The Role Players (31 page)

Gene put the ice bucket on the small sideboard beside a silver coffee urn and, as we sat down, took the tray back into the kitchen.

“Can I help you with anything?” Jonathan asked.

Gene looked out through the pass-through from kitchen to dining room long enough to smile and say, “No, no, please! You're my guest! But thank you for offering.”

*

In addition to juice and fresh fruit, the entree was something I'd not had before, served in a large baking dish—some sort of egg/ham/torn bread casserole. It may have been easy to make but it certainly was good!

Jonathan insisted on helping to clear the table when we were through, and Gene relented to the point of having him put the dishes on the small ledge while Gene went into the kitchen to transport them to the sink.

When the table was cleared, Gene returned to the dining room with more coffee and a tin of Serrano biscotti. They are my all-time favorite. When Jonathan noted that each biscotti was individually wrapped, he looked at me and raised his eyebrows to let me know he was impressed.

We sat around talking and relaxing, and I'd all but lost my sensation of being in a play until Gene said, “So tell me, Dick, was your search successful?”

I knew—we all knew—what he was talking about. The theatrical sensation returned and grew stronger.

I sighed…and mentally put on my tap-dancing shoes. “I'm afraid my confidence in my abilities as a private investigator is somewhat overrated at times…this being one of them. I hate not being able to tie everything up with a neat ribbon.”

“But surely there were clues…” he said.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Too many clues leading in too many directions. So, much as I hate to do it, I'll just have to leave it to the police to solve.”

“Were you able to find out what the police know?” he asked.

“Some of it,” I said without saying how, “but there was very little in the line of tangible evidence except for the note.”

“Yes, what about the note? Surely they would have been able to piece it back together and track down who wrote it.”

Piece it back together!?

It took every ounce of self-control I had not to visibly react. “Perhaps they will,” I said.

Apparently sensing that Max, Chris, and Jonathan were being left out of the conversation, Gene changed the subject, but my brain kept working with the new information and where it was leading.

I tried to keep up with our small talk while we finished our coffee and Jonathan built up a respectable pile of biscotti wrappers on the edge of his saucer.

When we'd finished our coffee and declined a refill, I took the opportunity to suggest it was about time for us to leave. We all rose from the table.

“Are you sure we can't help you with the dishes?” Jonathan asked, and again Gene declined.

We all complimented him on his cooking, thanked him profusely for his hospitality, and took our leave.

When we reached the elevators, I waited until the doors had opened and then said, “Would you guys mind waiting for me in the park? I've got to go back and talk to Gene.”

All three faces reflected their puzzlement, but they said, “Sure” in unison. The doors closed and I walked back to Gene's apartment and knocked.

He opened the door and didn't seem at all surprised to see me.

“We've got to talk,” I said.

“Please,” he replied, gesturing me to a chair while he moved to the sofa.

“I'm really sorry it was you,” I said, sincerely.

“What do you mean?” he asked calmly, and I got the feeling it was the calm of resignation.

“How did you know about the note?”

“I suppose Tait told me,” he said.

“No, he didn't,” I replied. “He didn't want you to know he'd written it. And even if he had told you, he didn't know it had been torn up.”

Gene stared at me without emotion, then gave me a raised-eyebrow shrug.

“I'd know Tait's handwriting anywhere, after all these years. It wasn't his.”

“But did you know he'd had his right thumb in a splint until the morning Rod's body was found, and couldn't hold a pen properly?”

He raised one eyebrow slightly. “No, I wasn't aware of that.”

The sensation of our being characters in a play was both overpowering and downright eerie.

“I didn't know you wore a beard,” I said, as if reciting my next line.

He gave me a Mona Lisa smile. “I don't, normally.”

“So you intended to kill Rod all along and grew a beard as a disguise,” I said, trying as good actors do to make this whole bizarre scene seem as casual as a discussion of an ordinary-day's events.

Another smile—how in hell he could smile at a time like this I couldn't imagine—and he said, “I didn't grow it as a disguise but as a surprise…for Rod. He'd told me many times that he thought I would look sexy in a beard. So I grew one. For him. Ironic, isn't it?”

Jeezus! He didn't even ask how I knew about the beard! What's he up to?

Well, since he knew I knew he had killed Rod, maybe he decided there wasn't any point in trying to be evasive. And our play continued.

“I spent the two weeks before this trip at my cabin near Big Bear, alone, trying to work on a script,” he said quietly. “But all I could think of was Rod. And I kept getting these reports…”

“From Keith,” I said. I didn't have to make it a question. Somehow I just knew. I'd been right in my feeling that Keith was not as totally uninvolved as he had implied.

He just looked at me and continued talking. “When I'm at the cabin I often don't shave for a couple of days. But this time I thought I'd take Rod's suggestion and try a beard. I suppose I hoped that perhaps, if I looked sexy to him….”

He paused and looked away from me, his expression changing from impassivity to sadness, but only for a moment. He brought his eyes back to me. “Foolish of me, I know,” he continued, “but oh, I did love him.”

“I believe you,” I said, and I did. “But I can't understand how you could have killed him.”

Again, a slight shrug. “How could Othello have killed Desdemona? How could George have killed Lenny in
Of Mice and Men
? Love takes many different forms. I have no idea how I could have killed Rod, to be honest. It wasn't my intention, I don't think.”

You don't
think?
Planting the seeds for an insanity defense already?

“Exactly what happened that night?” I asked. “And what happened to the guy Rod left the bar with?”

He pursed his lips in thought. “As I told you, while at the cabin I'd worked myself into such a mental state that I couldn't have waited a moment longer to confront him. I called the airline, changed my flight, and drove directly from my cabin to the airport.

“When I arrived here, shortly after nine o'clock, I took my suitcase into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, of course—Rod never saw the point in making a bed in the morning when he was just going to get right back in it that night—and a shirt and pair of jeans was at the foot of the bed. When I picked up the shirt to put it away, a matchbook fell out of the pocket. It was from The Hole. I'd heard of it and knew its reputation, though I'd never been there. I immediately assumed Rod had been there looking for a trick. That of course only added fuel to the fire. I spent half an hour pacing the floor, trying to plan what I was going to say to him when he got home, but again, I couldn't think. I decided to just go down to the theater and meet him there.

“I didn't really want anyone to see me, so I used my key to go in through the lobby and looked in through the space between the auditorium doors. The rehearsal had apparently just ended, and I saw Rod standing with Cam, with his hand on Cam's ass!

“I was both angry and humiliated, so I just turned away and left the way I'd come in, locking the door behind me, and went to the small passageway on the other side of the theater. Again, I didn't want anyone to see me, and I guess I wanted to see if Rod would come out with anyone. If he did, I'd follow them to see where they went.”

He looked at me and sighed. “God, what jealousy does to people!” Then he shook his head and continued. “I'd just stepped into the passageway when I saw Tait come out from the other side of the theater and walk to his car, which was parked just down the street. I watched as the cast and crew began to leave. Rod came out with Cam and Brent and a couple other cast members. They said their good-byes, and just then a cab came around the corner and Rod hailed it. There were still a few people around, so I didn't dare step out and say anything to him, but I heard him give the driver an address—the one on the matchbook cover.

“Almost physically ill, I waited until I was sure everyone had gone, then went back into the lobby to the box office and got the gun. Don't ask me why—I had no intention of using it, but I knew The Hole was a very rough bar in a very rough neighborhood.

“I walked a couple of blocks to where I could more easily catch a cab. I had the driver take me to The Hole and asked him to wait. He didn't want to, but I gave him five dollars and said I'd just be a moment. I only intended to go in, find Rod, and bring him home with me. But when I opened the door to the bar, I immediately saw Rod with his hands all over another young man. I went back to the cab, paid the driver and told him he could go. Then I stood in a doorway across the street from the bar and waited. I was praying…actually praying…that Rod would come out alone and that I could talk to him.”

He fell silent and I said nothing, knowing he'd continue when he was ready. Part of me was still amazed that he could, so willingly and casually, admit to having murdered a man he loved so completely. But most of me was still caught up in the sense of playing a role in the scene. And both as a role player and a Scorpio, I could also understand why.

“When I saw them come out of the bar together and start walking away,” he resumed, “my mind stepped away from my body and all I could do was watch myself begin to follow them. I don't know what I was thinking, if I was thinking anything at all. All I could feel was this overwhelming ache in my soul. I followed them for what seemed like forever, though it couldn't have been more than a few blocks at most. They walked up to one of the few cars parked along the street and got in. I supposed his friend hadn't wanted to park too close to the bar. I just stood there, expecting them to drive off. But they didn't. I couldn't see what was going on…it was too dark and I was too far away. But I could imagine, and very slowly I approached the car. They were apparently too busy to notice me.

I got right up to the passenger's side, and I could see…” He looked away.

He was trying hard to control himself, but I could hear the tremor in his voice. He paused to clear his throat.

“You don't have to go into the details,” I said softly.

“Thank you,” he said at last, and took a long, deep breath. “I'm afraid the rest of it is all rather like my watching a movie. I know I took out the gun and tapped it on the window. Rod looked up, startled, and his…partner…pulled his head out of Rod's lap. He had the strangest look on his face—terror, I think it was. I pointed the gun at the window and heard myself say, ‘Get out of the car.'

“Rod opened the door and stepped out as I backed away. ‘What in the
hell
are you doing?' he demanded. At this point, his brave young friend started the engine and raced away, the passenger door still open. Rod started to run after him, yelling for him to stop, but he didn't.

“‘Asshole!' he said, apparently far more concerned about his friend driving off than having me catch him having sex with another man. Then he turned back to me.

“‘Put that gun away!' he demanded, and I put it in my jacket pocket.

“I don't remember what we said then. I am sure I made a total fool of myself, but the conversation became heated. He told me I had no right to interfere with his life, and he of course was right. But I wasn't Gene Morrison right then—I was some disgustingly pathetic loser begging for a love I could never have.” He took a very deep breath, which pulled his head back slightly.

“At one point, I reached out to touch him…just to touch him…and he shoved me away with such force I fell to the ground.”

His face had long ago ceased to be expressionless; it had become a stage for his emotions, and his anguish was almost palpable. I couldn't speak, and I didn't want to.

“If only he'd stayed,” Gene continued. “If only he'd offered to help me up, it would all have been different! But he didn't. He started to run through the vacant lot, toward the alley behind it. Still on the ground, in utter frustration, I pulled the gun out of my pocket and fired it in his general direction. I wasn't aiming
at
him, just in his
direction
. I hadn't fired a gun since I was in the army, and even then I couldn't hit anything. But I saw him fall down, face first.

“At first I thought he was faking. I got up and ran to him and knelt beside him, telling him I was sorry.
But I saw the blood and the wound in his back, and I knew he was dead.”

His lower lip quivered and tears formed in his eyes. The play was over. He took a deep breath, literally pulling himself together, sitting up a little straighter and moving his shoulders back as if steeling himself to get through with his story.

“He was dead,” he repeated when his face regained its composure. “I knelt there, watching myself, cold as ice and completely numb. I emptied his pockets—again, why I don't know, perhaps as a self-defense instinct to make it appear to have been a robbery, and I found the note. I did
not
recognize the handwriting. It appeared to be yet further evidence of his disloyalty. For all I knew, his ‘friend' had written it, and their
meeting had been prearranged. I stood up, tore the note to shreds, and scattered the pieces on his body as if they were rose petals. Then I just started walking—I have no idea how far or in what direction—until I could hail a cab to take me home. I had the driver drop me off a block from the apartment and came in the back entrance. The next day I awoke around noon to find myself on the couch. I got up, showered and shaved, feeling nothing at all. Rod was dead. I had killed him. And there was nothing I could do about it.