Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  The chief drained his glass and placed it carefully on the desk.

  “I’ll make sure she understands.”

  Berillo walked to the door and opened it. “Good, and another thing, for chrissakes get yourself some deodorant.”

  Rooney slowly screwed the cap of the bourbon back into place. He would have liked to ram the bottle right up Berillo’s ass: forty-eight hours on duty and the fucker has to complain about his B.O.

  18

  Rooney had shaved, and was wearing a clean shirt and a fresh suit. He’d had six hours’ sleep and a good lunch before he drove into the station. His wife seemed only mildly annoyed that he hadn’t let her know where he had been for the past forty-eight hours. Not that she worried for her husband’s safety, she’d needed him to change the lightbulb on their porch. Wearing a new roll-on deodorant with a pine forest aroma, he barged into his office. The chief came by almost immediately to inform him that Janklow was being brought in by his lawyer at four-thirty, and to check up on Lorraine. Berillo, word went out, appeared to be in a growing state of panic.

  “Bean with her?” he shouted at Rooney.

  “Yeah. Don’t worry, Chief, he’s good and steady. He’ll have her here in time.”

  “I am not panicking, Rooney, but I will, we all will, if she doesn’t show.” Rooney winced as he slammed the door behind him.

  Bean was sweating as he hit a traffic jam. Two P.M. in the heat of the day, and it was always hotter than hell in August. Lorraine sat beside him. If she was nervous she didn’t show it, but Josh grew increasingly agitated. He kept on tapping the dashboard clock, then flipping his wrist to check his watch. He’d had two calls from Berillo’s secretary and one from Rooney, all making sure he had Lorraine with him and would be at the station with her before four. His hair was damp at the nape of his neck and he leaned out of the window to look at the lines of traffic up ahead. The trip from Lorraine’s to the station should have taken no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. He knew if she wasn’t at the station in plenty of time he’d have his ass whipped. He wiped his face with his handkerchief. Lorraine decided it was time to say something. “Get your light on or we’ll never make it. Shut it off before we get to the precinct.”

  Subtle it wasn’t, but in the end Bean switched on his siren and his blinking roof light and began to edge his way down the center of Orange Grove. Even less subtly, he yelled through his car speaker at drivers who were slow to get out of his way. Rooney was pacing the corridor as they walked toward his office.

  “Is he here yet?” Lorraine asked calmly. Rooney shook his head as he and Bean hurried her along toward the viewing room. It was just an anteroom, with a table and two hard-backed chairs facing a squarecurtained window that adjoined the main interview room. There were microphones at ceiling level, the controls at the side of the room. Lorraine was ushered in. She noticed that, like Bean, Rooney was sweating, but there was a pungent aroma of pine and it made her smile; maybe someone had told him about the awful B.O. he’d swamped everyone with the previous night. She knew a lot was riding for Rooney on her identification of Janklow.

  “You just make notes and watch, look, and listen. You’ll be able to hear every word they say.”

  “Come on, Bill, I know the setup. Who’s taking the interview?”

  “Ed Bickerstaff, one of the suits. He’s the blond crew-cut guy, a real tight-ass—the one you asked who he was.”

  It was four twenty-five, five minutes to go. Rooney left the room. Lorraine lit up. Her hands were shaking. She picked up her pen and began to doodle on the notepad, then said to Bean, “What if there’s something I think Janklow should be asked?” Bean hesitated. “Give it to me and I’ll see if I can go into the interview room, but only if it’s—”

  “Important?” she said smiling.

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s gonna know he’s being viewed—any two-bit criminal knows about the window—so why all the secrecy?”

  “Protection.”

  “His?”

  “Yours. You’re a valuable witness, Ms. Page.”

  Janklow and Kophch’s arrival in a chauffeur-driven Cadillac sent whispers through almost every department. Even though secrecy had surrounded the request to bring in Janklow, rumor spread fast; any suspect being brought in for questioning about the hammer murders would have attracted interest, but a member of Society, like one of the Thorburn family …

  Rooney stood in the corridor as they filed past him. He was surprised at how confident Janklow appeared, not paying attention to anyone but staring ahead, his face partly hidden by dark glasses. As they passed, Rooney sniffed. He could smell expensive cologne like delicate flowers, wondering if it was Janklow’s deodorant. It smelled better than the one he’d plastered over himself. He also noticed the way Kophch stayed close to Janklow, his steely eyes taking in everyone and everything.

  Bean replaced the intercom phone and looked at Lorraine. “They’re coming in now.” He drew back the curtain to expose the dark square windowpane and returned to his seat.

  The microphones picked up the sounds of the adjacent room. Bickerstaff was sitting to one side, his back to the window. The table was stacked with files and photographs. As the door opened, he rose to his feet. Lorraine leaned forward: she couldn’t see Janklow as the men were introduced. Kophch turned and stared at the one-way glass, aware of what it was, but said nothing and pulled out a chair for Janklow.

  Lorraine watched closely as Janklow sat down facing her directly, his chair positioned toward the viewing window and opposite Bickerstaff. Kophch sat on his left, and clicked open his briefcase. Janklow was wearing a fawn-colored jacket and a white shirt with a tie. He had mouseblond hair combed back from his face, which was angular and more handsome than she had expected. His nose was thin, again not as she had remembered, and she doubted immediately that this was the man who had attacked her. She didn’t recognize him. She sat back, her heart beating rapidly. She’d been wrong. She twisted her pen. “Can they get him to take off his glasses?”

  “They will, just relax.” Bean could see that she was tense: she was frowning, cocking her head first to one side, then to the other. No one spoke in the adjoining room. It was eerie: the silence, the waiting.

  “Would you please remove your glasses, Mr. Janklow?” It was the quiet voice of Bickerstaff.

  “If you require my client to look at any evidence, he will need to use his glasses. They are not decorative but prescription. I’m sorry but your request is denied.”

  Bickerstaff opened his file. “Take off your glasses, please, Mr. Janklow. When it is required you may replace them.”

  Janklow slowly removed them. Lorraine felt chilled for the first time. His eyes were pale blue, washed out, and he stared ahead as if straight at her. She caught her breath as he moistened his lips. His mouth had been tightly closed until this moment, but when he licked around both lips his face took on a different quality, as if his lips had come to life, wide lips, wide, wet lips. She scribbled on her notepad. This was the man who had attacked her, she knew it now. His lips had given him away.

  “It’s him,” she said softly, barely audible. Bean stared at her and then back to the window as the interview began in earnest.

  Bickerstaff, quiet and authoritative, first explained that he would require from Mr. Janklow his whereabouts on certain dates. He was aware that some were several years ago, but he should answer to the best of his knowledge. When the date of the first murder was given, Janklow frowned. “I have no idea.”

  His lawyer jotted something in his leather-bound notebook. The second date and Janklow was unable to answer, the third and still nothing—he was even apologetic at his memory failure. Bickerstaff persisted. As the more recent dates came up, Janklow gave alibi times and places. He mentioned his brother and his mother. Both, his lawyer said, would verify his client’s whereabouts.

  Bickerstaff then laid out the victims’ photographs in front of Janklow. He studied each one intently, in silence, before sha
king his head. “No, I don’t know any of these people.”

  Lorraine watched every gesture he made, his hands, long delicate fingers, and she made a note of the ring on his right-hand pinky finger. She was sure that this was the man who had attacked her, even though she didn’t recognize his voice, or remember the ring. It was his face and hands that convinced her: he was left-handed. Bickerstaff was unhurried, taking his time over each question, each photograph. He was saving Norman Hastings and Didi—or David Burrows—for last. When he presented Janklow with the picture of Hastings, Janklow said he knew him quite well. He described how Hastings had used his garage to park his car but denied any social interaction between them. When asked if he was aware of Hastings’s transvestite tendencies he looked shocked, and when Bickerstaff asked if he knew Art Mathews he looked nonplussed. To his knowledge, he said, he had never heard the name. He was then asked if he knew Craig Lyall. This time he paused and touched his mouth. He started to shake his head and then changed his mind. “Craig Lyall? Um, yes, I think I’ve been to his studio. He’s a photographer. I took my mother there to be photographed, but he was not as professional as I’d hoped and the session was terminated. My mother is very particular, and this refers back to her days in the movies. She was a film star when she was in her twenties.”

  Janklow’s voice was affected, often overprecise, and yet he did not make many hand gestures. Bickerstaff let him talk, quietly turning pages, before he interrupted. “Were you being blackmailed, Mr. Janklow?”

  Janklow sat back in his chair. “Blackmailed? Do you mean by Lyall?”

  “By anyone,” Bickerstaff replied.

  “Absolutely not.”

  He now presented Janklow with the photograph of Didi. Again, Janklow spent a considerable time looking at it, shifting his glasses on and off. “No, I’ve never met this woman.”

  “It’s a man.” Bickerstaff waited. “She or he never made you up for a photograph?”

  Lorraine saw Janklow’s mouth snap shut. Then he licked his lips again and gave a humorless laugh. “No, I was never made up—I presume you mean in female attire—for any photograph.”

  Bickerstaff didn’t waver but continued, eyes down, still nonchalant, as he asked if Janklow was homosexual.

  “No, I am not,” Janklow snapped.

  “Are you a transvestite?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Have you ever in the past been charged with any homosexual crime?”

  “No.”

  Kophch reached out and touched Janklow’s arm. He was becoming agitated and he constantly licked his lips. Lorraine chewed her pen, willing Bickerstaff to push for more, but he remained composed, even apologetic, looking at Kophch and saying that he was sorry if some of the questions were distasteful to his client but he must understand they had to be asked.

  Kophch leaned toward Bickerstaff, his voice low. “Mr. Bickerstaff, please feel free to ask my client any question—that is what we are here for, to confirm my client’s innocence—but please let me remind you, he is here of his own free will.”

  “I am aware of that, Mr. Kophch. The sooner we have completed all the questions, the sooner your presence will no longer be necessary.”

  Lorraine sighed. If anything, Bickerstaff seemed to be on Janklow’s side. He was taking so long, pussyfooting around. His methodical approach was driving her crazy. She asked Bean when Bickerstaff was going to up the ante.

  He made no reply but kept his eyes on the glass partition.

  Bickerstaff presented Holly’s picture next and Janklow denied any knowledge of her. Then Bickerstaff gave him Didi’s photograph again.

  “I have already said I do not know this person.”

  Bickerstaff pushed the photograph closer. “This person sometimes calls herself Didi.”

  “I don’t know her—whoever it is. I don’t know them.”

  “You have also denied knowing or meeting Art Mathews.”

  “I don’t know him. You’re repeating the same questions.”

  Bickerstaff was beginning to step up the pressure, just a little. “Now, Mr. Janklow, can we return to the dates and the alibis you have given. It seems convenient that both your brother and your mother are always your only alibi. You have no other witness to—”

  Janklow’s voice rose as he interrupted. “It happens to be the truth.”

  “Mr. Bickerstaff,” Kophch intervened, “it is obvious that you are beginning to repeat yourself. If you have no further questions to ask my client, then perhaps we can close this interview.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Kophch, because your client has so far been unable to present to me any alibi for a number of these cases.”

  “But they took place some years ago. If we are given time we will attempt to present you with the whereabouts of my client on those specific dates.”

  Kophch stood up but was ordered by Bickerstaff to remain seated.

  Lorraine clasped her hands tightly together. This was more like it.

  “Mr. Janklow, you’ve stated that you are not homosexual.”

  “Yes.”

  “You are not a transvestite.”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Is your brother?”

  “No, that’s ridiculous.”

  “And you have never at any time in the past eight years been arrested on a homosexual-related incident.”

  “No, I have not.”

  “You have stated that on the night of Norman Hastings’s death you were not in Santa Monica, you were not—”

  “I was with my mother.”

  “Is this your mother, Mr. Janklow?”

  Bickerstaff placed one of the photographs Lorraine had removed from the Thorburn house before him. Janklow looked at his lawyer, then looked back at the photographs. He was visibly shocked. “Is this your mother, Mr. Janklow?”

  Kophch frowned and looked at the pictures. He seemed confused as Janklow sat tight-lipped with fury.

  “Is this a photograph of your mother, Mr. Janklow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Bickerstaff extracted a picture of Mrs. Thorburn from one of the stacks and placed it on the table. “Do you notice any difference, Mr. Janklow, between this photograph of Mrs. Thorburn and the one I am now placing in front of you?”

  The two photographs lay side by side, one of Mrs. Thorburn, the other, everyone was certain, of Janklow himself.

  He picked up the photographs and stared at them. “Where did you get these?”

  “Would your client please answer the question?”

  Janklow was becoming agitated, and for the first time began to twist his hands, threading his fingers, releasing and locking them again. Lorraine stood up. Bickerstaff should go for him now. What was he waiting for? Why didn’t he push Janklow now? Kophch requested a few moments alone with his client. As they were led out, Lorraine slapped the table. “I don’t believe this. I don’t believe it!”

  The door opened; Bickerstaff walked in and asked quietly if she had anything to tell him.

  “You bet I have! It’s him, it’s him! If you want me to I’ll walk in there and confront him.”

  “No, you won’t,” Bickerstaff said firmly, and left.

  They waited over half an hour before Janklow and Kophch returned. Janklow was calm again. Kophch opened the interview this time.

  “My client and I would like to know how you came by these photographs.”

  Bickerstaff kept his head down as if studying his papers. “I am afraid, Mr. Kophch, I am unable to give that information to you. We feel we are required to place your client under oath and that anything he subsequently says—”

  “If you have any charges related to my client, I want to hear them. If any relate to these murders, then we will not, at this interview, discuss or refer—”

  Bickerstaff snapped, “You will not, Mr. Kophch, tell me what I can or cannot do. I am more than aware of the law and I am now ready to charge your client with assault.
”

  “What?” Mr. Kophch’s studied calm cracked. He had been unprepared for an assault charge.

  Bickerstaff continued, “I wish formally to charge your client that he did, on the night of the seventeenth of May of this year, assault a woman, whose identity I have every right at this stage of my inquiry not to disclose.”

  “You never at any time told me my client was suspected of an assault,” Kophch interjected. “You have brought my client and myself here on false pretenses.”

  Bickerstaff and Kophch argued for more than ten minutes. Lorraine was becoming impressed with Bickerstaff, who had remained in control. Kophch was aware of every legal loophole, but Bickerstaff was one jump ahead. He had wanted, from the outset, to force Janklow to talk under oath but without Lorraine’s verification of his identity he had not had sufficient evidence. Now he did, and at seven o’clock that evening Janklow was sworn in and charged with assault. As yet there was still not enough evidence to charge him with any of the murders. All were more than aware that when Kophch received Lorraine’s statements and was allowed access to the evidence against Janklow, they would be in trouble. But they had enough to hold him for another twenty-four hours.

  At nine o’clock that evening, after an hour’s break, Janklow was brought back into the interview room. He and Kophch had spent the time alone in a cell. Some supper had been sent out for and served to them there.

  Lorraine had sat in the incident room with Bickerstaff over sandwiches and coffee.

  “I think you should put more pressure on his homosexual activities.”

  “The blackmail’s a strong murder motive and if he and Hastings ever discussed the blackmail—”

  Lorraine leaned close, excited. “Of course he was being blackmailed. What about all the missing jewelry belonging to Mrs. Thorburn? We don’t know if it was sold with her permission, but it’s a good area to get Janklow to talk about—even more so as Mrs. Thorburn is his only alibi for the night I was attacked. Is anyone questioning her?”