A Long Way Down

by Randall Silvis

  He kicked his heels against the footrest a couple of times, but it would not go down. “Take a long look at my life. This shithole and these cats are all I got. I don’t go nowhere, I don’t do nothing but open cans of cat food and watch TV. But if you want to float me a loan of, I don’t know, a thousand dollars or so, I’ll be out of here before you can whistle Dixie.”

  DeMarco leaned back, slipped the notebook into his pocket. He stood. “Why’d you beat the crap out of your friend?” he asked. “What did Zero do to you?”

  Costa settled back against the chair cushion. Raised his eyes to the ceiling. Stroked the white cat between the ears. “All he had to say was that I was with him up until he put us in a ditch. All he had to do was tell the truth and back me up. But what did he say? He couldn’t remember. Didn’t even remember leaving town that night, he said. Couldn’t remember driving into a ditch. Thought probably he was alone all night.”

  “So you put him in the hospital for that?”

  “Fucking Koenig,” he said. “One of your people. Turned my only friend against me.”

  “Is that why you’re so angry?” Jayme asked.

  “I’m closing my eyes now,” he said, and did.

  DeMarco nodded to Jayme. She slipped her hands under Connie, lifted and laid her aside. Then she stood.

  DeMarco said to Costa, “You mind if I hit the john before I go?”

  “Knock yourself out,” Costa said without opening his eyes. “Check the bedroom too if you want. You’re not going to find anything in there either.”

  As DeMarco headed for the bathroom, Jayme picked a few cat hairs off her arm. “You know, Mr. Costa,” she said, “I get the feeling you possess a lot more information than you’re willing to share. If you were to try a little harder to cooperate with us, we could return the favor and help you.”

  Still with his eyes closed, he lay motionless for a moment. A smile spread across his mouth, but it wasn’t a pretty one. He opened his eyes and turned his head her way. “You think somebody’s going to help me? That ain’t the way it works, and you know it.”

  “How does it work?” she asked.

  “I’m an old heterosexual white guy with a criminal record.” As he talked, his voice grew louder, his body more rigid, until he was sitting up and leaning over the armrest to shout at her. “Four strikes against me. Nobody’s going to throw a bone to me or anybody like me. They got too many so-called oppressed minorities to satisfy first. I can whine and complain just as loud as any one of them damn minorities, but it’s like screaming down the crapper in an outhouse. You know the only good thing about liberals? If they get their way, every last one of us will be living in a third-world dictatorship, and it will serve them right for being so goddamn stupid. The whole fucking country will end up looking like this neighborhood.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” she said. “Are you blaming the liberals for your situation?”

  “I’m saying they’re ruining this country! They think they can do better? Where were they when this country was being built? Hell, you know who really built this country? Organized crime, that’s who. Think about it. What would Chicago be without Al Capone? What would Vegas be without Bugsy Siegel? LA without Mickey Cohen? Miami without Trafficante? You remember the Industrial Revolution? You think J. D. Rockefeller wasn’t a crime boss? You think J. P. Morgan wasn’t? Andrew Carnegie? Every single one of them and a hundred more, they all had their crime families. They all killed and stole and lied and murdered their way to the top. Even the little guys like me, we did our share too. Every truck I jacked meant the factories had to produce more. I made a little money selling it to this guy, he made a little money selling it to that guy, and so on and so on. Every time I picked up a collection, the guy we shook down had to work that much harder to break even again. Crime incentivizes productivity. Organized crime is good for the economy. It’s a proven fact, sister! People downtown, they think Youngstown is a nicer place now that they broke up all the families. And I say it was the mob that held this city together. I mean okay, we got a little crazy with the car bombs for a while, but that was internecine war, that’s all it was. Life was better back then! Better for everybody but the people getting blown up. Learn your history, for God’s sake! And just go away and leave me the fuck alone.”

  He sank back in the recliner, turned his head away from her, and stared at the wall.

  A few minutes later, DeMarco met Jayme beside the car, where she was still busy picking black cat hairs off her clothes.

  DeMarco brushed at the front of his shirt. “That was a nice little conversation you and Freddie had.”

  “A bit one-sided,” she said. “See anything interesting in the bathroom?”

  “I can confidently report that the bathroom, bedroom, and closet are all thoroughly devoid of interest.”

  “But not of cat hair, I bet.”

  He chuckled. “You want to go see what the child witness has to say?”

  “Do we really need to hear him repeat what’s in the latest report?”

  “So let’s call Koenig. Maybe he’s in the mood for a chat.”

  “How about finding us a car wash first,” Jayme said, and picked a cat hair off her tongue. “I feel like I need to be hosed down.”

  Nineteen

  In lieu of a high pressure soaping and rinse, they remained parked at the curb, the air conditioner blasting cool air. Jayme called the Naples, Florida, number of former detective Gene Koenig. He answered with a breezy hello, then listened as she introduced herself and DeMarco and inquired of his availability for a short conversation via Skype.

  “No can do,” he said. “I’m standing on a dock in Pelican Bay, waiting to step onto a refitted Regulator for an afternoon on the Gulf. What’s this about?”

  “Freddy Costa,” she told him. “The Talarico-Brogan murders.”

  “That guy again,” he said. He then shouted to someone to hold their horses. To Jayme he said, “What’s so important about Skype?”

  “Sheriff Brinker suggested it. Probably figured you’d want a look at our creds before we start talking.”

  “I can give you five minutes right now,” he said. “Then I’m shutting this thing off for a while.”

  “You mind if I put you on speaker? I know that Sergeant DeMarco wants to get in on this too.”

  “Have at it,” he said.

  She tapped the speaker icon and held the phone toward DeMarco. He asked, “What are you fishing for, Detective?”

  “Call me Gene. Pompano, grouper, wahoo, whatever’s biting. It’s less about catching fish than sitting in the sun and drinking beer, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sounds like paradise,” DeMarco said, and received a look of reproval from Jayme.

  “To cheeseburgers like us, I guess it is. So what do you want to know?”

  “We’ve read the reports,” DeMarco told him, “but we were hoping there might be a videotape. Of the interview with the boy.”

  “Didn’t make one,” Koenig said. “It was conducted impromptu. In the kid’s house with his parents watching.”

  Jayme asked, “So there was no child forensic interviewer present?”

  “What did I just say? It was impromptu. Besides, we didn’t do that back then.” He paused for a moment, then continued, his tone a bit softer. “Listen, I know there’s a lot of extra hoops you’ve got to jump through these days, but thirty years ago, we concentrated on getting the job done. And we did. And in a lot less time than it takes you folks now.”

  Jayme flashed DeMarco a quick look—eyebrows raised, mouth in a wide grimace—then leaned toward the phone again to ask, “What led you to the boy in the first place?”

  “Door-to-door query. A couple of houses on the west side of the road had a clear view of the trees on the edge of the fairway. Costa would’ve had to park his car along the shoulder to get into those trees. The e
ntrance gate gets locked after the clubhouse staff leaves. Which was around 11:10 that night. Still, there’s no way to drive a car close to the fairway. Nearest approach is through the trees.”

  “And the boy claimed to have seen Costa?” DeMarco asked.

  “Pretty much nailed his description, as I recall. Impressive for a five-year-old.”

  Jayme asked, “What was a boy that age doing up at such an early hour?”

  “Getting a juice box, he said. According to his mother, he would sometimes have a bad dream, get out of bed and go get something to drink.”

  Jayme looked to DeMarco and mouthed, Sounds like you.

  DeMarco said, “The report is a good summary, Gene, which is how I do mine most of the time too. It says that the child could not provide a description of the vehicle, but accurately described Costa’s height, weight, and build.”

  “What do kids know about cars?” Koenig said. “Unless you’re into them, I guess. Which he wasn’t.”

  Jayme said, “His bedroom window overlooked the street?”

  “He had to stand on his headboard to look out, yeah. One of those bookshelf types. His mother said he did it all the time, even during the day. Only child, you know? Apparently didn’t have a lot of friends.”

  “His parents didn’t see or hear anything?” DeMarco asked.

  “Said they didn’t. No reason not to believe them.”

  DeMarco scowled at the phone, his forehead pinched. When he raised his eyes to Jayme, she recognized the look. It said, This doesn’t feel right.

  Jayme said, “Do you happen to remember, sir, the boy’s demeanor during the interview? Specifically, did he often look at one or the other of his parents before responding to your questions?”

  Koenig said. “You expect me to remember who he looked at? Thirty years ago?”

  “It’s just that it could be indicative of why he answered as he did.”

  “How so?” Koenig asked.

  “He would have wanted his answers to meet with the approval of his mother or father.”

  “And they wanted him to tell the truth. Besides, kids don’t lie. Not five-year-olds anyway.”

  “Actually,” Jayme said, “the research doesn’t really support that. Even toddlers will lie for a number of reasons.”

  “Such as?” Koenig said.

  “To avoid punishment. To win approval. To impress somebody they admire. Somebody like a police detective, perhaps.”

  “That might be so in some cases, but this kid wasn’t lying. You been in the job as long as I was, you learn to sense these things.”

  DeMarco said, “Do you remember how the boy became the focus of your questioning? You probably asked the parents first, right? I’m sure you didn’t go there expecting to interview a child.”

  “Of course I—” His answer was cut off by a short blast from a small air horn. “That’s for me,” he said. “I have to get moving here.”

  “Can you talk on the boat?”

  “Whether I can or can’t isn’t the point. Let’s wrap this up.”

  Jayme said, “What we’re looking for, sir, is an idea of how the questioning went. If, for example, you asked the boy, ‘Tell me what you saw.’ Or if maybe you asked him, ‘Did you see a man getting out of a car?’”

  “I know what you’re insinuating,” Koenig said.

  “Sir, I apologize if it seems that I’m insinuating anything. It’s just that with children, the manner of questioning is of utmost importance.”

  “You got to be careful with kids, you think I don’t know that? I raised four of my own, so I know. Sometimes you have to give them a little help. You can’t push a kid that age or he’ll start crying. He starts crying, the interview is over.”

  Jayme leaned away from the phone, met DeMarco’s gaze, and gave her head a slow shake.

  DeMarco leaned in. “Just one last thing, Gene, if you don’t mind. Was Freddy Costa a person of interest when you started the investigation? Before questioning the boy, I mean.”

  “Him and a handful of others, sure. Known criminal types. Especially those likely to be involved in wet work.”

  “My understanding was that Costa was little more than a button man.”

  “We’d looked at him a few times before. Just couldn’t make anything stick. Not enough to satisfy the DA anyway.”

  DeMarco took a single breath. Held it.

  Koenig said, “I’m wasting sun here.”

  “Thanks for your time, Detective,” DeMarco told him. “Good luck catching your limit.”

  Jayme ended the call, palmed the phone and laid it between her legs. She gave DeMarco what he teasingly called her Howdy Doody face: eyebrows raised, mouth upturned in an exaggerated grin, perfect teeth pressed tightly together.

  He said, “So what did you hear?”

  “I heard, ‘Did you see a man getting out of the car? Was he about your daddy’s height? Did he look strong? Were there two other men with him?’”

  DeMarco nodded. “I heard that Costa was on Koenig’s radar even before the bodies were found. Like maybe our good detective was out to put him away for something—whatever came along. Costa as much as told us the police were out to get him.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Jayme asked.

  “Not a place I’m enjoying.”

  “We all have our blind spots.”

  “The police were doing their best back then to clean up the city,” he told her. “Even I got caught up in it. Hauled in for a friendly fight.”

  She smiled. “So friendly that you broke his jaw.”

  “I really liked the guy. Threw in a busted nose just to show how much.”

  “Aren’t you the sweetest palooka,” she said. “Can we get some lunch now and decide our next move?”

  “Let’s see if Ben’s hungry too,” he suggested, and held out his hand.

  She slapped the cell phone into his palm.

  The call was answered on the third ring. DeMarco said, “Did you have lunch yet?”

  “Not to my way of thinking,” Brinker said. “Some crackers and a cup of yogurt.”

  “In that case Jayme would like to buy you a late lunch.”

  “Sounds great. As long as you’re not going to be there too.”

  “No, I’m heading over to see Vee instead.”

  Brinker laughed. “Where we meeting?”

  “What are you in the mood for?”

  “I’d kill for some barbecue, but I always end up with half of it on my shirt. How about Carmela’s, on Fifth between Rayen and Lincoln? It’s cafeteria style, so it will be fast, and there’s usually an outside table we can grab. The carne frita and mofongo will knock your socks off.”

  “How soon?”

  “I’m walking now,” the sheriff told him. “Walking and drooling.”

  “See you in ten. Try to keep your shoes dry.”

  Twenty

  The fried pork chunks were crispy but tender, seasoned with lots of garlic and adobo, and the mashed plantains with their sofrito of peppers, onions and tomatoes, all sitting in a pool of garlicky chicken broth and topped with a couple of cracklings, kept DeMarco and Brinker silent for the first fifteen minutes but for the muttered ohs, mmms, and yeahs from each of them.

  Jayme sampled DeMarco’s pork, but otherwise enjoyed her chicken pastelillo and cod fritters. “You two sound like you’re having sex,” she told them.

  Brinker said, “My wife says the same thing.”

  DeMarco cooled his garlicky tongue with a sip of iced tea. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he told her.

  Only when their plates were nearly empty did the conversation grow serious. “I’m guessing you didn’t want to meet just to watch me eat,” the sheriff said.

  DeMarco said, “We made contact with Detective Koenig.”

  “That
’s good. Or is it not?”

  DeMarco looked to Jayme. “Why don’t you tell him? He’s less likely to punch you.”

  She gave the sheriff her sweetest smile. “Freddy Costa,” she said. “We don’t think he did it.”

  “You talking 1988 or now?”

  “Sort of both.”

  He laid his fork on the plate. “Based on what, specifically?”

  DeMarco answered. “From what we can tell—and we’re just extrapolating here—Detective Koenig might have…suggested certain responses when he was interviewing the boy.”

  “He told you that?”

  “He told us he gave the boy a little help,” Jayme said.

  “And, according to Costa,” DeMarco added, “Koenig was hot to pin anything he could on him.”

  “So you talked to him too?”

  “Before we called Florida.”

  “Yeah, well, Freddy Costa has never been what I would consider a credible source.”

  “Fair enough,” DeMarco said. “But let me ask you this. Those two gray hairs you took off the girl. Did they have hair gel on them?”

  “There was nothing about that on the lab report.”

  “Costa has a big jar of it in his bathroom. Appears to use it liberally.”

  Jayme said, “And you know about Costa’s cats, right? He has three of them. And they all shed. Liberally.”

  DeMarco added, “It would be impossible for him to touch Hufford or Brenner or Lewis without getting cat hair all over them.”

  “Maybe he showered first,” the sheriff said. “Somebody was very careful with those bodies.”

  “Yeah, well,” Jayme said, “Freddy doesn’t seem all that fond of water. I would guess it’s been a couple of weeks since he stood in the shower.”

  “And fastidious, he’s not,” DeMarco said.

  Brinker sat there staring at his dirty plate, shaking his head back and forth. “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “Nobody does,” said DeMarco.