At the station I asked for my phone call and made it. Twenty minutes later Walter Reuther O’Neil knocked on the interrogation-room door.
Arbaugh looked over his shoulder, puckered his mouth in disgust, and waved him in. We’d been posturing for about ten minutes and I was bored. We’d done the iron-eyeball tango and the pigeon-chest puff-up. Then there was some assorted table banging and finger pointing by Arbaugh, which I countered with rolled eyes and wide-mouthed yawns.
“Lieutenant Arbaugh, I’m Walter O’Neil. I’d like to speak to my client alone, please.”
“Yeah, sure. Make it snappy, though. We’re ready to book him.”
Walter smiled benignly, allowing Arbaugh his fiction of the inevitability of my fall.
He sat down and put his briefcase on the floor next to the table leg. Steepling his hands on the table, he nodded and said, “So, Leo, what have you done?”
I learned over the years how to read Walter. He had on the disinterested mask he wore when picking over the remains of someone else’s folly. Poking into every corner of my tale to see whether, once again, he could in fact build a cathedral from a pile of bones. Had I been only a client, that was all I would have seen, at least at this time. But we were friends, and Walter registered the more damaging facts as if they had happened to him.
When I was finished, he bent down, pulled his case onto the table, popped it open, and took out a pad. He pulled a gold pen from his jacket pocket and began to make notes. He asked his questions, I gave my answers. Back and forth we went. He gave me his prognosis and his recommendations. I told him what I wanted. Eventually we had a workable plan. He leaned back and hooked his long pianist’s fingers into his suspenders.
“Shall we?” The slightest smile lifted the corners of his mouth. The hawk had seen the rabbit.
I nodded in agreement. Walter stood up, buttoned his double-breasted jacket, pulled at his cuffs, and walked to the door.
He stuck his head outside and called for the lieutenant.
Arbaugh strode into the room. “Okay, Haggerty, you and your lawyer have had your little talk. Now it’s our turn.” He turned toward Walter and showed him the door with his thumb.
“Sorry, Lieutenant, I’m staying. You’ve got Mr. Isaacs’s story. It’s obviously a matter of self-defense. I want my client released.”
“You want, you want,” Arbaugh mimicked. “Climb this,” he said, and waved a rigid digit. “No way am I letting this guy go. Murder One, and it’ll stick.”
“Are you kidding? You’ve got a car riddled with buckshot, fired from ambush. An eyewitness who says that Haggerty warned the man to drop his gun. The same witness says that he drew down on Haggerty. He shot to save his life. Self-defense pure and simple. You take this to the Commonwealth’s attorney and she’ll laugh you out of her office. Save yourself the grief, Arbaugh.”
“Bullshit, O’Neil. Who’re you trying to kid? You can spit-shine this turd all you want. I know what I’m looking at.”
Arbaugh leaned forward and got right in my face. “You set this guy up, Haggerty. He murdered your friend and raped your woman. That’s the motive. You knew what kind of guy he was. So you let him think he had the drop on you. Your buddy sitting in his bulletproof car wasn’t in any danger. You waited until his gun was empty. Then you jump out and blow him away. Murder One. Not self-defense. I got motive, opportunity, and means. You killed this guy just like he killed your friend. No difference, Haggerty. Those are the facts and facts don’t change.”
“Lieutenant, you have your facts and I have mine. I’m quite confident that the Commonwealth’s attorney and a jury will prefer my facts. In fact, why don’t we ask her to come down here and see what she has to say? Save everybody a lot of trouble.”
Arbaugh wheeled toward Walter. Thank God they were both experienced, and had been cured of their idealism. Silently, they probed each other’s will, looking for the slightest doubt or hesitancy, then checking their own resolve. No one wants to take a loser into court. There’re too many battles waiting to be fought, and each loss takes something out of you. Something you can’t put back.
“Okay, I’ll call. We’ll see what she says. Until then, O’Neil, you’re out of here. Now move.”
“Of course, Lieutenant, whatever you say.” Walter picked up his briefcase, nodded to me, and went out into the hall. Arbaugh looked at me with disdain and walked out. I sat at the burned and scarred metal table and stared at the gray cinder-block walls. I would never know what turned it in Arbaugh’s mind. Maybe that Kugler wasn’t such a prince and he couldn’t get worked up over scumbags shooting scumbags. Let us thin our own herd. Then nuke the ones that are left.
I did my first hour sitting at the table. Every once in a while, one of the cops put his face in the window. I checked to see how I felt about killing Kugler. Nothing. Maybe Sam had been wrong. Maybe I’d already changed and we didn’t know it. I was attentive to that possibility but not alarmed, like finding a benign tumor.
Besides, Kugler had his chance. I really didn’t know what I was going to do until I got there. Even while his gun was swinging toward me. Warn him? Shoot him? Maybe nothing at all. Somewhere in there I made my decision.
By the end of the second hour, I was alternating between sitting on the table and circling it. The door opened and Walter strode in, slim and elegant in his pinstripe suit. Behind him strode the Commonwealth’s attorney, also slim and elegant in her pinstripe suit.
They slammed their briefcases on the table, looked at me for a second, and went back to their conversation.
“I won’t do it, Walter. He’s not going to walk on this one. Not like this. I need something in return. I’ve talked to Rhodasson and Arbaugh. They were looking for Kugler, too. They know that he killed Kendall and raped Samantha Clayton. They even know why.”
“And that is?” he asked casually.
“Because he thought they had a key that had been stolen from him by Harold Snipes. That’s what this is all about. I want that key and everything that goes with it. For starters.”
“Who’s this Snipes?” he asked.
“Another scumbag,” she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. She turned to me. “We’re not morons, Haggerty. We put the two of you together bringing in Snipes. He was already going into the Witness Protection Program. He rolled over on you for seconds at lunch. So we know all about the key. Let’s start there.”
Walter smiled at her. His requiem grin. “And you know me, Lisa,” he said, shaking his head.
“Yeah, ‘No-deal O’Neil.’ Well then, counselor, I’ll see you in court, when we go to set bail.” She nodded her head and made to leave.
“Whoa, let’s not get carried away here,” I said and approached the Commonwealth’s attorney.
Walter introduced us. “Leo Haggerty, my client. Leo, your jailer, Commonwealth’s attorney, Lisa Monroe.”
“Let me get this straight. If I give you the key or what it was to, you’ll drop the charges?”
Lisa looked at Walter before she said anything.
“If I don’t like what’s going on, I’ll jump in,” Walter said, not smiling now.
“I didn’t say that. I said you absolutely weren’t walking without my getting something in return.” She motioned for me to sit and stood back with her arms crossed. Lisa Monroe was a tangle of copper hair, hazel eyes, and pale freckled skin. Round-rimmed glasses added to her serious demeanor.
“Suppose I can help you clear up a bunch of crimes. All felonies. Front page of the Post stuff.”
“I’m listening.”
“Uh, excuse me. If we’re going to do this, I think we ought to agree to some terms up front.” Walter was in.
“Such as?”
“Absolute immunity for my client from all charges in this matter. In return he gives you whatever he has.”
“No. He tells me what he has first, then I decide if it’s a deal.”
“No way, Lisa. Immunity first, then he talks.”
“Uh, can I
get in here, boys and girls?”
“Yes, Mr. Haggerty?”
“How about I give you this.” I raised a hand to ward off Walter’s blazing stare. “I can solve two other murders for you. In addition, I can give you the people who hired Kugler and the whole conspiracy he was part of. You know he wasn’t the whole thing. If you haven’t pulled his rap sheet, you’ll find out soon enough. He was a loser. A druggie, a psycho. The guy thought Elvis was hiding out with Hitler. Without me you’ll never get to the people behind him. I can connect them. Nobody else can. He can’t roll over on anyone. He killed everyone else who knew about him. I walk on this and in return I give you the whole package. That’s my deal, whether my attorney agrees or not.”
Monroe liked it. She liked the idea of getting the first deal ever off of “No-deal O’Neil,” even if it was over his objection and noted with an asterisk. She liked what I was offering, too.
“All right. It’s a deal. Absolute immunity from all charges in today’s shooting in exchange for complete cooperation, including testifying, in regards to two murders by Kugler, and in indicting and trying the persons who hired him, for all crimes arising from and pertaining to their conspiracy with Otto Kugler.”
I checked with Walter. He nodded gravely.
“It’s a deal.”
37
I called Sylvia Francis from the Commonwealth attorney’s office. Lisa Monroe was downstairs presenting a motion to one of the circuit court judges.
“Hello,” Sylvia said.
“Hello, there, partner. Remember me? I think it’s time we got together to discuss our mutual interests.”
“I can’t. I don’t have the money. It’s too soon.”
“Hell, don’t worry about the money. I know you’re good for it. I think we should meet just to get acquainted. Sort of like a first date, you know. We’re gonna be in this together for a long time. We have some serious shit on each other. You know. Show some good faith.”
“All right, all right, what do you want?”
“How about dinner? A nice public place. We’ll all be on our best behavior. Talk about your plans, my plans. Where we’re going together. How about Artie’s? Early, before it’s crowded, so we can talk without being overheard.”
“Whatever. When do you want to meet?”
“How about six?”
“Fine. What about the matter we discussed this morning?”
“You mean Kugler? Don’t worry. I’ll bring proof with me. He’s past tense. Tell you what, though. Check out the five o’clock news. I’ll bet they run something on it. Beltway shoot-outs don’t happen every day.”
“Anything else?”
“Just one thing. Bring along your partner, Fanny Shoate. It’s her company I’m saving. I think we should meet.”
Nothing. “You there? Did you hear me?”
“Yeah. I heard you.” The words leaked out of her like the air in an old tire.
“Six, then,” I said, and hung up.
Lisa Monroe strode into the room and told me to get the hell out of her chair. Walter smiled and Arbaugh shook his head.
“All right. Everything has been approved. Did you set up a meeting?”
I nodded.
“Great. Go on downstairs with Lieutenant Arbaugh. He’ll get everything ready. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”
She dismissed us by scribbling some notes on a pad. We rose in unison and moved toward the door. She looked up.
“Walter, that promise of immunity you got depends on your client’s performance. Remind him of that. If he doesn’t tie these women to Kugler, tight, I’ll settle for him.”
“Lisa, he’s doing you a favor. If he doesn’t deliver them to you with an apple in their mouths, you’ll have nothing. I’ll walk him on this, believe it.”
“If he does his job, we won’t have to find out, will we?”
“See you downstairs, Lisa.”
Walter and I walked down the hall, letting Arbaugh lead.
“Did you hear all that?” he asked.
“Yeah. Let her talk. I don’t really care.”
“You should, Leo. She’s a good attorney. I’ve seen stigmata appear on witnesses after she’s cross-examined them.”
“Don’t worry, Walter. I have every intention of tying these two to Kugler. Like a cement block around their ankles. Then I’m gonna push them in, and it’s gonna be perfectly legal. We’re all going to get what we want.”
“Hurry up, you two, I don’t have all day,” Arbaugh barked from the elevator.
At six o’clock I walked into Artie’s. I told the hostess I wanted an upper booth in the back and followed her down the aisle. I settled in, and put my envelope on the table. A waitress came by and asked if I wanted a drink. I said no and admired what she did for a long-sleeved white shirt, black slacks, bow tie, and suspenders.
I watched the front door from my seat. At ten after, they walked in. Sylvia scanned the room and I waved her back. She led the way and Shoate trudged along behind. It was the woman from the pavilion at Nottaway Park. They slid in opposite me and released anxious smiles, as if good manners were a vaccine for bad news.
“Hello, ladies,” I said, and stuck out my hand. Sylvia passed; Fanny, docile Fanny, shook it briefly.
“Excellent. Glad you could both make it. I think we’re going to be together a long time and do some great things. What do you say we start with some wine?”
“Why don’t we skip the pleasantries, Mr.…?” Sylvia said curtly.
“Haggerty. And you are Sylvia Francis and Fanny Shoate. Fine, let’s skip the pleasantries and get right down to business.”
The waitress returned and took my order for an Irish whiskey neat, Sylvia’s Perrier with a twist, and Fanny’s Coke.
“You know, Sylvia, I’ve been doing some thinking since we met this morning and you’ve got me worried. Men don’t seem to fare too well around you. First, you sabotage Schatzkin’s research project because you were annoyed at how he treated you. Then you hire Kugler to kill Onslow because he wouldn’t do what you wanted. Then you let me waltz in and remove Kugler because he was a liability. I think there’s a pattern here. But that’s okay, because I have a solution for it. Trust. That’s what we need. I don’t want to spend my time worrying about whether you’re out there lining somebody up to replace me. The answer is …” Our drinks arrived and I stopped to sip mine.
“… How to make what’s good for you good for me, too. You’re real good at looking out for yourself. So I figure if that’s good for me too, then I can turn my back on you now and then. Okay? How do we do this? I think we have to get down and dirty together. Equally, so that there’s no percentage in betraying each other or replacing each other. And out of that dungheap the beautiful flowers of mutual trust will grow.”
I sipped my drink and eyed them both. Sylvia was a blank. Fanny had a little tic in her left eye.
I slipped two mini-recorders out of my pocket and put them on the table next to the envelope.
“Okay, you’re over there, saying to yourselves, How do I know this guy is for real? How do I know he has the data? How do I know he isn’t a cop? This is how.”
I pushed one recorder over to Sylvia. She looked at it like it was a chocolate-covered roach.
“Pick it up. It won’t bite you. Now, to answer the first question, I’m going to show you that I killed Otto Kugler. That puts me in a heap of shit. But that’s okay, because you’re going to tell me how and why you hired him, and that puts you in a heap of shit, because old Otto, he killed three people and raped another one while he was working for you, so that’s like you did it yourselves. That puts us equally in the shit and it’s as good a basis for a partnership as I can think of.” I took another sip and wondered who was saying these words.
“See, I’m going to give you a confession of my part and then you’re going to do the same thing for me.”
Fanny’s head had been slowly slumping forward. All I could see now was the top. I tapped her wiry hair. �
��Hey, buck up, Fanny. We’re almost done. You get your company sold, you get to be rich. We all get to be rich. Hang in there.
“I’m going to tell you what happened to old Otto, and while I do, I’m going to tape it all on this little recorder. See, here’s the tape. The battery light is on. It works just fine. When I’m done, I’m going to hold on to this. Then you’re going to do the same thing and tell me all about how you hired Otto and so on. Then we’ll exchange recorders. We’ll both have each other’s confessions. I’d recommend giving it to your lawyer to turn over to the police if anything bad happens to either one of you. That’s what I’m going to do.”
They sat there, silent, impassive. Shoate, I guessed, felt like she was being measured for a casket. The deeper the barrel she was in, the greater her torpor. Wait till she finds out that this one has no bottom. Francis was taking it all in, but I knew she was scheming all the time. Working all her options. Trying out how to counter my pressure. Above all, it was her voice I wanted on that tape.
“For starters, let me convince you of my sincerity.” I opened the envelope and slid out three Polaroids of Otto Kugler. The first was a shot of his body on the ground, in the awkward sprawl of sudden death, his arms outflung like he’d thrown his life away.
Nothing from Sylvia. Fanny shuddered and looked away.
Number two was a close-up of Kugler’s face. Head on. Eyes closed, he looked like he was sleeping. Kugler wasn’t such a bad-looking guy. Strong, even features. Except for that third nostril leaking down his cheek.
Sylvia was still going strong. Shoate looked like a salted snail. I pushed on.
The last one was Kugler’s chest. His shirt was off and the four holes made an italic N between his nipples. He was well muscled, deeply tanned, and served in a pool of his own blood.
“All right, enough,” Sylvia snapped.
“Hey, I just wanted you to be sure. This is serious business and I’m a serious guy.” I picked up my recorder and clicked it on. “This is Leo Haggerty speaking. The date is November 12, 1990, and I’m speaking without coercion or duress. On this date I shot Otto Kugler five times, causing his death. This act took place at approximately ten-thirty a.m. in the wooded area behind the pedestrian overpass near the Braddock Road Exit of the outer loop of the Beltway.”
A Fistful of Empty Page 15
