The Last Innocent Man

“I know. You have a concussion. The doctor said that it’s going to make it hard for you to remember for a while.”

Ortiz looked frightened and Crosby held up his hand.

“For a while, Bert. He said it goes away in time and you’ll remember everything. I probably shouldn’t even be here this soon, but I was gonna drop in to see how you were, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to pump you a little.”

“Thanks for coming, Ron,” Ortiz said. He shut his eyes and leaned back. Crosby shifted on his seat. He was short for a policeman, five eight, but he had a big upper body and broad shoulders that pushed past the edges of the chair back. He had joined the force in his late twenties after an extended hitch in the Army. Last February he turned forty-two, and gray was starting to outnumber black among his thinning hairs.

“I can’t remember anything about the murder. I vaguely remember a motel, but that’s it. I can remember the car, though,” he said, brightening. “It was a Mercedes. Beige, I think.”

The effort had taken something out of him, and he let his head loll like a winded runner.

“Did you get a license number or…?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s all so hazy.”

Crosby stood up.

“I’m gonna go and let you get some rest. I don’t want to push you.”

“It’s okay, Ron. I…” Ortiz stopped. Something was troubling him.

“What does Ryder think?” he asked after a while. “I mean, does he think I…?”

“He doesn’t think anything. No one does, Bert. We don’t even know what happened.”

Ortiz put his hands to his head and ran them across the short stubble that covered his cheeks. He felt drained.

“What if it was my fault? I mean, they put me with Darlene because she was new, and what if…?”

He didn’t finish.

“You’ve got enough to worry about without taking a strong dose of self-pity. You’re a good cop and everybody knows that. You worry about getting better and getting your memory back.”

“Yeah. Okay. I just…”

“I know. See you, huh?”

“See you. Thanks again for coming.”

The door closed and Ortiz stared at it. The drugs they had given him were making him sleepy, but they didn’t get rid of all the pain. They just made it bearable. He closed his eyes and saw Darlene. She had been an annoyance. Really juvenile. Had he screwed up because he had got mad at her? He wished that he could remember what had happened. He wanted to help get the killer, but, most of all, he wanted to know if it was his fault that a young policewoman was dead.

6

The first half of July was cool and comfortable. There was a subdued sun, light breezes, a mad array of flowers, and underdressed girls in eye-catching getups. Then, overnight, the breeze disappeared, the sun went mad, and a thick, unmoving mass of hot air descended on Portland, wilting the flowers and making the girls look tired and worn. To David the oppressive heat was merely a meteorological expression of his mood. The torpid air had a dehydrating effect that wore away the energy of the city, and, in a similar way, David could feel his mental and spiritual energy draining away, like wax slowly dripping down the sides of a candle.

All his attempts to locate Valerie Dodge had failed, and she had not called him. Perhaps David desired her because he could not find her, but her absence gnawed at him, confronting him with the void that was his personal life.

Work provided no escape. It only deepened his depression. The Gault case had brought him many new clients, all guilty and all hoping that he could perform a miracle that would wash away their guilt. His work on their behalf disheartened him. More and more he felt that he was doing something he should not.

The originality that had characterized David’s early legal career was giving way to a highly polished routine that let him move through his cases without thinking about them. His success as a lawyer was due to his brilliance and his dedication. Others might not notice, but David knew he was no longer giving his best effort. So far that had made no difference in the results he had achieved. But someday it would. On that day he would know, even if no one else did, that he was no different from the ambulance chasers and incompetents who practiced at the gutter levels of criminal law.

The trial of Tony Seals was scheduled for late July, and David was working on his final preparations when the receptionist told him that Thomas Gault was in the reception room. David had seen little of the writer since the trial, except for a half-day interview for background on the book. David had not felt much like talking about Gault’s case, but he was sharing in the proceeds of the book and was obligated by contract to cooperate. The interview had taken place the day after the trial, and a week after that Gault had taken a vacation in the Caribbean, then gone into seclusion to finish the book.