E zra Blackburn lived on Sanchez, a few blocks south of Market. The white framed house hinted at Victorian, but it had been dressed plainly, and treated without affection. A dozen rail-less steps led up from the sidewalk to the white door.
A dark-haired man with exaggerated facial features sat in a wheelchair. He was halfway visible in the narrow opening. He was a big man – all fat.
‘Don’t want any.’
‘Don’t have any,’ McClellan said. ‘Ezra Blackburn?’
‘Mother made only one.’
‘My name’s McClellan, Inspector McClellan.’
‘What do you inspect, Mr McClellan?’ Blackburn asked, widening the gap between door and doorframe and giving the inspector a whiff of stale air. ‘Is it termites, building permits, spoiled food?’
‘Murder,’ McClellan said, flashing his badge.
‘In that case, come in,’ Blackburn said, rolling back to allow the large police detective entry. ‘Inspect all you want. I’ve removed all the asbestos, radon and rotting corpses.’
The small entranceway and the two rooms immediately visible from it were cluttered with mail, magazines, newspapers, plates, glasses and various wrappers. McClellan followed Blackburn into a room that had a sofa and TV, virtual islands among the stacks in a surprisingly large room. The pathways, most of them, were wide enough for a wheelchair. Some of the stacks, farther back toward the walls, got narrow. There was no filth, merely stacks in an order that could only have made sense to Blackburn.
‘My cleaning lady has called in sick for couple of years. If you can find a place to sit, by all means sit.’
‘I’ll stand.’ McClellan noticed a giant bag of potato chips, half empty.
‘You’re here about a murder?’
‘Julia Bateman.’
‘The bitch is dead?’ he blurted.
‘Not quite.’
‘Really?’ It seemed as if it were just now sinking in.
‘Really. I guess she’s not in your will.’
‘I gave her a start, helped her get established. I run into a little trouble and while I am sorting it all out, she runs away with my business.’
‘That’s reason enough to kill the bitch. Hey man, I’m on your side.’
‘Hey, hey, hey.’
‘Hey yourself.’
‘I’m not a killing kind of guy, you know?’
‘Could have fooled me. Checked your files, fella. You kind of like pushing women around.’
‘C’mon, that’s domestic. Wife shit. Different altogether. What happened to Julia?’
‘It’s different because you got a marriage license. That it?’ McClellan didn’t like the guy. ‘Somebody beat the living holy hell out of her.’
‘When?’
‘You don’t know?’ McClellan said.
‘Stop it.’
‘So how did that happen?’ McClellan asked, gesturing toward the wheelchair. ‘Fall through a skylight or something?’
‘Got hit by a bus.’
‘When?’
‘Year ago.’
‘You suing them, Blackburn?’
‘Trying to get a little compensation. Out of work, you know. Pain. Medical bills.’
‘Well you sure as hell know the insurance business. Know what buttons to push. What works, what doesn’t. Right?’
‘Life’s full of irony,’ Blackburn said. ‘Is Julia all right?’
McClellan walked down one of the narrow aisles. He noticed a copy of a girlie magazine next to the wall. He retrieved it, opened it. He glanced at the air brushed ‘Babes of Toyland.’
‘She all right?’ Blackburn asked impatiently.
‘The bitch will live, Blackburn.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Blackburn said. ‘I don’t mean to call her that. Just comes out. I’m sorry about it. I liked her. I was gone for five years. There was no business for me to come back to. But she could have offered to help. Is she all right?’
‘Don’t know,’ McClellan said, flipping through a few more pages. Then he closed the magazine and looked at the cover. ‘Better stop before I get some bad ideas. Current issue, huh? You’re a bit of a magician getting down an aisle like that in your wheelchair.’
Blackburn laughed nervously. ‘Yeah the phone rang and I just tossed it. I didn’t realize I’d have to move all this shit to get back to it.’ He held out his hand for McClellan to give him the magazine.
‘Funny, isn’t it?’ McClellan said. ‘Irony or something, right? So how much money are you going to get before you make a miraculous recovery?’
‘I don’t need this kind of accusation. Check with the doctor.’
‘I will. Let’s talk about some dates and times, and where you were and who you were with, OK?’ He tossed the magazine on the farthest stack back.