Free Enough! (A Travesty and Ordo) by Donald E. Westlake

lost his moorings, his sense of purpose and his nerve. I, the
unpremeditated murderer, hadn’t planned anything until after the event, but
because I’d retained my nerve and my sense of purpose I was now the only human
being on Earth who had been fully cleared in that killing.
    But what Staples wanted was an expression of
cooperation and sincerity of purpose. I obliged, telling him, “By God, I
wish I could just point a finger and say, ‘That’s the killer,’ I was very fond
of Laura, you know, I’ve realized that more and more since her death.”
    Sympathetic understanding gleamed in Staples’
eyes. “I know what you mean. But we do have those photographs. We could go
over them now, and maybe something’ll click for you.”
    “Fine.”
Then, because hospitality seemed necessary under the circumstances, and also
because it was damn cold in Staples’ unheated car, I said, “Want to come
up? We can have coffee and be comfortable.”
    “Good idea.”
    So the two of us climbed the stairs to my
apartment and spent a while uncoating ourselves. Then I went to the kitchenette
to make coffee, while Staples wandered around the living room, looking at my
memorabilia. Seeing him near the desk, I called, “Would you mind switching
on the phone machine? I want to hear my messages.”
    “Sure.” He hovered over it, willing
but unschooled. “What do I do?”
    “Turn the switch to playback and press
the rewind button.”
    He did both, and I
went on with my coffeemaking while the machine gibberished itself backward at
high speed and then began to unreel my latest messages: “Hi, Carey, it’s,
urn, Jack Freelander. Um. It looks as though, um,
Esquire, um, might want that piece, um, um, I told you about, um, about the
pornographic movie biz. Um. Would you be, um, free
some time soon? I’d like to, um, pick your brains. Also, um.
Do you happen to know, um, where Laura Penney is? Um.
She doesn’t answer her phone. Um. See you later. Um. Um.”
    I called, through the final stutters of Jack
Freelander’s message, “How do you like your coffee?”
    “Regular.” Staples came to the
kitchenette doorway, saying, “I feel like I’m eavesdropping, listening to
all that.”
    “Don’t be silly,” I said. “I’ve
got nothing to hide.”
    Meantime, the second message had started.
“Hi, sweetie, it’s Kit. I’ll be tied up this evening, but give me a call
tomorrow. And I still say Jay English did it.”
    “Christ,” I muttered. I gave Staples
his coffee, and the two of us went back to the living room and message number
three:
    “Hello, Mr. Thorpe. How does it feel to
be a murderer?”
    *
    After I put the mop away and made myself
another cup of coffee, Staples insisted we listen to that last message another
half dozen times, in hopes I’d eventually recognize the voice:
    “Hello, Mr. Thorpe. How does it feel to
be a murderer? Hello, Mr. Thorpe. How does it Hello, Mr. Thorpe feel to be a
how does it Hello, Mr. how does it feel, how does it,
Mr. Thorpe, feel to be a murderer? a murderer? a murderer?”
    “I just don’t know,” I said.
“The voice sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.”
    Finally Staples gave up, saying, “He
called you ‘Mr. Thorpe’, so I guess whoever he is he doesn’t know you all that
well.”
    “I guess he doesn’t. Excuse me a
minute.” And off I went to the John, to pop a Valium. What did humanity do
before these wonderful pills?
    Back in the living room Staples was reading my
movie posters, but his mind was still on the message, because he said,
“Would you run it just once more? I’m sorry, I know it upsets you, but I
want to record it.”
    Turned out he had a cassette recorder in his
overcoat pocket. Damn it to hell. I considered accidentally erasing the message
but I was afraid I’d trigger Staples’ suspicions, so we played the thing one
last time while his little machine turned a beady ear on my little machine, and
then at last I could erase the bastard and sit down