A Study in Sherlock

“I got your note,” he said. “Fill me in.”

“I located the person who tuned Judge Watts’s piano. She replaced three bass strings a week before the party. She wanted to retune the piano after the strings had ‘matured’—her term—and before the party, but didn’t have a chance. She said those strings were about eight feet long. She left the old ones in Judge Watts’s metal recycling receptacle.”

I glanced at him. Eyebrows amidship: he was listening closely.

“According to the police report, one end of the wire that killed Ina had been cut,” I continued. “The investigators found several bass strings on that old upright piano had been cut off, so that’s where they thought the wire came from. By cutting the wire short you can disguise its origin.”

We walked on until we reached the pond, where several Canada geese were gliding around. We stopped to admire them.

Finally he said, “Well, shit, piss, and corruption.” A pause, followed by a sigh. “I’ve been doing some investigating too. Guess what Watts did before he went to law school.”

“Other than college?”

Boothby rubbed his hands. “I called up that law school classmate of his I’d met in Vermont, and I lied.” He shrugged, a small mea culpa. “I said I was preparing a roast for Watts and needed some dirt about his background.” Brief pause. “Watts was a court reporter in Maryland. His college GPA hadn’t been strong, but he wanted to become a lawyer so to get his nose into the legal community’s tent he chose stenography. A few years later he applied to law school. I guess his experience in the courtroom overcame his college record.”

“So Tini knew how to use a steno machine?”

“Yup.”

So we had the Big Three: opportunity, means, and motive. Opportunity because Watts knew Ina and, if “Teenie” was the same person as “Tini,” Ina considered him a friend. Means because of the piano wire and his steno experience. Motive because of the risk that Ina would turn state’s evidence. If Watts had been using cocaine, it all fit together.

“What now?” I asked.

“Gibson called, inviting me over to discuss Ina. He says he’s shocked to think she was murdered. I think I’ll go. Want to come?”

“Me? Sounds like it ought to be private.”

He turned to face me. “I’m being cautious: it’s harder to, uh, ‘silence’ two of us than just one.”

It was Saturday afternoon, and we were at Gibson Watts’s front door. I rang the bell.

The door opened, and Watts stood there in his baggy day-off clothes. He greeted us with a warm “Welcome, guys.”

“Hi, Martini!” Boothby sounded as enthusiastic as a kid at a circus. He moved forward to give Watts an energetic handshake.

Watts seemed startled, but pleasantly so. “Who hit you with the happy stick? And where’d you learn that nickname?”

“Friends in low places. Your reputation has finally caught up with you.” Boothby was being as affable as possible.

Not me. The Glock Model 26 between my waistband and the small of my back reminded me of the potential downside of this meeting. Boothby wanted to keep it “at a personal and judicial level, in case we’re wrong,” but I didn’t care about judicial levels. I was worried about getting “silenced.” I’d spent some time in Baghdad before law school, and I’d learned not to go unarmed into what could be hostile territory. So I’d borrowed the pistol from an NRA-nut friend. I didn’t have a license to carry it. I hadn’t told Boothby.

Watts ushered us in and directed us to the same study where we’d met Emmy. All of us grabbed armchairs.

“Okay, Linwood, how come the tag team?” He pointed at me.

“We’ve been thinking about Ina. And we need your help. I want to squeeze your nose.”

Watts looked as if he’d been hit with a water balloon. He closed his eyes tight and then shook his head once, violently, opened his eyes, and peered at Boothby. “You want to what?”

“Squeeze your nose. It’s what cops do sometimes when they encounter a coke suspect.”

“What the Christ have you been smoking?”

“Wrong question, Gibson. The question is, what have you been sniffing? We need to know you’re not on cocaine.”

“Cocaine?” Watts moved forward in his chair. “Are you fucking nuts?”

“Gibson, please listen. There are reasons to suspect you of murder.”

Watts started to rise out of his chair.

“Please listen, please don’t take offense.” Boothby motioned him back into his seat. “We’re here because we’re worried about you, not suspicious.”

Watts sat down but squinted at Boothby. His eyes were dark, and his face so tense that he looked ready to explode.

Boothby continued: “Ina was apparently dealing cocaine, and one of the names of her possible customers was Teenie—T-e-e-n-i-e. Ina died hanging from a bass piano string, just like one of those you had replaced. The old strings remained in your possession.”

Watts leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and turned halfway to his left to look out a window. He said nothing.

“A supposed suicide note was found on a steno tape. You know how to use steno machines. And you’ve been suffering nosebleeds, a symptom of many things, including cocaine use.”

Watts continued to stare out the window.

“Ina took down the plea agreement involving her own supplier, so she knew her days were numbered. You knew about that plea agreement. So what does all of this amount to? Nothing, I hope. Teenie could be someone else. I’m here because I’m both your friend and a judge. The Rules of Judicial Conduct say because I don’t know you’ve done anything wrong, I don’t have to report anything to anyone. The only person I’ve been talking to about this is Artie. The Rules say I’m supposed to ‘take appropriate action,’ so here I am.”

His upper body still facing the window, Watts glared at Boothby. “You call accusing me of murder ‘appropriate action’?”

“You bet.” Boothby nodded vigorously. “I want to be wrong. I’m risking our friendship because I’m worried. If you’re not using cocaine, I’ve misled myself and Artie, and I’ll get on my knees and beg your forgiveness.”

Watts looked at me for the first time, as icy a glare as I’ve ever experienced. He focused on Boothby again: “Ina was probably dealing to a court reporter acquaintance, or to someone who learned how to type a suicide note on a steno machine for the occasion. And Teenie as you spell it is a common nickname.”

Boothby nodded. “You’re absolutely right. So here’s the next issue. Ina’s apartment hasn’t been vacuumed or swept since her death. If you’re not clean, or if I’m unsure, I take what I have to the cops and they’ll start checking it—and you—for DNA evidence.”

Watts stared at Boothby. Boothby stared back. I looked from one to the other and back again. No one said anything. The tension was like ozone before a lightning strike: I could smell it.

Boothby stirred. “If you’ve been seriously snorting and I squeeze your nose—damn, squeeze your own nose— it’ll hurt like hell and you’ll get a nosebleed. If you haven’t, you won’t. Please help us both.”

Watts looked out the window again, put his left elbow on the arm of the chair, and rested his chin in his palm. There was silence. The longer the silence lasted the more my suspicion grew.

Finally Watts gazed at Boothby. “You ain’t squeezing my nose, Linwood.” His voice rose. “Nobody’s squeezing my nose. This whole conversation abuses my integrity, and nobody’s abusing my person as well.” His face got bright red. “You were just leaving, weren’t you?” He spat the last two words.

Boothby seemed ready for it. “Not unless you physically throw me out. Maybe you’re mad because I’ve offended a sensitive and innocent person, or maybe you’re mad because I’ve cornered a less-than-innocent person. I need to know it’s the former. Please, Gibson.”

Watts jumped to his feet. “You’re out, Boothby! Get out of here, and take your lackey with you!” he