It’s not often that I get called upon to write a meaningful story. I’m a reporter for the local paper. But in all of my seventeen years on the staff I have never risen above the status of a cub reporter. I don’t mind, really. Let’s face it, I’m no Woodward or Bernstein. Whenever a brouhaha breaks out at a little league game, the paper calls for Reeves to cover it. PTA Meetings? Send Reeves. A broken water pipe at the mall? Reeves. You get the picture. My name is Hal Reeves.

So when Chet, our editor, told me to hurry out to Meredith Hightower’s estate for an exclusive interview, I was a little surprised. Did I say a little surprised? I was flabbergasted.

"Why me?" I asked.

"Good question, Reeves," Chet replied. "It’s not my idea. Hightower asked for you."

"Hightower? He asked for me? Why?"

Chet shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe he likes your style."

"How would he know my style?" I said. "I can’t visualize Meredith Hightower reading about the meter maids’ sick out."

Chet leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. "Hey," he said. "Don’t try to analyze it. Just get out there and get the story. He wants you there at 2:30. I suggest you be there on time."

Meredith Hightower was the local celebrity. Head of the city council, former mayor, honorary chairman of more charitable committees than one could count, and President and CEO of the largest corporation in the county, he was what one called "a pillar of the community." He had the rare knack of being everyone’s friend and benefactor. Liberals and conservatives alike adored him. And, while I had never met the man, I felt like I knew him personally. But how did he know me, and why ask for me to do the interview when there were so many other, more capable and certainly more qualified reporters on the staff? Theresa Miller and Meg Latimer were our society reporters. Both of them had covered the Hightowers’ comings and goings many times in the past.

Still puzzling over Hightower’s request I pulled into his circular driveway promptly at 2:30. I parked my seven-year-old Honda a respectable distance away from the Mercedes in front of the mansion, sat back and admired the view. The front door of the house opened and a man of about fifty stepped out of the shadow of the house onto the vast porch. He approached the car, bowed slightly, and put his hand on the handle of the car door.

"Mr. Reeves?" The voice was soft and modulated, the result of years of practice at being deferential.

I nodded.

The man opened the car door and stepped back. "I am Lawrence, Mr. Hightower’s personal secretary. Mr. Hightower is expecting you and asked me to bring you to him. Would you come this way please?"

The last was more of an order than a request, softened by his gentle manner. I unfolded from the compact, slammed the door behind me and followed Lawrence up the gravel path to the front door.

The door opened into a foyer as large as Grand Central Station, with potted palms, small fruit trees, and a fountain sending a stream of water upward in the middle of the room. It would take a full time gardener to maintain it.

Lawrence led me past the orchard. I looked at the trees, half expecting a covey of quail to emerge. He opened the door at the far end of the foyer and stepped back to allow me to enter. The room was almost as large as the one we had just left, but it didn’t have the foliage. Instead, a fireplace covered an entire wall. A floor to ceiling bookcase covered another wall. The room was generously furnished with overstuffed chairs, sofas, a desk and a coffee table. A bright light flooded the room from a source hidden somewhere in the ceiling.

A man of indeterminate age sat in a chair by the fireplace. He had a shock of white hair and a mustache that was only slightly darker. Dressed in an old fashioned smoking jacket, he had slippers on his feet. He was engrossed in a paper of some kind and didn’t look up as we entered the room.

Lawrence cleared his throat and took a step toward the man. Hightower, reluctantly I felt, looked up from the paper. Seeing Lawrence, he put the paper aside and adjusted his glasses.

"Mr. Reeves from the Herald is here." Lawrence said.

Hightower stood up and extended his hand.

"So nice of you to come," he said.

"The honor is mine," I replied. I have no idea if that was the proper response since I had never been in that kind of a social situation before. But he accepted it and waved a hand for me to be seated. He crossed over to the small oak desk and sat down behind it.

I took a seat facing the desk, a plush leather chair that conformed to the contours of my oddly shaped body as if it had been designed exclusively for me. Hightower held out a humidor containing cigars. I declined—politely, I hoped—and waited for him to speak.

"I suppose your editor told you why you are here," he said, rolling one of the cigars between his thumb and forefinger. He placed it under his nose and savored the aroma with an approving nod of his head.

"You wanted to talk about one of your charities," I said questioningly.

He shrugged. "Not quite as simple as that," he said. "No. The charity is important, of course. But any good I do by lending my name to it is of little importance to me." He lifted his eyes from the cigar and looked directly at me. His piercing eyes held me like an insect caught in the light. "No. I would like to ..." He paused and cocked his head, like a robin listening for a worm. He held up a hand in apology and stood up.

"Would you excuse me for just a minute?" He said. Not waiting for a reply, he strode across the room and out the door leading to the hallway.

I watched him disappear down the hallway, then turned my attention to the room. It reeked of wealth. Plush carpet yielded under my feet, ornately framed oil paintings, all originals, of course, covered the walls, and velvet curtains hung in the picture window. The view from the window was worth a few pennies as well. I thought about my humble apartment across town with a view of the neighbor’s trash can and shook my head enviously.

I was still marveling at the panorama out of the bay window when Hightower returned. Taking his seat once again, he threw me a glance before turning his attention to the papers on the desk.

"Sorry for the interruption. Geraldine, my wife, is ill and confined to bed for the moment. I thought I heard her calling."

Geraldine Hightower. She made almost as many headlines as her famous husband. An original female advocate, she was involved in almost every civic activity there was. Her elegant form and charitable smile appeared in the paper as regularly as the weather forecast. She was royalty, or as close as one could come to it in a town like St. Kelly. And yet she had a common touch, eschewing a chauffeur driven Rolls Royce for her sedate Camry that she deftly and cheerfully drove herself.

"Nothing serious, I hope," I said.

He shrugged. "Yes and no." With a wave of his hand he dismissed the matter. Leaning forward in his chair, he studied me intently. Then, apparently satisfied with what he saw, he relaxed and sat back again.

"I called you here on Geraldine’s behalf," he said. "As you are aware, she is the chairwoman of the St. Kelley’s Ballet and Symphony Company."

I wasn’t aware, but I wasn’t surprised either. I would have been surprised if she were not in charge. I opened my notepad and poised my pencil, ready to take down whatever Mr. Hightower cared to dispense. "The Company is going on tour in January. Mrs. Hightower, if she is well enough at that time, will accompany the group."

"I see," I said, noting down the date.

Hightower tugged at his sleeve. "There has been very little publicity concerning the Company, and even less about the tour. This is an oversight I would like to correct."

"But why me?" I asked. I was sorry immediately for asking. Reporters are supposed to be above talking about themselves. But the occasion begged the question.

Hightower smiled benignly. He started to say something when a popping noise came from across the patio. It sounded like a car backfiring, but there were no roads in that direction. Hightower sat up abruptly, his face taut. "My God," he shouted. He jumped from his chair and started for the door. "Come!" he said to me. "I may need your help."

Puzzled, I set my notepad on the chair and followed Hightower through the door and across the tiled patio to a set of glass doors leading to a dimly lighted hallway. Hightower walked briskly down the hall. He stopped in front of a door at the end of the hallway and put a hand on the doorknob.

"Geraldine!" he called. "It’s me. Meredith. Open the door."

There was no answer. Hightower turned the doorknob again, then fumbled in his pocket and extracted a keychain. Picking out one of the keys, he placed it in the keyhole and turned it.

He tried to open it again, but the door remained firm

"She’s engaged the deadbolt," he said grimly. Turning to me, he said, "we’ll have to break it down."

I hesitated. He motioned to the door. "Please," he said. "My wife is in there."

I’m a big man, over six feet tall and weighing in at a hefty 215 pounds. I nodded and threw myself against the door. It yielded on the second try, the suddenness of it sending me stumbling into the room.

Hightower brushed past me.

"My God!" he shouted. "Geraldine!"

I peered over his shoulder. Lying on a small bed, one arm outstretched, was a woman. Her head was turned to one side, and a rivulet of blood had trickled down from a wound in the temple, coloring the white pillowcase an ominous red.

Hightower ran over to the bed and put his hand on the woman’s cheek. "She’s dead," he said, a note of disbelief in his voice. "My God, Reeves. She’s killed herself!"

I stepped forward to get a better look. The woman’s right hand was draped over the side of the bed. Beneath it, lying on the carpeted floor, was a small handgun.

Lawrence rushed into the room. Seeing the body, he uttered something and came over to stand next to Hightower.

"Call 911," Hightower said.

"It’s too late for that," Lawrence said.

Hightower whirled on him. "Call 911. Now!"

Lawrence crossed to the desk by the door, picked up the receiver of a delicate white phone and punched in the numbers. After a few seconds, he said into the mouthpiece. "This is Lawrence Preston, Mr. Hightower’s personal secretary. Would you please send an ambulance to his residence? There has been an accident."

There was a pause as Lawrence listened with a look of impatience. Finally, he spoke. "Mrs. Hightower has been shot. Come at once. You people know the address—1770 Meridian Drive."

He hung up the phone and returned to his position at Hightower’s side.

Hightower had knelt down and was stroking his wife’s hand. "Geraldine," he said softly. "Oh, Geraldine. Why? Everything was going to be fine."

I watched in awkward silence, not knowing what to do, and certainly not knowing what to say. My plum assignment had quickly turned into a nightmare. Shifting from one foot to the other, I could only watch helplessly.

Sirens sounded in the distance. Another perk to being rich and famous—instant response of the city’s resources.

Lawrence left the room hurriedly to meet the ambulance. He was back in less than a minute followed by three white-coated men. The men gently pushed Hightower aside and started to attend to Mrs. Hightower.

There was nothing they could do. Even I could tell that she was dead. One of the men, apparently the chief of the rescue squad, mumbled something to his colleague and covered Geraldine with a sheet. Moments later a stretcher was brought in and the body removed to the waiting ambulance.

I went over to Hightower and expressed my condolences. My reporter instincts wanted me to press for a story, but my sense of decency wouldn’t allow it. That may explain why I was still a "cub". I surveyed the scene and made mental notes, but said nothing. Hightower stood by the bed.

After what seemed like an eternity, I broke the silence. "I’ll be going now," I said. "Call me if and when you want to continue this interview."

Hightower nodded numbly, his glazed eyes expressing no emotion. I reached out to touch his shoulder, thought better of it, and dropped my hand to my side.

I turned to go.

"Such a tragedy," he said softly. "She gave up, just when things were getting better."

I turned to face him. His eyes had a glaze and his face registered an inner pain.

"You see," he said, more to himself than to me. "Geraldine had been diagnosed with cancer." He paused, looked at the bed where his wife had just been, and sighed deeply. "It was treatable. The prognosis was excellent. But she didn’t believe the doctors."

I waited silently for him to go on.

"She couldn’t face the thought of chemo and radiation." His voice broke and he put his hand over his eyes. Slowly he regained his composure. He looked at me, his eyes dark with emotion.

"Please," he said. "Don’t write that when you report the story. I’d rather keep that out of the papers. She and I were the only ones who knew about it. Not even Lawrence knows."

We shook hands and I left him standing in the doorway, a lonely, sad man.

News of Geraldine Hightower’s death reached the newsroom before I did. Chet was standing in the door of his office when I got there. I related the story as concisely as I could. When I finished, he patted me on the shoulder.

"Write it up. I want it on my desk in an hour."

"Me?" I said. "You want me to write the story?"

"You were there. You’re an eyewitness. Of course I want you to write it."

I went back to my cubicle, sat down in front of the computer and stared at the blank screen. For reasons I couldn’t understand I was disturbed by the events of the morning. It was natural, I guess. Suicide, or any other kind of death, is not a pleasant thing to witness. But my feelings went beyond that. Something about the whole situation was wrong.

But there was nothing I could put my finger on. Geraldine Hightower had killed herself. I saw her. She was dead from a gunshot, in a room that had been locked from the inside—deadbolted. It was suicide plain and simple. Why wasn’t I satisfied with that? Shrugging it off, I wrote the story. Chet gave the go ahead to run it. I was proud of it in a perverse way. It was my first front page story, even though the tragedy of it kept me from enjoying the moment any more than I did.

There was an inquest of sorts. The law required it. But it was superficial. The presiding judge was a personal friend of Hightower and in fact owed his judgeship to the man. So a verdict of death by self inflicted gunshot was the unsurprising outcome. There was no mention of cancer. In fact, I doubt if there was an autopsy. Knowing how Hightower felt about his wife’s condition I was convinced that he persuaded the authorities not to perform one.

I had put the incident behind me and returned to my role of covering trivial events when a conversation with Theresa brought it rushing back. She had been out of town when the story broke, and had just returned the day before.

"Geraldine killed herself with a gun?" she asked.

"That’s right," I said. "I was there. No question about it."

She shook her head. "That’s strange. Very strange."

"How so?" I asked.

Theresa brushed an imaginary crumb from her blouse. "Geraldine loathed guns," she said. "She didn’t want anything to do with them. She voted for every gun control bill ever written, and lectured on the dangers and evils of guns."

I was somewhat shocked at the news, but not as surprised as I should have been. Women didn’t usually commit suicide with a gun. They preferred less violent means, such as sleeping pills or poisons. And if they hated guns as much as Theresa said that Geraldine Hightower did, they would certainly not shoot themselves.

"What are you suggesting?" I asked Theresa.

She was staring out the window, a frown on her face. "I don’t know," she said at last. "But it doesn’t make sense."

I had to agree. But I was there. I witnessed the whole thing. The shot. The locked door. The gun. It was a clear case of suicide.

Or was it? What was I overlooking? Some things didn’t quite fit. For instance, why did Hightower want me to come with him when he heard the shot? What kind of "help" could I give him? Why would he need help?

Then there was the shot itself—a loud sound from across the patio. No question it was gunfire. Maybe that’s what Hightower reacted to when he asked for my help.

Suddenly it hit me. All of the windows in Geraldine’s room were closed tightly, as was the door. The shot should not have been as loud as it was. In fact, given the thickness of the doors and walls it would have been difficult to hear a shot in the den where we were sitting. The shot we heard couldn’t have been the one that killed Geraldine Hightower. If it wasn’t a shot, then what was it? Where did it come from? And why? I was beginning to think like a reporter, using the five "Ws" as I thought about the incident. The only one I could satisfactorily answer was "When?"

Chet wasn’t impressed when I told him about my conversation with Theresa.

"So she hated guns. A lot of people hate poison, too, but they use it to kill themselves."

He stood up. "Look, Hal. It’s a clear case of suicide. You saw what happened. Now give it a rest. Hightower is a powerful man. He’s a force to be reckoned with."

"I understand," I said. "But I’m not comfortable with this. There are too many questions that need answering."

"What do you want from me?" Chet started.

"Nothing. But I would like to look into this deeper. I don’t know how, but I believe someone killed Geraldine."

"Murder?" Chet sat straight up and frowned.

"Yes."

"Who?"

"I don’t know. Maybe Lawrence. Maybe Hightower himself."

Chet slammed his fist on his desk. "Impossible, Hal. He was with you the entire time. I don’t like this. Leave it alone."

"I can’t," I said.

"If you value your job, you will."

"I thought my job was to report the facts."

"That’s right," Chet said. "And that is what you have done."

"No," I answered. "I wrote a story that may or may not be accurate. I have serious doubts. If the story is wrong, it’s our duty to make it right."

Chet sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. "I can’t allow you to do this."

"I’ll do it on my own time," I said.

That afternoon I requested a vacation. If I had to chase this story on my own time, so be it. I felt like Don Quixote jousting with windmills.

At my apartment, a small rental a few blocks form the newspaper office, I threw a TV dinner in the microwave and fired up my PC. With my word processor program staring at me from the screen, I started to write. I listed the points of this case that troubled me:

1. Why did Hightower want me for the interview? Someone from the Society beat would have been the likely choice.

2. Why was the shot we heard so loud?

3. Why did Hightower want me with him when he went to his wife’s room?

4. Why would Geraldine use a gun to kill herself when she loathed them as much as Theresa said she did?

5. If she was murdered, how did the killer get out of the room with a deadbolt lock that could only be engaged from inside the room?

The last question was the key to the whole case. If I could answer that one, the rest of them would fall into place.

The phone rang. It was Theresa. "Chet tells me you’re bothered by the Hightower case."

"That’s right," I said.

"Me, too," she said.

"What’s your problem with it?" I asked.

"Well, for one thing, the method."

"Yeah. I know. She hated guns. Anything else?"

"Yes," Theresa said. "Hightower’s interview."

"What about it?"

"He never gives interviews from his residence. Neither did Geraldine."

"Wow," I said. "Why would he change that policy?"

"That’s a question I have," she said.

"Geraldine was confined to her bed," I said. "Maybe he didn’t want to leave her."

"Maybe," Theresa said. "But if that’s true, why was he out the night before? The city council met and he was there. I checked it out. And the interview wasn’t urgent. He could have postponed it until she felt better."

"True," I agreed.

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then Theresa said, "I just learned from a mutual friend of Geraldine’s that the Hightowers were having marital problems."

"Oh," I said. "It seems that every married couple has marital problems at one time or another. What’s so strange about that?"

"Nothing, except that a separation or divorce would have been expensive for Meredith. Also it would have been a setback for his ambitions. Did you know he was thinking of running for Governor?"

"I heard the rumor." I chewed on the end of my pencil. A man going through a divorce would be at a definite disadvantage in a political race even in this day of so-called enlightenment. Suddenly I had another piece of the puzzle. I had a motive.

"Hightower told me his wife had cancer and she didn’t want to suffer from the treatment."

"That’s news to me," Theresa said.

"I’m not surprised. He said nobody knew. Not even Lawrence."

"If it was such a secret, why did he tell you?"

Good question. I assumed he told me so that I would understand why she killed herself. But why should he feel that he owed me an explanation? Perhaps, I thought, to remove any doubts that I may have had that she would kill herself. And this meant that he himself would have doubts if he were in my position. He was giving an explanation when none was requested or necessary. Uncharacteristic behavior for a man of his stature.

"You know, Hal. I think I’m a pretty good judge of people," Theresa said. "It goes with my job."

"Yeah," I said.

"Geraldine was a fighter. Fighters don’t kill themselves."

"Even if they have cancer?"

"Especially if they have cancer. Fighters want to win."

"Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Do you think Meredith Hightower had something to do with Geraldine’s death?"

"I guess I do."

"I feel the same way," I said. "But how? It doesn’t seem possible."

"Anything’s possible," she said. "Good luck. Wish I could do more to help."

"Thanks for calling," I said. I promised to keep her informed and hung up.

Turning to the computer I added another question to the list. "Home Interview?" I saved my list under "Hightower", shut the computer down and turned on the TV. I had discovered a basic truth in life a long time ago. When trying to solve a problem, put it aside. If there is an answer it will come to you when you least expect it.

Sure enough, it did. I was in the middle of a classic western, starring Jimmy Stewart, one of my favorite actors, when inspiration struck. I was certain that I was right. But I needed something solid to substantiate my theory. Chet would want concrete proof.

I reached for the telephone directory with one hand and my cell phone with the other. I turned to the yellow pages. There were several door suppliers in the book. I limited it to those who repaired and installed doors.

I made thirteen calls before I reached the right one. Identifying myself as a reporter, I asked to speak with the person who had replaced the door at Hightower’s place.

"That would be Carl," the man said. "He’s on a job right now. Can I have him call you?"

I left my phone number, hung up and returned to Jimmy Stewart. However my mind kept wandering. It could just as easily been John Wayne for all the attention I paid to the movie. Who knows? Maybe it was.

It’s funny how a ringing phone can startle you when you are expecting it to ring. I jumped a foot, reached for it and answered it before it stopped ringing.

It was Carl. "How can I help you, Mr. Reeves?" he said.

"I’m interested in the door you replaced at Hightower’s home. Can you tell me what kind of condition it was in?"

"Busted," he said. "It had been forced open."

"I know that," I said. "I’m the one who did it." I went on to explain, then returned to my original question. His answer was verification of my suspicions. I now knew who killed Geraldine Hightower and how.

Chet didn’t want to talk about it.

"We’ve been over this before, Hal. The case is closed. This paper can’t afford to get on the wrong side of Meredith Hightower or the city officials."

"Even if murder is involved?"

"Are you accusing Hightower of murder?" Chet’s voice rose an octave.

"That’s exactly what I am doing," I said.

Chet sighed. "Meredith Hightower is one of the most powerful and influential man in this county. Hell, this state."

"So that makes him above the law?"

Chet looked me in the eye. I returned his look. Finally he lowered his eyes, rubbed his chin and sat back.

"Okay. Let’s hear it."

I relaxed. "Meredith Hightower killed his wife. He used me, you, the paper and his standing in the community to help him."

"Go on," Chet said, his eyes betraying interest.

"Did you know that the Hightowers had a standing policy that their home was off limits to reporters? Theresa told me that. Why all of a sudden, does Meredith Hightower break that rule? And why me? That question bothered me even before I went to Hightower’s place. It made no sense. Theresa or Meg cover the society people. Hightower told me he wanted to discuss a particular organization that Geraldine was involved with."

Chet waited, forgetting the coffee at his side.

"I finally decided that there were two reasons for this. The first one was that he wanted someone who did not rub elbows with his sort and would be impressed, a little awed, and willing to believe whatever he was told. But the second reason was a little more practical."

The phone rang. Chet ignored it. Taking a swallow of coffee, he made a face and set the cup down.

"There was the matter of the door," I said. "Hightower needed some muscle to break down the door. Theresa or Meg would never do."

"How did he know the door would have to be forced open?" Chet asked.

"Oh, he knew," I said. "Which brings me to the second question. Why did he want me to go with him when he heard the shot? ‘I may need your help’, he said. What kind of help? I think it’s obvious. He wanted me to be there when he found Geraldine. And he wanted me to break down the door. Hell, he can’t weigh more than 150 pounds, and hasn’t lifted anything heavier than a martini in years." I flexed my muscles. "Hightower wanted someone with brawn, so he asked for me."

I looked to Chet for a response, but his face remained expressionless.

"And the shot itself," I said. "It was too loud to have come from Geraldine’s room. I doubt if you could hear a shot from where we sat."

"What did you hear?" Chet asked.

"Oh, it was a shot," I replied. "But it wasn’t the shot that killed Geraldine. My guess is that Hightower had recorded a shot and placed the tape recorder outside her window. He wanted to be sure I heard it."

"How could he turn it on from the den?" Chet wanted to know.

"He didn’t. Shortly after I got there, he excused himself because he wanted to look in on his wife. She wasn’t feeling well, he said. He wasn’t gone long. Just long enough to go to her room, shoot her with a silenced pistol and arrange it so it would look like suicide. Then he turned on the tape recorder, came back to the den and waited for the ‘shot’ to fire."

Chet pursed his lips. "Interesting scenario," he said. "But you’re forgetting something. The door. It was locked and deadbolted from the inside. Remember? There is only one window and it doesn’t open. There’s no way to get out of the room except by the door."

"Yes," I said. "That was the burr in my saddle since this case began. The answer is so obvious that I can’t believe it took me so long to find it."

"And?"

"The door never was bolted," I said. "We only have Hightower’s word for it. He fiddled with the lock when we tried to get in the room. He wasn’t trying to unlock the door. He was locking it. Maybe it was locked all along and he just pretended to unlock it. It doesn’t matter. He told me the door was deadbolted. I believed him. Why shouldn’t I? I broke the door down, and never bothered to inspect it. He was counting on that, I’m sure."

"Can you prove this?" Chet asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes," I said. "I talked to the guy who installed the new door. He told me that the old door was broken at the lock. There was no damage to the dead bolt or to the receptacle for the deadbolt. The door was locked, but not bolted when I broke it down."

Chet whistled softly. "Dammit, Reeves," he said. "We’re playing with fire. Hightower is…"

"I know," I said. "Hightower is an important person. So was Mrs. Hightower. Remember her?"

Chet twirled his pen, glanced at the clock on the wall, sighed deeply and uttered an oath.

"Well?" I said.

"I’m thinking," Chet said.

"This has to be reported, Chet," I said. "We.."

Chet waved a hand impatiently. "I know that." He muttered another oath and reached for the phone.

"Sometimes I hate this job," he mumbled. Into the phone he said, "Amanda. Get me the District Attorney’s Office. I want to speak to the DA himself."

He hung up, turned to me and smiled grimly. "God help us all," he said.

I almost felt sorry for him.

Contact the Author - hcozine@yahoo.com