Suspects

by Thomas Berger

  “I want your word, Lloyd. I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret. You can hear it on TV, but I wanted to talk to you myself.”

  His account was clear, measured, and in a language that employed police terms in certain passages.

  Lloyd stayed silent so long after the account was concluded that the detective asked again whether he was still there. “Yeah. I’m all right. I mean, I’m not all right, but I’m not—you don’t have to worry about me. I won’t go after him. What would be the use? … Oh, God…” Now his defenses crumbled, and he wept.

  “The little girl would not have felt a thing,” Moody said after a moment. “And Donna was deceased as a result of the blow to the head. She wouldn’t have known of the rest. She was gone.”

  “You’ve already told Larry.”

  “He was duly notified, that’s correct.”

  “He’s not still scared of me, you think?” Lloyd was trying to make his voice less tearful. His grief was his own.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” said Moody.

  “I haven’t tried to get in touch with him. I didn’t think I was supposed to. But it would be okay now, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m not stopping you, if that’s what you mean.” Moody paused. “Uh, listen, Lloyd. The DA’s office is going to drop the gun charges…Lloyd, you hear me?”

  “Sorry.… Detective?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there any way I can get the gun back?”

  “You got to be kidding.… Am I wrong about you, Lloyd? Are you really hopeless?”

  “I don’t mean for myself. It never belonged to me. I stole it from a friend, not a gun shop.”

  “Joseph Littlejohn?”

  “No, not him. Someone I don’t want to get into trouble, somebody who didn’t have anything to do with—”

  “It’s been confiscated, Lloyd,” Moody said in the harsh version of his voice. “Lucky for your friend there’s no record it was ever used in the commission of a crime—other than that stunt of yours. Best thing you can do for your friend is tell them not to play with firearms in the future, or at least apply for a license.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you going to do now?” Moody asked in a gender tone. “Work there for Littlejohn, doing carpentry and so on?”

  Lloyd breathed out. “I don’t know. It’s all so sudden, not to have this hanging over me. It’ll take a while to get used to.”

  “You sound like you expected to be found guilty. Mind telling me why? You weren’t the perpetrator.”

  “Okay,” said Lloyd. “I owe you an answer. First, I wasn’t really sure I didn’t do it. I’ve never been that drunk before. I wet the bed during the night, something I haven’t done since I was a little kid. I woke up with this cut on my face, and apparently it bled enough to get on my undershirt, which was on the shower floor. I don’t know if I had tried to wash it out or just threw it in there. The whole night is still a blank. That’s the only time in my life anything like that has occurred. If I could black out for seventeen, eighteen hours, maybe it was because of something terrible that I did during that time.” He paused. There was still no point in going into where and how he had stolen the half gallon of scotch: he could provide no information as to the identity of whoever had shot the liquor-store clerk and emptied the cash drawer. “The other reason I thought I might be charged with murder is—you say you want to hear it—I thought so long as you didn’t have anyone else, you might just go ahead and nail me.”

  “Without any evidence?” Moody was not so incredulous as reproachful.

  “I’m sorry,” said Lloyd. “But you wanted to know, and I’m just telling the truth. I guess I thought that’s what the police might do, the police in general, not you necessarily. It wasn’t personal.”

  “That’s a relief,” Moody said. “I’ve got a son only a year or so older than you. He’s a graduate student in sociology, out West. He and his mother don’t live with me. With him it is personal.… But I’m not saying it’s all his fault.”

  Lloyd did not feel it was his place to respond to that. But at least he could say, “Well, now I know different. You were always fair with me, and I really appreciate you calling me now. I guess it’s more than time I grow up.”

  “Listen, Lloyd,” said Moody. “You want to talk about anything, get my opinion for what it’s worth—I have been around for a while—give me a call. I’ll be interested to hear what you’re doing with yourself. You get too bitter, like you say happens sometimes, get in touch with me before you do anything, I mean, get into a fight or walk out on your job. Maybe I’ll have something to offer. If I don’t, I won’t waste much of your time anyway.”

  Lloyd was touched by this unique and modest suggestion. Not even Donna had actually invited him to tell her his troubles. He had assumed she would be sympathetic to him, and imposed them on her. By nature a kind person, she was probably just being nice, the way she had unfailingly been to everybody. “Thanks,” he told Moody. “Thanks a lot for everything.”

  When he rejoined his friends on the porch and gave them the news, Molly hugged and kissed him, in the first embrace they had ever had, and Joe pumped his hand.

  “Calls for a big celebration, buddy! I’ll go get the pizza and six-pack.”

  “There you have Joe’s idea of high living,” Molly said. “If he won the lottery he’d order a slice of pizza and a brewski.” But her round face darkened then, and she gently grasped Lloyd’s hand. “It’s a terrific relief, but it’s not—”

  Lloyd said quickly, “That’s okay. It’s no disrespect. She would understand.” He grinned at Joe. “Pizza’s fine.”

  “All right, then,” Molly cried, “but not beer, for God’s sake. This ai—isn’t the bowling tournament, Central Hardware versus Mel’s Auto Parts. The champagne’s my treat, don’t worry.” She addressed the last words to her cousin.

  Joe spoke to Lloyd in mock outrage. “She thinks I’m too cheap to spend five bucks on a bottle of champagne.”

  “I think it’s gone up since the last time you looked, Joe old boy.” Molly winked at Lloyd. “It might even be five-fifty by now.”

  “Ouch,” said Joe, wincing. “That’s why I stick to beer.” But a significant look of his own at Lloyd meant he too was joking.

  20

  Captain Novak finally caved, if only to shut him up, and permitted Marevitch to return to duty after only three off-days.

  “Take care of that new kid Ravenswood,” Novak told him. “She was fourth in her class at the Academy.”

  “Then she should take care of me,” Marevitch said. “I was at the bare-ass bottom of mine, and you should know: you were first. She’s also six foot tall, I hear.”

  “Yeah, Jack, but she’s a lousy shot. She barely qualified. Take her to the range with you next time you go. You’re overdue this season.”

  Marevitch was not bad with the good old regulation long-barreled .38, but could hardly hit the backstop with the new automatic the department was thinking of introducing and having the men test. But the main reason he was often late with the required target practice was that each officer had to pay for his own ammo. He grunted now and started to leave, but the captain called him back.

  “I know you’re steamed about the valor medal turndown. But listen, it’s just political. I won’t go into the complications, but take my word for it. What’s political right now won’t necessarily be next year, if you get my drift. Then I’ll put in for it all over again. Don’t think all is lost forever.”

  Marevitch found the courage to say, “If Heinz told you about that, then he also must of said I cursed you when I heard.”

  Novak laughed toward Marevitch and then at the ceiling. “I thought that was the way my men always refer to me. Don’t tell me otherwise, Jack, else I’ll think I’m doing something wrong.”

  So on the seven-to-three watch next morning, Marevitch was back in a unit, but the car was different.

  He asked Felicia Ravenswood, whose large figur
e was behind the wheel, “What did they do with nine-oh-five?”

  “Pulled it for a brake job,” said she. “I hope while they got it they do something about that transmission as well.”

  “What’s wrong with the transmission?” Marevitch asked resentfully. “I been in that unit for two years and everything works fine.”

  Ravenswood moved diplomatically. “You know how cars are. They’ll run fine for some time and then all at once everything will break down inside one day. Windshield wipers are out, too.”

  “That I knew,” Marevitch assured her. “Artie and me never got around to reporting that, I guess because of the long spell of dry weather.” She was driving too slowly. “You can speed it up some. If you go slow along here, you make ‘em nervous.” They were on a cross street off the main drag in the black district. She ought to have known how her people reacted to a crawling police vehicle.

  “I thought that was the idea,” Ravenswood observed. “We want the bad guys to be nervous, don’t we?”

  “They don’t start the serious dealing here until later in the day. Now we’ll just be upsetting the good people, who are trying to get their shopping done before it’s wartime again.”

  She smiled at him. “You might wonder why you had to tell me that. I don’t live here and never did. I was brought up in Cassdale, and since I’ve been married we’ve lived over on Egmont. My husband’s on the job: Traffic. If you can call that police work. I used to kid him like that when I wanted to get him mad, but then somebody he pulled over for running a stop sign pointed a nine-millimeter at him and would have shot him if it hadn’t misfired.” She made a harrumph sound. “That ended the jokes. It’s also what got me to enter the department.”

  “You mean you wanted the risk?”

  “I guess that would take a crazy person,” Ravenswood said. “No, I just figured I might do more good with a shield than I ever could as a schoolteacher, where I was always outnumbered.”

  He thought of asking, “Even at your size?” but did not, in case she was sensitive about it, as he knew some women were, because he had gone to high school with a pretty but very tall girl named Elyse Miller who was touchy on the subject. Later in life she married an ugly little guy five inches shorter than she, and there were those who figured he must have made up in equipment what he lacked in height.

  All this while both officers were scanning the streets they drove through; you could talk about anything and still be alert on the job. He and Artie sometimes even got into heated arguments, always having to do with local sports, the only area in which they could have serious differences.

  “Where’d you go to school if you grew up in Cassdale?”

  “Valley.”

  Marevitch nodded vigorously. “I went to Central. We always played you. Of course that was before your time.”

  “Hey, look at that mutt!” Ravenswood slammed her foot against the brake pedal. Luckily they were not going faster. Even so, Marevitch had to catch himself with a hand to the dash. She was already out the door.

  A boy ten, eleven had snatched the purse of a gray-haired woman, who was now hobbling after him, screaming and shaking a cane as he put distance between them, sprinting east on Middleton. Marevitch would have made pursuit in the unit, leaving any foot chases to Art McCall, and the kid would probably have vanished between the buildings, on turf that behind the facades was unknown to the white police.

  Now he watched in astonishment as Ravenswood proceeded, despite her bulk, to run the boy down within a block. It was her long legs that did it: each stride covered three times the ground gained by one of the kid’s. The accessories on her gun belt flapped violendy, but her cap stayed on, squared away as always.

  Marevitch took the wheel and drove down the block to where his partner was holding the boy’s skinny dark-brown wrist in a huge hand of the same hue. The lad had short-cropped hair, a small shiny nose, and flawless skin and wore baggy pants, an oversized shirt, and black running shoes. His dark eyes were sullen by current expression and not by nature.

  With her free hand, Felicia, panting, gave the purse to Marevitch. To him, for the boy’s benefit, she said, gasping for air between each phrase, “What do we do with this prize? He sees our car, yet goes ahead and does the crime anyway.”

  The derision had no discernible effect on the boy. Ravenswood was showing her inexperience.

  “What’s your name?” asked Marevitch.

  When the boy failed to answer, Felicia shook him gently by the wrist, but she was so powerful that his entire body trembled.

  Marevitch repeated the question, but the lad replied only with an obscenity. He quickly patted the boy down and was surprised to find no weapons.

  “Put him inside, loose. His hands are too little for the cuffs to hold: they’ll slip right out.” And then they could be used as a weapon; it had happened. Marevitch leaned over and spoke into the brown ear under the blue cap. “We got an audience.”

  Dark heads were in the windows above, and a collection of persons was forming on either side of the street. This was not a gathering mob, but it did provide reason to proceed with discretion. Perhaps a videocamera was already running.

  They went to the unit, and Marevitch unlocked the rear door. Not even he dated back so far as to remember the time when a police vehicle, even one with the engine running, was considered forbidden territory to the bad guys. Nowadays the attempted carjacking of a unit from two armed officers was not out of the question. So as not to be inflammatory, he did not draw his weapon or even unbutton the strap that kept it holstered, but he was prepared mentally for any kind of assault.

  Felicia put the boy in the backseat. She closed the door with the thrust of a big hip and asked Marevitch, “We’re turning him over to Juvenile, right?”

  “I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

  “You don’t mean you’ll let him go?”

  “We recovered the property.”

  “See, that’s what—Well, I don’t want to be out of line. It’s not my place as a rookie.”

  “Go ahead, Felicia. You got a right. You just made a nice collar.”

  “I wouldn’t turn him loose. I don’t approve of that.”

  “That’s all very well, Felicia, but Juvenile ain’t gonna hold him, I guarantee.” He looked past her. “Here comes the lady.”

  Close up, the woman looked older than when seen from the unit, with cheeks like eroded brown earth. Now that the police held her purse, she was prepared to turn her anger on Marevitch. But he seized the initiative.

  “I believe this is your property, missus.” He gave her the purse.

  She was somewhat mollified, but, probably so as not to lose her self-respect, opened the handbag and, plunging her fingers inside, prudently counted the money therein without bringing it into view. She announced her surprise to find it all there.

  Felicia turned her glower on the old woman. “You gonna thank anyone for recovering it?”

  The woman was not fazed. “Fuh doin’ you job?” She jammed the purse under her arm and clenched its protruding end in her fist. She left at a pace that was measured by her cane.

  Ravenswood glared at the closest person on the sidewalk, a young man with a shaved head and a gold ring in the right lobe of his nose, and asked what he was looking at.

  “Nothing, Mama.”

  “Then take a hike.” She waited, hulking, until he moved, which to Marevitch’s surprise he finally did after only a short stare-down, and then said to her partner, “Mind if I get in back and talk to him?”

  “The kid?” He didn’t get it, but said it was okay by him. “But let me hold your weapon.”

  “Really think he could take it away from me?” She was amused.

  He was not. “I just lost a partner. You’ll take whatever precautions I think are necessary.”

  “I’m sorry.” Felicia unbuttoned the holster strap and handed him her pistol, butt first. She climbed into the backseat with the boy, who shrank apprehensively into the far corner
at her massive entrance, and Marevitch went around to the driver’s seat. Without looking directly at the people on the sidewalks or in the windows, he was nevertheless aware of the intentions of each with regard to his partner, the unit, and himself, in the veteran policeman’s way that was based mostly on experience but also included intuition, a sense of luck, and a certain stoicism. His bulletproof vest would not stop high-tech cop-killer slugs nor, as with Artie, a head shot, and all bets were off when it came to the deranged individual, but the odds were he would live to collect his pension.

  He drove to the now disused part of the once busy but still extensive railway yard and stepped out of the car to let Felicia talk to the kid. People still fished along that shore, down below the tracks, and, if they were black, ate what they caught and probably did not suffer for it, though most whites assumed that despite the cleanup efforts of decades the water was still polluted. Marevitch himself ate no fish whatever its origin, and as few vegetables as he could get away with.

  For some reason, very few dead human bodies ever surfaced in that part of the stream, maybe because the current was too swift-moving there. In his years of service Marevitch had encountered many dead men, women, and children, most of them deceased by reason of accident or natural causes, and not murder, but it had been he and Artie McCall who had found the Howland mother and daughter. When you’ve seen little children who were beaten to death by blood relatives in their own homes, some of them after months of preliminary mistreatment, you could actually be relieved that the little Howland girl’s face was unmarked and looked serene: so he told Stephanie, to whom such assurances meant a great deal, her association with what he did being vicarious.

  He wanted to give Ravenswood enough time to do whatever she had in mind, but he was also bored. He could have walked down to the water, but it was a hundred yards distant and he did not wish to leave her there alone and unarmed. Thinking she would be able to talk some sense into a kid like that was another example of her naïveté, but then she seemed to be a lace-curtain type, from a bedroom neighborhood on the border of the suburbs, who had little sense of the urban lower depths.