The Play of Light and Shadow & Writing by Barry Ergang

Author:Barry Ergang
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: crime, suspense, murder, mystery, murder mystery, detective, whodunit, detective story, crime detective, locked room mystery, mystery detective, mystery story, suspense murder, impossible crime, howdunit, locked room
Publisher: Barry Ergang

Shadow on a sun-bright day, the hour following the arrival of the police was a plodding nightmare of bureaucratic efficiency and formality. Darnell had phoned them from Gaines’s office while I remained on the deck, looking out over the rolling slopes of lawn, not looking at Derek. When Darnell returned, he let me choose whether to tell the Gainses about the death or to stay with the body while he told them. Hating both choices, I concluded that dealing with the explosive aftermath of the announcement was less appealing than staying where I was.

“Cops’re on the way,” Darnell said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He went into the house while I stared out across the lawn, my hands on the railing, breathing slowly and deeply, and tried not to think about what lay on the deck a few feet away. The day had metamorphosed into the cacodemonic snare depicted in Riveau’s painting. Minutes moved like glaciers. Eventually I heard cars pull into the driveway and stop, their doors being slammed. Footsteps sounded on the deck, and a group of men came around the corner of the house. Two were in plain clothes, three others in uniform.

“You Darnell?” one of the plainclothesmen asked.

“No, I’m—”

“I’m Darnell” came from behind me.

He emerged from the office followed by a pallid Barton Gaines who stared at Derek’s body with transfixed revulsion.

The plainclothesman showed Darnell his badge. “Detective-Sergeant Mitch Warner.” Indicating the other man in mufti, he said: “This is Jim Cochran.”

Warner was tall, slender, and dark-haired. Cochran was an inch or two shorter, stockier, with crewcut reddish-blond hair and a spray of freckles across a face set in a permanent adolescent sneer. Both appeared to be in their late thirties.

Cochran drew a pair of latex gloves from the side pocket of his sports coat. He slipped them on and knelt beside Derek’s body.

“Let‘s hear it,” Warner said to Darnell.

The endless hours of shadow had begun.

Police activity roiled around us while Darnell explained the situation. A photographer took pictures of Derek’s body from various angles, a grisly irony that made me wonder if the deceased would have thought of himself as an “enticing shot.” Cochran tagged and carefully put the camera, disks, and accessory case into plastic bags. The medical examiner performed his duties, then someone else chalked an outline of the corpse on the deck. Next came the indignity of the body bag, that final appalling ritual of mortal diminution. I observed all of this with a haggard Barton Gaines standing alongside, both of us silent. Other detectives and uniformed officers went into the house to take statements from the guests.

“My God, Alan,” Gaines whispered. “What have I gotten us into? That painting is a curse.”

Warner and Cochran questioned Gaines and me, taking each of us aside to do so, presumably to confirm what Darnell had told them and to compare our versions of events. Toward me Warner was polite, Cochran surly and suspicious. Interviewing Gaines, Cochran suddenly became deferential. When the interrogations were finished, Warner asked Gaines if he could use the telephone.

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