The Glitter Dome (39 page)

“No,” Martin Welborn said. “But I have to advise you of your rights.”

She sat quietly during the reading of her constitutional rights and then said, “You think
I
killed Nigel St. Claire.”

“Possibly,” Martin Welborn said. “And you might actually
want
to talk about it.”

“And why would I have wanted to kill him?”

“I think you suspected what Lloyd and his Vietnamese friend were going to do in Mexico. I think after Peggy had her audition you were outraged, and went to the house in Trousdale the next day and found no one at home. I think you broke the glass of the side door and went inside and saw enough to satisfy yourself as to what they were
really
going to make in Mexico.”

“And what's that?”

“A snuff film,” Martin Welborn said.

“A snuff film? How interesting. Have you ever seen a snuff film?”

“As far as the Los Angeles Police Department knows, there's never been a snuff film actually verified. There've been simulated snuff films from South America where they use animal guts and tricks they use in regular movies. But no police agency has yet confiscated a real snuff film despite all the rumors of their existence.”

“And how did I know they were going to use Peggy for a snuff film?”

“You found something in the house. Something that spelled
more
than S and M, which you probably suspected at first. Something that told you they weren't just going to physically abuse Peggy in their movie. They were going to
kill
her. On camera. A genuine snuff film.”

“And then what?”

“You waited at the Trousdale house and followed Weils' taxi right to his apartment. You looked at his name on the mailbox. You found him in the phone book. You finally decided to call and warn him to change his plans. You have a deep voice. You wanted to sound like a man.”

“And then?”

“And then you found out from Flameout Farrell that Lloyd was still coming around looking for Peggy. You were furious, but still all you had was the suspicion of a snuff film in another country. There was nothing you could even report to the police. You decided to tell Lloyd that you were onto him and he'd better leave Peggy alone. You took a gun for protection and …”

“I don't have a gun.”

“… and you waited at Griswold Weils' apartment for a night or two until you saw that Bentley drive up across the street in the bowling alley parking lot.”

“And then?”

“And then you waited until you saw Lloyd go to the apartment to talk to Griswold Weils. You walked to the Bentley to wait for him. You were shocked to see a man in that car whom you knew.”

“I didn't know Nigel St. Claire.”

“You know his face. You were
shocked
to think he was part of this. You were more than shocked. You were
furious
.”

“Why would Nigel St. Claire be part of it?”

“I don't know. To have something no one else has? Or perhaps Nigel St. Claire was simply a victim of blackmail and was helping Lloyd the blackmailer
put together his package
, as they say in your business. Maybe he didn't know that Lloyd was planning to make something more than kiddy porn, or animal porn, or something more than S and M.”

“In other words, Nigel St. Claire might have been a
victim
after all? A
victim
of an extortion? Wrongfully killed by an outraged lover of a little girl he was
only
going to exploit in an ordinary way by letting a dog or a donkey fuck her brains out? Or maybe let her be whipped and burned and savaged a little, with eight thousand dollars to salve the wounds?”

“Something like that,” Martin Welborn said.

“Yes. Maybe Nigel St. Claire thought it was
only
to be kiddy porn with Mexican kids and they don't count for much anyway? In any case, he didn't know it was a
snuff
film because he wouldn't countenance
murder
, no matter how sinister and perverted he was, correct? Or how frightened he was of a blackmailer?”

“Something like that,” Martin Welborn said.

“Well then, a piece of filth like Nigel St. Claire
should
be killed. And I'm delighted that someone performed the public service. May I borrow a piece of notebook paper?”

Al Mackey looked at Martin Welborn and tore off a sheet of yellow lined paper.

“Your pencil, please?” she said.

Then they watched her write a name and telephone number. When she was finished, she said, “This is
not
a signed confession. I want you to save yourself further embarrassment. I want you to call this man tomorrow. He's the production manager on a show I just finished. I want you to ask him where I was for three days
before
and four days
after
Nigel St. Claire was killed. I want you to question him thoroughly and then question
every
witness he gives you. I want you to be absolutely satisfied that I was on location in Wyoming. Far from a commercial airport, at
all
times in the immediate presence of a cast and crew of more than one hundred people. I'd like you to do all that, and I don't require an apology. But I do want you to promise not to bother Peggy and me ever again or I'll call my lawyer and bring a lawsuit against you for police harassment.”

When they were driving back to the station, Al Mackey said, “She wasn't bluffing, Marty.”

“Damn it, I know I've got
most
of it right,” Martin Welborn said. “I
know
I do. The snuff film. It makes sense. Bozwell and his friend are thugs, hoodlums,
killers
, if there's enough money in it.”

“What if you've got it correct up to the point of St. Claire's murder?” Al Mackey said. “The snuff film makes some sense. More, if St. Claire was a blackmail victim and didn't know what Bozwell was really up to. In other words, St. Claire was a filthy cowardly pig, but not a killer. How about St. Claire just gets sick of being leaned on? And when Bozwell came back to the car from Weils' apartment, St. Claire has it out with him and says he won't give him any more help or money. And Bozwell shoots him. Then Bozwell goes out of the movie business, gets rid of all his equipment, and goes back into the armed robbery business, which he does best anyway. Something like that?”

“Plausible. But I just can't see Bozwell killing his meal ticket.”

“What if St. Claire went bughouse and attacked him?”

“Plausible,” Martin Welborn said. “If we ever catch the Vietnamese partner, he might verify that theory.”

“He's about our
last
hope. Because when Bozwell shows up for his preliminary hearing on the goldbug robbery he's not going to give us the time of day.”

“Not the time of day,” Martin Welborn said.

“Who came up with the snuff film idea? You or Ad Vice?”

“I did. It
has
to be that. I was sure of it after spending the afternoon at Ad Vice. I saw kiddy porn. I saw S and M films. It
has
to be that.”

“How do you feel after a day at the sewer cinema?”

“I feel like seeing Deedra tonight and talking about retirement.”

“Whose?”

“Mine. Hers.”

“You've only known this woman for a few days!”

“She hates the movie business. She's getting out of it. Not because of me, of course.”

“Marty, don't depend too much on this new … friendship.”

“Sometimes you have to take a chance, Al,” Martin Welborn said, and his long brown eyes had dropped at the corners and Al Mackey got nervous because they were starting to drift in and out of focus again.

One of the children in the kiddy porn looked exactly like Danny Meadows. Of course he knew it wasn't, but he looked like Danny Meadows. Perhaps it was the glazed look in the child's eyes when the man was sexually abusing him for the camera. The child was drugged and his mouth made the word, “Daddy?” Maybe that's what made him think of Danny Meadows
.

“Marty, I'm talking to you,” Al Mackey said.

“Huh?”

“Marty, you had that look again.”

“What look?”

“Were you thinking about Elliott Robles?”

“No.”

“It wasn't your fault, Marty. Elliott's death wasn't your fault.”

“Yes,” he said, ambiguously.

“What're you gonna do tonight?”

Martin Welborn stared past Al Mackey and said, “I'm going to see Deedra. We'll talk about painting. She's a wonderful painter and she wants to teach me to skate. Think I'm too old?”

“You're not too old, Marty,” Al Mackey said, hoping that Martin Welborn could see Deedra Briggs tonight. And that they'd talk about painting and roller skates.

At 7:30 that night, Deedra Briggs was home and answered the phone.

“Sergeant Elbowpatches!” she exclaimed. “I was hoping you'd call
last
night!”

“I wanted to, Deedra, but we were …”

“I'm so excited! I was busting to tell somebody! Do you remember the tall man with the silver hair who was talking to Herman's mogul group?”

“Yes.”

“He called my agent yesterday. Personally! I'm getting the third lead in that South African picture I told you about!”

“He's one of the men you despise,” Martin Welborn said.

“And third billing, Martin! Do you know what that means?”

“A lot of money.”

“The hell with the money! I'd pay them! Do you know what it means to my career at this point? Martin, I'm no kid. I thought it was over. The South African picture. God, I don't even know the working title. Everyone's talking about it!”

“The other producer who owns the rights,” Martin Welborn said, “is the one with the world's largest porn collection.”

“They've become partners. God, I'm so excited I can't come down off the ceiling. I have to
tell
people!”

“When will you be leaving?”

“They start shooting at the end of the summer if the script's in shape.”

“I was wondering if you'd like some dinner tonight.”

“Oh, I can't, Martin. I've been invited to discuss the project with them. Over dinner. I'm so sorry. Maybe tomorrow or the next day?”

“Sure. I'll call.”

“I'm so excited!”

“Good-bye, Deedra.”

“Let's get together for lunch, Sergeant Elbowpatches!” she said merrily.

When Martin Welborn hung up the phone he went to the kitchen and poured himself a tumbler of vodka. His lower back had begun hurting during the conversation with Deedra Briggs. Now the pain was getting unbearable. He gulped down the vodka like water, and it burned so much he gagged. Still, he poured another. He drank it the same way. The pain of the vodka didn't dull the other. He was hammered with bolts of pain. He limped into the bedroom and stripped off all his clothes. He was in too much agony to satisfy his compulsion for neatness and order. He stepped out of his clothes where they lay and limped to the device in the corner of the bedroom. He groaned as he strapped himself into position. Then he let himself down until he was suspended upside down with his spine perfectly straight and his head three inches from the floor.

But the pain was not subsiding. He moaned again. It was hurting so much he started to weep. The tears were running the wrong way, into his eyebrows and hair instead of into his mouth. He wept like the little boy in the film he had seen today. The little boy was drugged, but still the pain had made him weep. When he wept he looked just like Danny Meadows.

It wasn't as though it was a big deal homicide, Captain Woofer had said. It wasn't any kind of homicide
.

And it wasn't often that veteran homicide detectives rolled on an all-units call unless it was code three. This was only a code two broadcast. The next-door neighbor who heard the boy whimpering on the service porch had been too hysterical to respond hysterically. She had simply told the communications operator that someone had been cut and to send the police and an ambulance. Then she hung up and couldn't stop screaming even after the police arrived
.

Martin Welborn remembered exactly what he and Al had been talking about when they heard the radio call. They had been discussing Paula's agreement not to seek a divorce, thus remaining his spouse and heir as far as the Department was concerned. He was willing to pay her far more than she could have gotten in spousal support. A marriage was not dead without an official seal. Not in the eyes of man. God no longer mattered. But a bitter call from Paula for more money had precipitated a night of haunting loneliness
.

Perhaps if Paula hadn't called the night before. It had exhausted him physically as well as spiritually. He was in no condition to accommodate the meeting with Danny Meadows
.

Perhaps if the radio call hadn't been broadcast at that precise moment. Two minutes later they'd have been back at the station. Martin Welborn distinctly remembered what he had said when Al Mackey asked if he wanted to respond to the call since they were so close. He'd said, “I'm tired, Al. Do what you like.” The words were etched like a steel engraving. He remembered precisely
.

If he hadn't said the last part. If they'd been two blocks closer to the station. If the neighbor had responded more predictably, the call would have been code three, and a radio car would have arrived first
.

Is that finally it? It's all an accident? Coincidence? A series of tiny vagaries?

Mr. and Mrs. Meadows were clearly not evil people, the public defender had said. And he was clearly right. They hadn't the dignity for evil. Wouldn't that be the last laugh on all failed seminarians? There's no evil. No good. No choices. Only accidents
.

They arrived long before the first radio car. The screaming woman stood in front of Danny Meadows' house. She never said a word. She didn't even point. She looked at the house and screamed. Al Mackey took hold of her and she tried to talk. They couldn't make sense of it. Martin Welborn drew his revolver and walked toward the house. He remembered distinctly what Al Mackey said: “Be careful, Marty
.”