“My big brood,” said Hopkins, when he saw me looking. He kept brushing his sleeve with his hand, although there was nothing on it. “Five kids and thirteen grandkids. I thought I was going to be able to rest when I retired, but instead I run around after children all day.” He stepped forward as if preparing to explain who was in the pictures, but then appeared to think better of it and sat down. “I’ll tell you, it’s harder keeping track of a bunch of energetic kids than it is to find a criminal. But you probably know all about that.”
I smiled weakly, not wanting to engage him on the topic of family. It was so strange to be sitting in a house with this man, all these years after we’d first crossed paths, when our lives—and indeed the entire world—had been so dramatically different. I studied his face again, and did, now, see that it had changed, in ways more subtle than simply bearing the marks of time. He seemed hollowed somehow, not quite himself, as if the package of his body had been emptied out and replaced with less substantial material.
“Did you stay with the police department throughout your career?” I asked.
“No, just for a few years after your …” He gestured helplessly. “Your situation. But I moved up pretty quickly, and got to work on some big cases. The Stevenson murder, if you remember, and the Davis water scandal.”
I nodded. Although I could not recall the details, I vaguely remembered that Hopkins had been a major figure in the investigations, unearthing corruption and making high-profile arrests. He had made his name as somewhat of a crusader; I’d seen his picture in the paper several times. “I went to law school then,” he continued, “and worked my way up to Deputy D.A., which is as far as I could get without running for office. But Crittendon was still top dog, and there was no way I could take him on, especially with how personal those races get.”
“It doesn’t surprise me that you became so successful,” I said. I noticed that he didn’t ask what became of my career, but of course he already knew that.
He sat back in his chair now, hands gripping his knees, the knees themselves bouncing lightly. His eyes wandered from my feet back to the wall behind my head; he’d not looked me in the face since the moment he opened the door.
“Listen,” he said, and his voice took on that purposeful tone I remembered from many years ago, but with an undercurrent of something else. “I don’t want to waste your time here, or mine. What is it that you’d like to discuss? I’m thinking it has to do with that unfortunate Tyler case, since that’s the only reason we happen to know each other.”
I was taken aback by his directness, but also relieved that he had broached the subject. I wasn’t sure where to begin or what to say, and so I settled on something harmless. “It was unfortunate,” I concurred, “for so many of those involved.”
“Not the least for yourself, Mr. Nakayama.”
I did not know how to respond to this, and felt rather discomfited. “Well, that is all in the past and cannot be undone,” I said. We sat there in silence for a moment. Outside I heard a child laughing, then a truck barreling down the street. When I spoke again, my voice sounded overly cheerful. “But things have been improving of late, Mr. Hopkins. You see, I have just been approached about playing a role in a new film for Perennial Pictures. As you may or may not know, this is the first such opportunity I have had in a number of years.” I paused. “I’m concerned, though, that people might look a little too hard at certain incidents from the past. I anticipate that someone from the studio, or even the press, might start asking questions. In fact, they might even come to you.”
Hopkins leaned forward and pressed his hands together, looking like he was in pain. “Damnit,” he said. “Why can’t they just let things be?”
“They might,” I said. “They might find nothing. They might just leave you alone.”
“And they might not. They might find everything.” He glanced up at me now. “But why should you be worried?”
I looked away from him and down at the floor. “There are some perhaps unsavory details I would prefer to keep out of the public.”
He reached out and straightened some magazines that lay on the coffee table, and I was surprised to see that his hands were shaking. “I understand. Believe me, I feel the same way. Some nosy reporter trying to dig up the past wouldn’t do any of us good.”
Until now I had thought that his reluctance to talk, his concern about people recalling the Tyler case, had solely to do with the facts of the murder itself. But the intensity of his worrying—and his shaking hands—suggested something else. “What do you mean?” I finally asked.
Hopkins leaned back and drummed his fingers on his knee. And when he spoke, his voice was strained. “It wasn’t done by the book, Mr. Nakayama. I mean, none of it was done by the book. We didn’t follow up on some obvious leads, we didn’t question everyone we should have.” He paused. “And they never let up on Elizabeth Banks, poor girl. I know how much you cared for her. They just let all those insinuations continue to fester, and let people imagine the worst.” He stopped and looked absently out the window. When he opened his mouth again, the words spilled out as if he’d been storing them up for years.
“I thought I was going to crack it. I thought I was headed in the right direction. Nora Niles’ maid told me that Nora had tried to shoot herself once with her mother’s .38,
