02-Murder

by Parnell Hall

  So what now? What the hell did I do now? I’d painted myself into a corner. By my own reasoning, I had to call the police, but what then? I couldn’t give ’em the tapes. Pamela Berringer was undoubtedly on one, if not all of ’em. I couldn’t do that to her. Even if she killed him, I couldn’t do that to her.

  That thought caught me up short. Christ. Did I mean that? Even if she killed him. I mean, whoa, back up. A few minutes ago you were having problems about helping a hooker, and now you’re just casually saying you’d help a murderer? Where’s your moral perspective? Where’s your values? You have trouble rationalizing her being a hooker, but no trouble rationalizing her killing her pimp?

  Asshole! Cut it out. This guy was not killed to test your moral integrity. Think. What the hell are you going to do?

  I didn’t know. I knew I had to call the cops, and I knew I couldn’t give ’em the tapes, and I knew I couldn’t give ’em Pamela Berringer. But I didn’t know how to do it.

  I tried to think what a real private detective would do in this case. I immediately dismissed the thought. Screw that. That’s the mistake I always make. A real private detective wouldn’t be in this case, and if he were, his biggest concern would be making a fee. Never mind a real detective. What would a TV detective do in this case?

  Well, one thing for sure—he wouldn’t sit here like an asshole trying to figure out what to do until the cops swooped down and grabbed him. A TV detective wouldn’t let the cops get a hold of those tapes, and dammit, neither would I.

  I got up, pulled the chain, and flushed the toilet. It worked fine now, without the bag of videotapes clogging things up. I climbed up on the toilet seat again, and slid the cover back on the tank. I hopped down, pulled off a few yards of toilet paper, and wadded it up. I hopped back up and polished the sides and top of the toilet tank. I was going to leave fingerprints in the apartment all right, there was no way for that, but I didn’t have to leave ’em where they’d start the cops thinking in the right direction.

  I grabbed the bag and got out of there. There was no one in the hall, no one on the stairs. I got in my car and drove off.

  I cruised the side streets about ten blocks away from the apartment, looking for a place to ditch the tapes. I couldn’t be too picky. Minutes were precious. I had to go back, and I not only had to get back before anyone found the body, I had to get back quick enough to be able to pretend I’d only been there once. That was an iffy proposition, if the football player had any idea what time it was when I’d knocked on his door. I realized I didn’t know exactly when that was. It seemed an eternity, but probably couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes ago. Which was still too long. When you find a body, you don’t sit around for half an hour hoping the guy will wake up, you call the police.

  I drove by a dumpster, the large type they have by construction sites. I stopped the car, got out, and took a look. Pretty good. It was about half full, so, on the one hand, it wouldn’t be dumped for a while, but, on the other, there was enough stuff in it so the bag wouldn’t stand out.

  I looked up and down the street. No one was in sight. I reached in and slid the bag of videotapes down the side of the dumpster. I leaned over and pushed it right near the bottom. Then I pulled a bag of garbage over it.

  I stood up and looked around. No one had seen me. O.K. Not great, but the best I could do.

  I got in the car and pulled out. All right, now to beat it back there and call the cops. And tell ’em what? Shit. I still didn’t know. I wasn’t going to tell ’em the real reason. I wasn’t going to tell ’em about Pamela. But I had to tell ’em something. You didn’t just go calling on pimps for no reason. So why was I there?

  A phone booth on the corner brought me to my senses. I slammed on the brakes, hit a patch of ice, fishtailed, spun the wheel desperately, pulled out of it, swerved to the side of the street, and stopped. I hopped out of the car and ran to the phone.

  I fished a quarter out of my pocket, dropped it in, pulled out my notebook, found the number, and punched it in. Miracle. The phone worked. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Oh shit, be home.

  He was. On the fourth ring the phone was picked up, and I heard the cultured, resonant tones of Leroy Stanhope Williams.

  “Hello?”

  “Leroy. Stanley Hastings.”

  “Ah, Stanley. It’s been a while. How good of you to call.”

  “Look, Leroy, I’m in a jam. I need your help.”

  “What did you do? Lock yourself out of your car?”

  “No. It’s serious. Seconds count. You got a pencil?”

  “No.”

  “Get one.”

  There was a second’s pause, then I heard the sound of the receiver being put down. I’d never talked to Leroy quite like that, and it must have taken him a moment to realize I wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been really important.

  He was back in seconds, crisp and efficient.

  “O.K. I got one.”

  “Good. Take this down.”

  I read him Darryl Jackson’s address and phone number out of my notebook.

  “You got that?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Read it back to me.”

  He did.

  “O.K. Call Rosenberg and Stone right away. Tell ’em your name’s Darryl Jackson, you broke your leg, you’re home now, and you want someone to come right over.”

  “Fine. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. You better do it from a pay phone. I wouldn’t want the call traced back to you.”

  “It’s that serious?”

  “Yeah. It’s that serious,” I said. Then, partly to make up for being so brusque, and partly because it mattered, I added. “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “This Darryl Jackson happens to be a pimp, so it might be better if you didn’t sound as if you’d just stepped out of the Royal Shakespeare Company production of Othello.”

  Leroy laughed. “Don’ you fret. Ah gib it mah best jibe.”

  Leroy’s best jive was none too good, but under the circumstances it would pass. I hung up the phone, breaking the connection, then picked it up again and pretended I was making a call. I couldn’t take a chance on any long-winded person acing me out of the phone. I hung onto it and waited.

  It was the longest wait of my life. Jesus Christ, what’s taking ’em so long. The fucking incompetents. Richard ought to fire the lot of ’em. Then I started getting worried. What if it isn’t me? What if they give it to some other investigator? Bullshit. I’m in Harlem. They know that. Why would they give it to someone working Brooklyn or Queens when I’m right there. Unfortunately, I had an answer. Because they’re stupid. Because they’re two of the most lame-brained girls I’ve ever met, and how can I count on them to even check the assignment book and see I’m in Harlem. It would be just like them to—

  My beeper went off. Its high-pitched beep, beep, beep never sounded so good. I shut it off, hung up, picked up the phone again, dropped my quarter, and punched in Richard’s number before the second, backup beep even went off. The phone was already ringing when I shut that off.

  Wendy/Cheryl answered the phone. “Rosenberg and Stone.”

  “Agent 005.”

  “Well, that was fast.”

  “I believe in service. What’s up?”

  As I said it, I thought, shit, this won’t be it, she’s so stupid she’s gonna send me out to Brooklyn for something else.

  But she didn’t. This was it. A Darryl Jackson had broken his leg, and—

  I stopped listening. I didn’t have to. I already had his name and address written in my notebook, just like it should be, so I didn’t have to write it again. But now it was accounted for.

  I waited till she was finished, told her I’d take it, and hung up.

  I hopped in my car, sped back to Darryl Jackson’s apartment building, parked the car, grabbed my briefcase, and got out.

  I took the stairs two at a time. Again, I saw no one.

  I went into Darryl
Jackson’s apartment and closed the door behind me. I took a quick look in the bedroom, just to be sure the body was still there, though why it shouldn’t have been is beyond me.

  I went back in the living room and picked up the phone. I could have dialed 911, but I guess I’m just a romantic at heart, because, even in the midst of the predicament I was in, I couldn’t resist dialing “0” instead, so that when the operator answered, I could say the words I’d been reading in detective stories all my life, ever since I was a small boy: “Operator, get me the police.”

  9.

  THE FIRST COPS through the door were uniform cops. Two of ’em, one tall and one short. They must have been cruising the neighborhood when the call came over the radio.

  They came in with their guns drawn. They’d heard it was a homicide and they weren’t taking any chances.

  They seemed surprised to see me, though I didn’t know why. I mean, dead bodies don’t report themselves—someone has to phone ’em in.

  The short cop seemed to be in charge. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  I’m easily intimidated, and of the things that intimidate me, guns and cops are high up on the list. And my nerves were not in great shape at the time, having first discovered a dead body, and second decided to lie my way out of it. So I count it to my credit that I didn’t break down and confess then and there.

  “I found the body. I called the police.”

  That didn’t really answer his question, but it seemed to be the response he was looking for.

  “Where is it?”

  I pointed to the bedroom. “In there.”

  He nodded to the tall cop. “Stay with him.”

  Short cop went into the bedroom. Tall cop moved over to stand next to me. He hadn’t said a word yet, and he didn’t now. But he still had his gun out, and to me that spoke volumes.

  Short cop returned from the bedroom. “It’s a homicide all right.”

  Tall cop finally spoke. “So what do we do?”

  “Nothing. We hold him here until the homicide boys get here. Until they do, we don’t touch anything.” He turned to me. “You touch anything?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  His head jerked up. “What?” he said ominously.

  “I said, yes, I did.”

  He glared at me. “You’re not supposed to touch anything in a homicide.”

  “I didn’t know it was a homicide until I found the body.”

  He thought that over. “What did you touch?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember everything. I know I touched the phone.”

  “Why?”

  “To call you.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I touched the toilet.”

  “The toilet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why’d you touch the toilet?”

  “I touched it when I threw up.”

  “Oh.” He gave me a contemptuous look. After all, he’d just seen the body and he hadn’t thrown up.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs and three more men came in. They were in plain clothes. The boys from homicide.

  It’s hard to tell a cop’s rank when they’re in plain clothes, but the last one through the door appeared to be in charge. He was older, bigger, beefier, and he had that look of authority about him.

  At any rate, he took charge.

  “Where is it?” he snapped at the uniform cops.

  “In there,” said short cop.

  “Check it out.”

  The two younger homicide cops went into the bedroom.

  “Who’s this guy?” he asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in my direction.

  “He found the body and phoned it in.”

  He grunted and turned to me and my heart sank. Shit! Of all the unlucky breaks. I knew him. The first and only time I’d met him he’d been in uniform, so I knew he was a sergeant. He looked different in plain clothes, but it was him all right. He was the guy who’d interrogated me when I brought in a bullet in the Albrect case. I’d been lucky enough to get out of it that time, but it would take more than luck for me to get out of it now.

  I hoped to god he wouldn’t recognize me. There was no reason that he should. I knew him, but then he was the only sergeant who’d ever interrogated me. He must have interrogated thousands of guys in his time, so why should he remember me.

  Then it hit me. Schmuck. You’re a private detective, and that’s why you’re here. And the minute you tell him he’ll know.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. He was looking at me kind of funny, like he couldn’t quite place me.

  “Stanley Hastings. I found the body.”

  “Oh yeah? And how’d you happen to do that?”

  “I had an appointment to see him. When I got here he was dead.”

  “How’d you get in?”

  “The door was open.”

  “Standing open?”

  “No. Just unlocked.”

  “Is it your habit just to walk into people’s apartments?”

  “I knocked on the door. There was no answer, so I tried the knob.”

  “Why? What if he just wasn’t home?”

  “He had to be home. He’d just called for an appointment.”

  “What do you mean, an appointment? What do you do?”

  This was it. “I’m a private detective.”

  “What?!”

  His eyes blinked, and I could see it starting to dawn on him.

  “Wait a minute. What kind of private detective?”

  “I work for the law firm of Rosenberg and Stone. This guy called them, said it was an accident case and he wanted an investigator to come over. They beeped me and sent me here.”

  He blinked again. “Ambulance chaser,” he muttered. He frowned, then his eyes widened. “Son of a bitch!” he said.

  There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. He knew me. He knew me, and I was sunk.

  He whirled around. “Daniels!” he bellowed.

  One of the plain clothes cops stuck his head out of the bedroom.

  “Sir?”

  “Take this guy downtown and hold him as a material witness. Get a signed statement out of him. And don’t let him leave till I get there.”

  Daniels came over and put his hand on my arm. “O.K., buddy, let’s go.”

  I didn’t like his hand on my arm, but there were a lot of things about the situation I didn’t like, and I figured I was in enough trouble without making any more, so I let it go.

  “That’s my briefcase,” I said, pointing to where I’d left it on the floor.

  “We’ll take care of it,” the Sergeant said. He jerked his head toward the door, and Daniels ushered me out.

  He let me go down the stairs under my own power, probably my reward for not resisting the hand on my arm. I had a feeling if I’d tried to pull away, he’d have yanked me down every flight.

  His car was parked right out front. Black, unmarked. He leaned me against it and patted me down for a weapon, probably not wanting to be shot in the back of the head on the way to the precinct. I didn’t appreciate the search, but I understood the sentiment. He put me in the back seat, which was what I’d expected, particularly after the frisking. He got in and chauffeured me downtown. The whole time he didn’t say a word, again, what I’d expected.

  At the precinct he took me upstairs to a small interrogation room, called in a stenographer, and took my statement.

  It was my first time being interrogated as a murder suspect, and if I hadn’t been in so much trouble, I might have found it interesting. What was interesting about it was how dull it actually was. See, part of the interrogation technique seems to be to ask the same questions over and over with slight variations, in the hope of catching the suspect in a contradiction. At least that was Daniels’ technique. He seemed a nice enough guy, as cops go, though perhaps a little too young and a little too serious.

  First he just let me talk. When I was finished, he asked questions. Like the sergeant, he immediately po
unced on the one weak point in my story.

  “You say the door was unlocked?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it was closed?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Completely closed?”

  “What do you mean, completely closed? That’s like a little bit pregnant. It was closed. Closed is closed.”

  “I mean it wasn’t ajar. Even the slightest. If you pushed against it, it wouldn’t open.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then you did push on it?”

  “I knocked on it. I suppose I pushed on it.”

  “If you hadn’t, how would you know it was completely closed?”

  “That’s right. I must have pushed on it.”

  “But it didn’t open when you pushed on it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that’s because it was completely closed. Even though it wasn’t locked, the catch was in place, holding the door from opening.”

  “The catch?”

  “The mechanism. The thing connected to the doorknob that holds the door shut. I don’t know what you call it.”

  “I don’t either.”

  “All right, but you know what I mean. The mechanism was engaged, so the door would not open just by pushing on it. It would only open if you turned the knob.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you did turn the knob?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “To get in.”

  “That’s not an answer. The question is why did you do it?”

  “To get in. To see the guy.”

  He frowned. Rubbed his chin. “Let me be very specific about this. I’m telling you you’re not answering the question. I know you turned the knob to get in and see the guy. What I’m asking for is an explanation. I’ll spell it out for you. It is not normal behavior for people to let themselves into strangers’ apartments. I want to know why you did so in this case.”

  “Look. I’d been banging on the door and got no answer. I thought the guy might be in the bathroom or something and didn’t hear me, so I kept trying. I still got no answer.”