then flipped it around and offered it to me handle-first. When I didn’t take it, he laid the odd-looking dagger carefully on the desk.
‘One more time, Chief Truman. What are you doing here?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me.’
‘You’d be surprised.’
What was left at this point but to trust him? ‘I know why Danziger was killed.’
‘Yeah? Why?’
‘He was looking into the Arthur Trudell case, from ’87. I think he found Trudell’s killer.’
‘So who did it? Braxton?’
‘I don’t know. Yet.’
‘Well, where did your information come from?’
I winced. ‘Braxton.’
Kurth actually smiled. He looked down at me and grinned, and sunlight illuminated the pits in his cheeks where birds seemed to have pecked him with their beaks. ‘That’s just too perfect,’ he said.
‘Kurth, you have to look into this. You have to!’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s the truth.’ I groped for a more compelling reason. ‘And because it’s your job.’
‘I’ll look into anything. On one condition: You tell me everything you know about it. No Fifth Amendment
