‘Detectives?’ On the other side of the room, the secretary cupped a telephone’s mouthpiece. ‘It won’t be long now. They’re almost done.’
The door opened, and two civilians emerged from the private office. The men crossed the reception room with toolboxes in hand and Tech Support IDs pinned to their shirt pockets.
‘He’ll see you now,’ said Miss Scott.
The secretary buzzed Mallory and Riker through the door to the inner sanctum, a large office that had always been a Spartan place. Police Commissioner Beale was a man with the soul of a cost accountant, and frugality was his religion. Apparently his deputy, Rolland Mann, had inside information on the old codger’s heart surgery. One side of the desk was piled with decorator swatches of material for drapes and upholstery – just in case the commissioner died on the operating table. A wide-screen plasma television explained the need for Tech Support. If Beale should survive and return to work, the sheer expense of this TV set would kill him. It hung on the wall with the appearance of a hasty job. Dangling wires bypassed the modern equipment on the shelf below, connecting instead to a videocassette player, a piece of outdated technology.
The man behind the desk struck Mallory as odd – because he was so ordinary. She could understand why the commissioner had chosen him as second in command: Rolland Mann was a younger version of Beale, a bloodless clone of bureaucrats everywhere. It was hard to believe that he had ever been a cop. He was too . . . soft. His face was doughy, and the long, white fingers seemed to have no bones. She sized up the acting commissioner as a worm with attitude. He pretended not to notice that minions from the lower ranks had entered the room during his leisurely perusal of a newspaper.
In the spirit of career suicide, Riker followed his partner’s lead and sat down in a chair with no invitation to do so. Mallory stretched out her long legs and said, ‘Hey.’ Deputy Commissioner Mann looked up, displeased – then confused. She dangled a pocket watch to let him know that she did not have all damn day for his nonsense. Her insolence was just short of a warning shot, the preamble of a bullet being chambered in her gun – taking aim – and then she looked down at the papers in her lap, scanning the lines – keeping him waiting.
Call it an experiment. This was the moment for fireworks, a sharp reprimand at the very least. Insubordination at this level was a major offense. But Rolland Mann only cleared his throat – and that was telling. He folded his newspaper and laid it down. ‘I’m told you’re looking at old cases from the Ramble.’
‘No,’ said Mallory, without looking up from her copy of the ViCAP questionnaire. ‘Just yours.’
And now they had a game.
‘You wasted a trip, Detective.’ He held up his newspaper to display the Hunger Artist headline. ‘There’s no connection between this case and—’
‘Your case,’ said Mallory, leaving off the mandatory sir. ‘You were the only detective on that one. No partner.’ This was only a guess, but she was right. Mann was startled, and now he must be wondering how she had acquired that information – since there was no case file to consult. She held up the yellowed pages supplied by the chief of detectives. ‘These are Officer Kayhill’s personal notes. You remember him. He was the cop who found that kid strung up in the Ramble.’ She shuffled the small, loose papers like playing cards. ‘He mentions your name.’ Mallory looked up. ‘You were there that night.’
Did he seem relieved? Yes. And now he smiled. ‘That led to my first bust as a probie detective.’
Rolland Mann’s old ViCAP questionnaire listed no name or age for the victim, only describing a prepubescent male. Mallory leafed through the rest of her papers to find Chief Goddard’s copy of the death certificate, and she read the dates that began and ended the short life of a child. ‘How old was the boy you found in the Ramble?’
‘I don’t recall. A skinny little kid. I remember that. He weighed maybe seventy pounds soaking wet. Oh, and he was fully clothed.’ The deputy commissioner looked down at the front page of the Times. ‘Your three vics were naked adults. And mine wasn’t found in a sack. The kid was strung up by the wrists. No duct tape, either.’
‘According to your ViCAP questionnaire,’ said Riker, ‘there was sensory deprivation.’
‘Right,’ said Mallory, in the manner of being helpful. ‘Your perp sealed the victim’s eyes and his mouth – the ears, too – just like our case. Maybe that was a detail you held back from the press?’
As if to correct his partner, Riker leaned toward her to say his line on cue. ‘The reporters never got any details. There was no story.’
‘You’re kidding.’ Aiming for mock surprise, Mallory turned back to Rolland Mann. ‘How could you keep a thing like that away from the media? Oh, and one more thing. Your ViCAP entry doesn’t say what the perp used to seal the kid’s—’
‘Hold on.’ Riker took the patrolman’s notes from her hand. ‘I think there’s a line in here about that,’ he said, as if this might be news to her. ‘Yeah, here it is.’ He held up one page and addressed the acting commissioner. ‘Your perp used glue.’
That startled Rolland Mann, but now he lifted one shoulder in a shrug, as if that detail meant very little to him. ‘Yeah, it was glue. Heavy-duty stuff – you could use it to bond metal. But the glue never made it into the record. When my perp pled out in court, it didn’t even come up.’
The detectives were left to wonder how there could have been a trial for a homicide case that had been buried.
‘No one’s ever gonna hear about the glue,’ said Mann. ‘Is that clear, Detectives?’
‘Clear this up,’ Mallory said to him, dared him. ‘Why would anybody in the DA’s office pass up a detail like that one?’
‘Overkill. An assistant DA traded a confession for a plea bargain.’
‘And who was that ADA?’ Riker smiled. His pencil hovered over an open notebook page. When ten seconds had passed in stone silence, he raised his eyebrows as a prompt.
‘Cedrick Carlyle . . . No point in talking to him. He can’t tell you anything. My perp was a juvenile – sealed records.’ Rolland Mann dropped his copy of the Times in the trash basket by his desk. ‘So I don’t expect to read about that case in tomorrow’s paper.’ He pushed an old-fashioned videocassette across his desk. ‘That’s the kid’s interview. The tape doesn’t leave my office.’ He handed Riker a single sheet of paper. ‘And that’s the written statement. You don’t get to keep that, either.’
‘This confession isn’t signed.’ Riker handed it off to Mallory.
‘The signed version is in the sealed record,’ said Mann. ‘Officially, my copy doesn’t exist, and you never saw it. Clear enough?’ His hand rested on the telephone, an elaborate affair of blinking lights and long rows of names on labels for easy-access calls. ‘I push one button on my speed dial, and you’re both gone – that fast.’ It made him angry to see Mallory smile. The anger dissipated as he watched Riker silently writing a line in a notebook.
There could be no doubt that the detective was jotting down that threat, that clear act of obstruction. And then there was the lesser offense of exposing juvenile records without a court order. But the notebook line was only for show, to put Rolland Mann’s mind at ease about the possibility that Riker was wired for sound – and he was. Even without the protection of Joe Goddard, the two detectives were bulletproof today – all day.
Eyes cast down, Mallory read the unsigned confession of the accused, a boy named Toby Wilder, age thirteen. ‘A kid didn’t write this. I’m guessing you helped him with the wording?’
Rolland Mann’s silence lasted too long. ‘The boy brought flowers into the Ramble. I told him that would go over good with the judge. It showed remorse . . . and it made Toby look guilty as hell. So yeah . . . I helped him.’
Mallory rose from her chair and crossed the room to the plasma television on the far wall. She fed the videotape into the mouth of the old cassette player on the shelf below. The screen came to life, and there was Rolland Mann, fifteen years younger, w
ith all his hair. In shirtsleeves, tie undone, he sat across the table from a schoolboy. Tears streamed down Toby Wilder’s face. Detective Mann was smiling, speaking softly, to bond with his child suspect.
Mallory picked up the remote control and clicked it to pause the film. ‘What about Toby’s parents? Why aren’t they in the room?’
‘The kid’s father ran out on him when he was eight or nine, and the mother waived parental rights. After the interrogation, a lawyer was called in.’ Mann’s chair swiveled from side to side as he stared at the image on the wide screen. ‘Then we had to give the kid a plea bargain. And that was pure charity.’
Mallory nodded, though not in agreement. She knew they had missed the fun part, the hours of questioning that had led up to a child’s taped confession. There would be no coercion in this segment of the interview, probably the only part that had been safe to film.
‘It was a good deal for Toby,’ said the acting commissioner. ‘The kid got four years in juvenile detention. Not bad for a charge of felony assault. You know he didn’t find that glue in the park. He had to bring it with him. The assault was premeditated. Real cold.’
Mallory clicked the play button.
On-screen, a young Rolland Mann was saying to the boy, ‘Okay, Toby, let’s say you and this other kid had a fight. He was a fag, right? He made a pass at you, and you hit him.’ The detective splayed his hands. ‘Hey, who wouldn’t? But then you got scared – thought you’d killed him. It ain’t so easy to tell if a guy’s dead or alive. I’ve heard of people waking up in the morgue. So I think a judge is gonna understand that part. When you strung the kid up in that tree – that wasn’t torture. You just wanted to hide what you thought was a dead body. Okay so far?’
The boy made no response. By the soft focus of his eyes, Mallory knew Toby Wilder had shut down. He saw nothing, heard nothing. The boy was barely there. She froze the picture again. ‘How high off the ground was the victim hanging?’
‘At least fifteen feet, maybe twenty.’
Riker removed his bifocals after reading the unsigned confession. ‘Nothing in here about the glue. What did Toby say about that – off the record?’
Rolland Mann threw up his hands, frustrated now. How many times did he have to explain this? Testy, he said, ‘I never asked Toby about the glue. And that was more charity. With the glue in evidence, he would’ve been tried as an adult. You see – the victim wasn’t dead when we cut him down. Now that was the lawyer’s selling point to make Toby go along with a guilty plea. The DA’s office agreed not to press murder charges if the victim died.’
‘So the victim was in bad shape,’ said Mallory. And that would explain the date on the death certificate supplied by the chief of detectives. ‘And it took him a month to die.’ There was no denial from the acting commissioner, and now she knew for certain that the boy had died from his injuries.
Rolland Mann’s younger self on the screen was saying to the boy, ‘So this is how it went down, Toby. You brought flowers into the Ramble ’cause you thought that little kid was dead . . . and you were sorry. And then you called the cops and led us to the body. You felt bad. You couldn’t stand the idea of leaving him there, all alone, strung up in that tree. Those flowers – that was like saying you were sorry. That looks good to a judge.’
Mallory had yet to hear the sound of the child’s voice, and now the taped interview was over. ‘Toby never admitted to anything.’ She rewound the tape. ‘Maybe I missed it.’ She clicked the rewind button and played it again. ‘His lips are cracked. Did you give him any water? Did you remember to feed the kid?’
Mann slapped the flat of his hand on the desk. ‘I didn’t torture him!’ He took a time-out for a count of ten seconds. Calmer now, he said, ‘If Toby wasn’t guilty, what was he doing in the Ramble? This was fifteen years ago – before your time, Detective.’ He turned to her partner. ‘Riker, you remember those days – the kind of scum who hung out there. Damn junkies even robbed each other, killed each other. So what would an innocent kid be doing in the Ramble – with a bouquet of flowers? And Toby led that park cop right to the crime scene.’ The deputy commissioner left his desk to stand beside Mallory. He took the remote control from her hand and froze the picture on the screen. ‘I agreed to meet with you so you wouldn’t waste time on Toby Wilder. It’s a solved crime. No link between my case and yours.’
Mallory faced the screen and its frozen image of a thirteen-year-old boy. ‘Any cop can make a kid cry. It’s almost too easy. If this was a solid bust, it should’ve been high profile. But it never made any headlines.’
‘And we have to wonder why,’ said Riker. ‘Maybe there was something hinky about your evidence. And what does it take to keep a thing like that quiet? How much influence—’
‘Careful, Detective.’
Mallory’s turn. ‘How long did the kid hold up before a lawyer got to him? Maybe eight hours? Ten? Any kid that age, innocent or guilty, should’ve broken, but not him. Before you started taping, he told you he didn’t do it, right? And you believed him. That’s why you kept your own personal copy of the interview. You knew this case could come back on you one day.’
‘That’s enough, Detective Mallory.’
Riker was on his feet, coming up behind Mann’s back. ‘I know why there’s nothing about the glue on that tape. The victim was hanging twenty feet in the air – an hour after sundown. Toby couldn’t see that detail from the ground. All he saw was a kid’s body hanging in a tree.’
Mann whirled around to face Riker, and now it was Mallory who stole up behind him, saying, ‘Toby didn’t even know about the glue. How could he?’
Mann turned full circle to gape at her, and Riker’s next words made him turn again.
‘Toby never saw the glue . . . so you never mentioned it. That’s the kind of detail you’d hold back to rule out crackpot confessors. But you didn’t want to rule out Toby Wilder.’
‘No,’ said Mallory, working the man’s blind side again. ‘You couldn’t risk him telling a story that wouldn’t match up with the evidence – the glue. What a good career move.’
They had worked him like a spinning ballerina, and now he shouted, ‘Stop!’
Stop the music.
Rolland Mann returned to his desk and sat down. He took a deep breath.
And break time was over.
‘The boy didn’t do it.’ Mallory stepped up to one side of his chair.
‘And you knew that,’ said Riker, from the other side. ‘Now you wanna kill the connection between your case and ours. You don’t want us digging around in your old business.’
Rolland Mann’s fingers curled around the telephone receiver. ‘Remember what I said about the speed dial? One phone call and you’re—’
‘You make that call, and we’ll have to return the favor,’ said Mallory. ‘It all comes back to the glue.’ She waved the patrolman’s personal notes. ‘And then there’s your ViCAP questionnaire. Fifteen years ago, you ran a search for a killer with a similar MO. That would’ve been a month after Toby confessed. You knew he was innocent.’
‘Here’s what I don’t understand,’ said Riker. ‘How did you get that kid in front of a judge when there was no investigation? We can’t even find an incident report.’
‘It’s like the assault on that little boy never happened,’ said Mallory. ‘What’ll we find when we run Toby Wilder’s name?’
‘A record of four years in juvenile detention,’ said Rolland Mann. ‘But you’d have to break the law to get that much. Juvie records are sealed.’
‘But not police reports on assaults. So how did you get that case on a court docket – a case that didn’t exist?’ And then she knew. Mallory stepped back from the desk. ‘You never got a signed confession, did you? Not for the Ramble assault. No, you got Toby to plead out on some other crime, right?’ Yes, she was right. His eyes were so much wider now.
‘And then,’ said Riker, ‘a month later, you ran that ViCAP search.’
Mallory held up the
death certificate. ‘That was the same day Ernest Nadler died.’
Rolland Mann confirmed all of this by withdrawing his hand from the telephone. The mention of the child victim’s name had unnerved him.
Mallory pocketed the written confession as she crossed the room to stand before the old videocassette player. She pressed the eject button and pulled out the tape. ‘We’re taking this. I think you can trust us to be discreet.’
The detectives strolled out the door with their purloined goods.
TWENTY
Today I discover the terrible importance of surviving till class picture day.
They keep the yearbooks at the back of the school library. I take down the one for the year a girl jumped off the roof, and I look through the pages of students posed for headshots, looking for Poor Allison. No one remembers the family name. The only lasting impression of her is the yearly chalk outline on the garden flagstones.
Phoebe says I won’t find the chalk girl in that section. ‘It was her first year, and she didn’t live long enough for class picture day – so they tried to erase her.’ Turning ahead to the section of sporting events and other group pictures taken throughout the year, she stops near the end. ‘Here she is. They missed this one.’ Phoebe points to a photograph of a little red-haired girl standing with other kids. She’s the shortest member of the chess club. ‘Count them,’ says Phoebe. ‘Ten kids in the picture, only nine names in the caption.’
—Ernest Nadler
Riker sat in the passenger seat, staring at the rearview mirror, averting his gaze from the traffic violations of his tailgating partner. He could feel the shift of hard lane changes, but preferred not to meet the eyes of terrified motorists sharing this crowded patch of road with Mallory. Every car up ahead was threatened with a rearend collision. He touched his seat-belt clasp to be sure it was fastened. Oh, what the hell. The air bag would save him. He checked the side mirror one more time. ‘You were right. Goddard’s got nobody tailing us.’
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