Emerald Aisle (19 page)
JOSEPH PRIMERO MADE AN ideal murderer. He publicly apologized to Dudley Fyte for having put him through this ordeal. He expressed his regret for allowing the police even to suspect that his longtime and valued assistant Waldo Hermes could possibly have been involved in the theft of items from the collection in his care. As for the death of his wife, he threw himself on the mercy of God. From the state, he expected nothing but justice.
Any disruption this caused the detective bureau and the prosecutor was tolerable because now all the pieces of the puzzle fit so neatly together. And there was a confession. Primero would of course plead innocent, and his confession would not be allowable in court, but it was public and highly publicized knowledge, and one could have gone to the ends of the earthâor at least of Ramsey Countyâand not impaneled a jury that did not know it. Primero's lawyer must of course go through the motions of defending him, using every legal device and angle to do so. Georges Simenon once said that if he were innocent, he would prefer to be tried in England; but if he were guilty, he would prefer to be tried in the United States. But Primero seemed almost to regret the precautions and checks built into the legal system. Guilty as he said he was, it would be necessary to prove this in a court of law.
“Even Jack Cousey should be able to do that,” Swenson said. “I was never really confident that he could nail Fyte.”
This was the first expression of such doubt, but no matter. Swenson's
department and the prosecutor's office were suffused with the sense that there was but one possible outcome of the Primero trial. They relished the publicity given the fall of the wealthy developer of resorts and collector of rare books. What did wealth and erudition mean when his wife had deserted him for dissipation and a younger man? Dudley Fyte, erstwhile gigolo, was transformed into a celebrity by the turn of events. His folly, or more likely venality, in becoming linked to such a woman as Bianca Primero had provided inspiration for newspaper piece after newspaper piece. A cable station, sensing a trend in spring/autumn affairs, had interviewed him as he awaited trial. The antinomian sympathy of the interviewer elicited from Dudley one banality after another. He was led into a discussion of his childhood and threw caution to the winds, revealing his Nebraska roots. A former classmate recognized him, and the change of name to Dudley Fyte was mocked and joked about. One might have been given such a name and that was fate, but to choose it? That quickly, he was once more a figure of fun. But the confession of Joseph Primero again transformed Dudley's status.
department and the prosecutor's office were suffused with the sense that there was but one possible outcome of the Primero trial. They relished the publicity given the fall of the wealthy developer of resorts and collector of rare books. What did wealth and erudition mean when his wife had deserted him for dissipation and a younger man? Dudley Fyte, erstwhile gigolo, was transformed into a celebrity by the turn of events. His folly, or more likely venality, in becoming linked to such a woman as Bianca Primero had provided inspiration for newspaper piece after newspaper piece. A cable station, sensing a trend in spring/autumn affairs, had interviewed him as he awaited trial. The antinomian sympathy of the interviewer elicited from Dudley one banality after another. He was led into a discussion of his childhood and threw caution to the winds, revealing his Nebraska roots. A former classmate recognized him, and the change of name to Dudley Fyte was mocked and joked about. One might have been given such a name and that was fate, but to choose it? That quickly, he was once more a figure of fun. But the confession of Joseph Primero again transformed Dudley's status.
“As a lawyer, I wonder how many guilty men go free and how many innocent ones are punished,” he said unctuously to the reporters who met him when he stepped into freedom.
But for the nonce, Dudley was pushed offstage and Joseph Primero was in the spotlight. His motive could not have been more obvious. A cuckold, embarrassed privately and publicly by his wife's behavior, he had reached a point where he could honorably take no more. He strangled his wife and then, the memory of love returning, arranged her on her bed and bade her a last adieu.
The theft of some of his rare books? A ruse perpetrated by himself out of confused and equivocal motivation. Would the loss of
those valuable items spark some sympathy in Bianca's breast? There were of course other interpretations of the relation between the theft and the murder. The theft had been a smokescreen. Primero had meant to turn attention away from himself and to set off a search for the thief who had turned murderer.
those valuable items spark some sympathy in Bianca's breast? There were of course other interpretations of the relation between the theft and the murder. The theft had been a smokescreen. Primero had meant to turn attention away from himself and to set off a search for the thief who had turned murderer.
“I never dreamed that suspicion would fall on Dudley Fyte.”
Incredulity greeted this remark. Primero began to be seen as a calculating and cagey character. He had hoped Waldo Hermes would be suspected. He had known that sooner or later it would occur to someone that Bianca's key to the house could have been provided to Dudley Fyte. His eventual confession ceased to seem altruistic. He had been driven to speak by his conscience.
“Of course our investigation was ongoing, to clear up loose ends,” Swenson told the press. “I suppose that unnerved him.”
“When did you start suspecting him?”
“In this kind of investigation, everyone is a suspect.”
Phil was at Primero's side while he was questioned; his lawyer, Daniels, on the other side. Primero spoke slowly and with deliberation as if for years he had been rehearsing for this moment. How often must he not have thought of doing violence to the woman who had made such a fool of him? The fact that he had a penthouse apartment in the condominium where Bianca lived had masochistic elements to it, as if he wanted to be a witness to his own humiliation. He came and went more often than would have been suspected. Norma could testify to that.
“She called me âSmilin' Jack.' I suppose I did half disguise myself, as if everyone would know why I was there.”
“But she didn't know Bianca was your wife.”
“Didn't she? I assumed she did. I suppose I assumed everyone knew of my disgrace.”
The penthouse was held in the name of the construction company Primero owned: Edification Inc. It permitted him to come and go at will.
“Only if I drove through the gate would Norma know I was there. Of course one could also approach the building by foot and admit oneself by key.”
This had been the strong part of the case against Dudley Fyte. The discovery of keys to the building and to Bianca's apartment found in his car, the fact that he had signed in and out, placing himself in the building when Bianca was murdered, had not moved him to confess.
“First, it's books, now it's keys. Bianca never gave me keys to that place.”
Nor did he admit to having signed in and out of the building. But Primero smoothed the way by admitting the use of a key. And he enlarged his apology to Dudley Fyte. He had written his name in the book, expertly imitating the signatures it already contained.
“And I put those keys in his car. And filled his briefcase with the missing items.”
“Why did you have the tapes destroyed?”
Primero looked rueful. “They were mine. I could do with them what I wished. No one had subpoenaed them.”
That didn't answer the question that had been asked, but they let it go.
Philip, reporting on these events to Roger in South Bend, felt sorry for Primero and knew that he himself had gone more than an extra mile for the client who had hired him to investigate a theft from his collection.
Roger had a request. “Phil, get hold of the coroner's report on Bianca Primero.”
“What for?”
“Please.”
Phil sighed. “I'll see what I can do.”
Several hours later he faxed the report to Roger.
FATHER CARMODY WAS SHOCKED by the turn of events in the Primero matter. It had been bad enough that the wife of a university benefactor had been murdered and her illicit lover accused of the crime, but now to have Joseph Primero himself confess to the murder of his wife!
“Uxoricide!” the old priest barked, as if the arcane word added to Primero's perfidy. “It's absolutely certain that he confessed?”
Roger assured him that it was.
“We had an opportunity to talk while he was here,” Father Carmody said. “We talked about everything, his life, his marriage. He put an interesting point to me. When does a man's toleration of his wife's misbehavior pass the point of charity and become stupidity?”
“Most men would not have the problem.”
Carmody nodded. “He considered himself weak. Here he was, a very successful man, first in the navy, then as a developer, finally capping it off with a keen amateur's knowledge of the rare book market. And he was putty in his wife's hands. Was it long-suffering or simply moral weakness? Turning the other cheek, forgiving seventy times seven, or colluding with her weakness? He was never able to decide.”
Roger looked at the old priest. “Joseph and I talked while he was here but not about such things.”
“A priest is made privy to many things, Roger.” There was puzzlement
in Carmody's voice. Roger sensed that they might have entered an area where he might not intrude.
in Carmody's voice. Roger sensed that they might have entered an area where he might not intrude.
“And can absolve.”
Carmody shook his head. “It wasn't a confession in that sense.”
The faxed autopsy came in while Father Carmody was visiting, and they looked it over together. The cause of death was strangulation. Phil had got hold of the preliminary coroner's report as well, and Roger puzzled over these documents after the priest had gone back to his room in Corby Hall. After a time, Roger lay both reports by his computer and stared at the blank monitor. The two reports agreed that death could have been caused by strangulation, but one was more convincing than the other. They both showed the presence in the stomach and bloodstream of high amounts of both alcohol and sedatives.
After a time, Roger lifted the phone and called Phil. “I want to come up there, Phil. How can I do it?”
This was a problem. Roger did not drive, and even if he had it would have been unwise for him to set off for the Twin Cities in their van, the roads and weather being as chancy as they were. As for flying, that was always a problemâgetting Roger to the airport, getting him two seats instead of one.
“I'll call you back.”
When Phil did call back, he had the solution. Joseph Primero was touched at Roger's desire to be with him during his ordeal. He would send his own plane for Roger and arranged for an escort service to pick him up and take him to the Michiana Regional Transportation Center.
Mere hours later, Roger was in Minneapolis with his brother.
Joseph Primero was a man at peace. He took Roger's hand, and his beatific expression said how grateful he was to see him. They were alone in the conference room in the courthouse jail.
“Our talks at Notre Dame were a great help, Roger.”
“Your confession surprised me.”
“I can't tell you what a great relief it has been to stop pretending.”
“Tell me about it, Joseph.”
Primero cocked his head. “Tell you about it? I would rather forget it.”
“There is small chance of that now.”
“You're right, you're right. So where should I begin?”
“When you arrived at Bianca's apartment on the day she died.”
“That is quickly told. I came into ⦔
“You let yourself in.”
Primero hesitated, then nodded, “Yes.”
“Where did you find her?”
“Find her?”
“Was she in the bathroom, in the bedroom, on the floor of the living room?”
Primero sat back, looking warily at Roger. “What are you getting at?”
“The coroner's preliminary report and the autopsy indicate a good deal of sedatives in your wife's system. And alcohol in her blood.”
“I'm not surprised.”
“What did you think when you found her?”
“Why do you insist on that turn of phrase?”
“She did die by strangulation, Joseph. That is clear from both reports: the coroner's initial examination and the autopsy.”
“And I did it.”
“Killed her? I don't think you realized at the time that that is what you were doing.”
After a moment, Primero's mouth formed a joyless smile. “You are an interesting fellow, Roger.”
“Not nearly so interesting as yourself. Will you tell me about it now?”
“It doesn't make the slightest difference anymore.”
“Legally? Perhaps not.”
“Roger, what set your mind going on this?”
“A talk I had with Father Carmody. He mentioned the long conversations the two of you had during your visit to Notre Dame.”
“But I told him nothing.”
“That is what set my mind going. If you felt guilty of murder, you would have confessed to a priest before you confessed to the police.”
“Tell me what you think happened.”
“I think you found your wife unconscious, signs that she had been drinking, and then a bottle of sleeping tablets beside her. You thought she had committed suicide.” When Primero said nothing, Roger went on. “That would have been the ultimate betrayal, not of you, but of God. You wanted to spare her that dreadful judgment. So you arranged a murder scene. And you strangled her. Her dead body, as you thought.”
After a long minute of silence, Primero said, “It was the constant waffling on how she had died. And when you told me that the coroner was again leaning toward suicide, well, that settled it.”
“But you thought it was suicide at the time?”
There was a long silence. On Primero's face a whole catechism of the truths by which he lived was fleetingly present and there was an infinite sadness in his eyes. But then he almost brightened.
“Thank God I was wrong.”
Roger let it go. Joseph Primero had the right to any small consolation he could derive from the way his wife had died. How could she be a suicide if he had killed her?
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