Guatemalan otters. He is probably in his mid-forties and seems to work hard to make himself look more sophisticated than he naturally is. Fonzie joins the country club.
There's no doubt Edna thinks he's got something going for him. She has put down her crossword puzzle and has already gotten him a cup of coffee. For Edna that qualifies as undying devotion.
'Andrew, this is Geoffrey Stynes. Mr. Stynes, Andrew Carpenter.' This brings to a total of one the number of occasions on which Edna has referred to me as 'Andrew.' Clearly, she is trying to match Stynes's sophistication.
Stynes smiles and holds out his hand. 'Nice to meet you.'
I take his hand and shake it. 'Same here. What can I do for you?'
'You can be my lawyer,' he says, the smile remaining intact.
'Come on in,' I say, and move him toward my office. As he enters, I look back and see Edna giving me the thumbs-up, signifying her approval of him as a client. I close the door behind us, no doubt pissing Edna off, but that's 'Andrew' for you.
Most people that come to see me take the chair across from my desk, but Stynes sits on the couch. I bring my chair over to be closer to him as we speak. He seems totally relaxed and at ease, not the demeanor that prospective clients usually display. People in need of a criminal attorney are by definition under pressure, but if Stynes is experiencing any stress at all, he is hiding it extraordinarily well.
'How did you get my name?' I ask.
'Come on, you're famous since the Miller case. Anyway, I've been watching your career for a long time,' he says.
I'm puzzled and vaguely disconcerted. 'Why have you been following my career?'
The confident smile returns. 'For exactly the kind of situation I'm in today.'
Before we discuss what situation he might be talking about, I explain some of the basics of hiring an attorney. Included in that is a standard retainer agreement, which Edna prepares and Stynes signs. Though it by no means guarantees that I will accept him as a client, the retainer establishes attorney-client privilege and allows Stynes to speak openly about his reasons for hiring me.
All of this takes about ten minutes, at the end of which Stynes is technically my client, though only for the purposes of this conversation. I will decide whether to take on his case when I hear what that case is.
'Now,' I say, 'tell me why you need my services.'
'There's a slim but real chance I'll be charged with a crime,' he says with absolutely no trace of concern.
'A specific crime?'
His smile comes back, now more condescending than before. 'Yeah. Real specific.'
'And what crime is that?'
'The murder of Alex Dorsey.'
Since I am far from the most inscrutable person in this room, I'm sure my face reflects my surprise.
'Have the police contacted you?' I ask.
'No.'
'DO you have information which leads you to believe they are going to?'
'No.'
'Then why do you think you are currently a suspect?'
Another smile, smaller this time. 'Right now I don't think I am. But when I killed him, I got some of his blood on my clothes. I threw them and the knife I used into some brush behind Hinchcliffe Stadium. I should have thrown them over the falls, but I was in a hurry, you understand.'
Hinchcliffe Stadium is a large baseball field, a former minor league park, and it is right next to the Passaic Falls, one of the larger waterfalls in the country. Had Stynes thrown the material into the falls, that would have been the end of it.
'Dorsey wasn't killed behind Hinchcliffe Stadium,' I point out.
He smiles. 'Don't confuse where he was found with where he was killed. He was
I've already pretty much decided I'm not going to take this case, but for some reason, maybe morbid curiosity, I keep probing. 'Why don't you just go there and pick the stuff up?'
'Because if for some reason the police are watching me, they'd nail me to the wall. This way, even if they find it, there's a chance they won't tie me to it.'
He's just confessed to a brutal murder with all the emotion that I show when I'm ordering a pizza. I am suddenly struck by a desire to pick up the intercom and say, 'Edna, this is Andrew. Could you bring in a machete, a can of gasoline, and some matches? Mr. Thumbs-Up wants to show us how he decapitated and charcoal-broiled a cop last week.'
'Why did you kill him?' I ask.
He laughs, permanently removing any chance I would reconsider and take the case. 'If you knew Dorsey, the more logical question would be, Why didn't somebody kill him sooner?'
'What did you do with his head?'
He smiles, seems to consider answering, then makes his decision. 'That's something I don't think I'll share with you. Nor is it relevant to your taking or not taking my case.'
He seems to think I might be doubting his truthfulness, so without prodding, he goes on to tell me the mixture of gasoline and propane that he used on Dorsey's body. It is the same as Pete had mentioned to Laurie, but not reported in the newspapers.
I'd like to know more, but that desire soon gives way to another, even more intense one. I want to get this guy out of my office. Now.
I stand up. 'Make sure you keep a copy of the retainer agreement. It is your protection against my revealing anything you've said today. I won't be representing you.'
He stands. If he's disappointed, he's an outstanding actor. 'You think just because I'm guilty I don't deserve a good defense?' he says with apparent amusement.
I shake my head. 'I think everyone is entitled to the best defense possible. The guilty generally need it the most.'
'Then why are you turning me down? I can afford whatever you charge.'
I decide to be straightforward. 'Mr. Stynes, when I represent a client, I do everything possible within the system to win. I don't want to be sorry if I succeed.'
'You want me to go to jail?' he asks.
'Not as much as I want you to leave my office. I assure you, there are plenty of competent attorneys who will take your case, if it becomes a case.'
'Okay,' he says. 'Whatever you say.'
With that he walks out of my office, and I hear him saying a polite goodbye to Edna as he leaves. The meeting has left me a little shaken, which I can attribute to the casual, matter-of-fact manner in which he described committing such a horrible murder.
What I can't figure out is why I'm worried.
MONDAY NIGHT IS TIED FOR THE BEST NIGHT OF my week with Wednesday and Friday. Those are the nights that Laurie and I spend together. We don't often go out; in fact, more often than not we stay at one of our homes and either cook dinner or order in. We each have spare clothes in the other's house, though since Tara is at my house, that's almost always where we sleep.
I admit there is nothing spontaneous about this arrangement, but it works quite well for us. We are in a committed relationship, with all that entails, but we are not ready to live together. This way everything is out in the open, and there are no unmet expectations. We've chosen not to include Saturday night on our list because for some reason we both cherish Sunday morning solitude.
Tonight we're at my house, but it's Laurie's turn to provide dinner. While I can barely manage to order in, Laurie is an absolute master in the kitchen. Anything she finds in the refrigerator, anything at all, can become part of a terrific pasta dish.
Laurie has planted a vegetable garden in the rear corner of my backyard, a testimony to the differences between us. She finds it rewarding to spend her time growing things that the supermarket is already filled with. She
