by Justice
“Who’s the elder?”
“The son.”
“What’s his name?”
“I think it was Steven, sir.”
“Do you know how old he was?”
“I think a couple of years older than Deanna.”
“So he would have been what? Nineteen?”
“I suppose.”
“Where was he when you arrived, Officer?”
“I don’t know, sir. He wasn’t at home.”
“He wasn’t home the night his sister was murdered?”
“That is correct.”
“Was anyone else in the house at the time?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir. But I don’t know everything. The case was turned over to Homicide and I wasn’t kept up to date.”
Decker paused. “You weren’t kept up to date?”
Her eyes were unwavering. “Homicide likes its privacy.”
Sipping coffee, Decker locked eyes with Bontemps. “Was there a special reason why you wanted follow-up on the case, Officer?”
“No, sir. Except it was a…” Finally, she looked away. “It was a very difficult case, sir. It would have been nice to get some resolution.”
Decker nodded. “Who was the primary detective on the case?”
“Harold Creighton.”
“Who else was assigned to the Green case?”
“Detectives Taylor, Brody, and Crumb. I think there was a fifth person. I don’t remember his name.”
Decker finished his coffee. “By any chance, did you have any contact with Deanna’s parents after the case was turned over to Homicide?”
Bontemps pursed her lips, her eyes focused somewhere over Decker’s head. “The parents did call me a few times—inquiry phone calls. Nothing beyond that.”
“What were the inquiries about?”
For the first time, Bontemps squirmed. “The usual, sir. A laundry list of complaints. Why weren’t the police doing more? I assured them that we were doing everything we could be doing.”
Decker scratched his cheek. “Did you tell Homicide about the calls?”
Bontemps bit her lower lip. “Pardon?”
“Did you tell Homicide about the calls?”
“No, sir.” Bontemps stiffened. “They…were grieving parents. Their calls had much more to do with rage and frustration than with actual facts. I didn’t feel the need to disturb the detectives.”
Decker said, “Sergeant Lopez told me Deanna’s parents were withdrawn almost to the point of being uncooperative. You’re telling me they were venting their spleen to you. There’s an inconsistency here.”
Bontemps didn’t speak.
Decker said, “So…Detectives Creighton, Brody, Taylor, and Crumb were assigned to the Green case, is that correct?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“I don’t know the gentlemen…or ladies.”
“They’re all men.”
“Are any of them black?”
A pause. “No, sir.”
Decker rubbed his stubble. “Deanna’s parents complain to you about that?”
Bontemps’s sentences stopped and started several times. “The parents felt the police weren’t doing their job. I told them—”
“Did the parents use words like racism or maybe police racism or anything like that, Officer?”
This time, the woman sighed. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, we got the R word out in the open. Tell me about the conversations, Officer.”
She became animated. “They were real angry.”
“I’m sure they were enraged. Their daughter was brutally murdered.”
“It was more than that. They didn’t like how the detectives were treating them.”
“How were the detectives treating them?”
“Condescending…patronizing…”
Decker said, “Was that an accurate perception in your mind or were the parents just blowing off steam?”
“Not knowing the details, I couldn’t judge.”
“Did they complain about anyone specifically?”
“I don’t see the point in naming names.”
“Did you know Harold Creighton’s retired, Officer?”
“No, I didn’t know. Like I said, the detectives like their privacy.” Bontemps licked her lips. “It was Creighton. They hated Creighton. Claimed he was a racist and had it in for them. That he kept making unfounded accusations.”
“Against whom?”
“Against them, against their son. They thought Creighton had it in for their son because the boy had some past trouble with the law.”
“Such as…”
“I don’t know, sir. I was trying to remain neutral—defending us while trying to console grieving parents. It was a tight squeeze.”
“What did Creighton tell them that got them so angry?”
“That it had to be an insider. Because to do all that shi…all that stuff to Deanna so quietly…it had to be someone familiar with the routine. He felt it was someone in the family.”
“He had a point.”
“Yes, sir. Of course.” Excited, she waved her hands as she talked. “But the family claimed Creighton didn’t bother looking anywhere else. Kept hammerin’ away at them. Hammerin’ and hammerin’. He was treatin’ the parents like they were on trial.”
“Where was Deanna’s brother the night of the murder?”
“He was sleeping at his girlfriend’s house.”
“A very nice alibi.”
“Or maybe it was the truth. They never arrested him, Sergeant. Creighton tried, but…you should have heard that man cuss. How impossible it is to find evidence against ‘these motherfucking people’ when the ‘motherfuckers’ live there, blah, blah.”
Her voice had turned curt and angry. Decker kept himself impassive. “Did the parents complain about the other detectives as well?”
Bontemps crossed her arms in front of her chest and sat back in her chair. “Creighton was in charge. He set the tone for the group.”
Decker said, “There’s an old Jewish expression. Fish rots from the head down.”
Bontemps’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t speak. Decker sensed immediate hot hostility that took him by surprise. Was it possibly because he mentioned something Jewish? A big problem if that was the case. But one that would have to wait until later on.
“I haven’t read Deanna’s Homicide file,” Decker said. “But I hope to do that by the end of the day. I want to learn what went down from the cops’ point of view. But I’m also going to need to talk to the parents. They didn’t like five white males before; there’s no reason to think they’re going to warm up to me. Now I’ll make the appointment. But I want you to come along with me. They trusted you in the past; you’d make an ideal liaison.”
She waited a beat, her hands clasped and resting in her lap. “Certainly. What time, sir? Now?”
“No, it’s going to have to be after hours for both of us. Around seven in the evening. It’s going to cut into your free time. Is that a hardship for you with family or kids?”
“Nothing I can’t manage. Seven is fine.”
“Good.” Decker sat back in his chair. “Now I’ll tell you the problem.”
“Problem?”
“Yes, there is a problem. Officer, I need you to do this quietly and on your own time. Because I’m working on this case on my own time.”
Decker gave her as concise a recap as possible, studying her face as he laid out the facts. She tried to keep a poker face, but twitches and mannerisms gave her away. By the time he had finished, he knew he had put her in a terrible dilemma, working with him on the sly. At the end of the story, Bontemps didn’t say a word. She seemed shell-shocked.
Decker kept his voice even. “All I’m trying to do is solve some murders…two, maybe even three murders if Henry Trupp, the night clerk, is tied into any of this mess.”
Bontemps spoke between tight jaws. “Sir, one of the murders has already been solved!”
“Not to my satisfa
ction. Look at these, Bontemps.” Decker laid down some scientific papers. “These are some of the lab tests run on Cheryl Diggs. Now these…” Decker spread out more sheets of figures and graphs. “These are Deanna Green’s tests. Compare the blood results.”
Bontemps picked up one of the piles. “There’re over twenty pages of tests here.”
“Skim them. Just tell me what you see.”
Bontemps said, “I’m not an analysis expert.”
“Nor am I. Just tell me your impression as a layman.”
Reluctantly, Bontemps began studying the papers. The more she read, the more absorbed she became. After five minutes, she said, “It looks like we may be working with the same person…maybe.” She looked at Decker. “But maybe not.”
Decker said, “Bontemps, this semen analyzed here isn’t Whitman’s semen. The pubic hairs aren’t Whitman’s either.”
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her.”
“No, but it does mean we’re working with two men, one who’s a missing link. And that link just might have raped and killed before. And if he killed before, he can kill again. Now do you understand why I’d like a handle on Mr. Mystery Man?”
She tried to get the words out, but stumbled. Finally, she formulated her thoughts. “Forgive my…uppitiness, Sergeant, but it sounds like you’re trying to pin a murder on a black man.”
Decker’s eyes bored into hers. “Uppitiness?”
Bontemps spoke earnestly. “You know what I mean.”
Decker said, “Just for a moment, can we forget about race? I have a victim here, Officer. She was raped and murdered, swimming in unexplained evidence. And that evidence is similar to lab work taken from a crime that occurred two years ago. I’m not going to ignore facts that jump in my face. Yes, I have a confessed killer. But I know someone else was involved.”
“Were they in on it together?”
“A good point. But I don’t think so. Whitman doesn’t seem like the type to work with a partner. Look, I’m just running a thorough investigation. Like I should have done in the beginning. Are you in or out?”
“I’m in.” Bontemps tried to be calm, but her face was tight with tension. “Yes, I’m in. But I got doubts. Sir, I am a sworn officer of the law. But I hesitate because you’re working on a solved case without the blessing of your superior. That puts me in a fix.”
“It does indeed,” Decker admitted. “And I do see your point. Maybe if my superior had seen these papers…” Decker began stowing the lab tests back in his briefcase. “Maybe if he had studied these, he would have had second thoughts about Whitman. But probably not. Because my loo was truly relieved when Whitman confessed to the crime. He just didn’t want to have to deal with any sort of black issue.”
Bontemps was quiet. Decker studied her face. Frozen, like a deer caught in headlights.
Casually, he said, “It’s a tragedy to let race get in the way of a murder investigation. But sometimes I guess that’s inevitable. We all have our preconceived notions. All I can say is thank you for helping me, Officer Bontemps. Thank you very much. You’re doing the right thing.”
“I just hope this doesn’t blow up in our faces.”
“Officer, the last thing this police department needs is another incident. That being said, nobody’s going to hold my conscience hostage. And it looks like you feel the same way.”
Again, Bontemps didn’t speak.
“What I want to do is go over the file notes…compare Deanna’s case to mine.” Decker folded his notebook. “Let’s meet before we visit the Greens. Around six?”
Bontemps nodded.
“And like I said, it might be a good idea if you kept a low profile about this.”
“No problem there.”
Decker smiled. But Bontemps’s expression was sour—as if she had just stepped in dog turd. After a few moments Decker said, “I’ve got nothing more to say, Officer. You can go whenever you want.”
Bontemps started to speak, but changed her mind. She turned on the heels of spit-polished black oxfords and walked out the door.
37
As expected, Oliver was already at his desk. Decker had to shout to be heard above the roar of traffic.
“It’s Deck. I’m not coming in. There’s something I’ve got to do and it’s going to take the better part of the day. I’ve got plenty of sick leave. Figure I better cash in on it before someone takes it away as part of a police-package compromise.”
“You sound groggy, Deck.”
“Could be. Got up early enough. I’m at a pay phone outside Wilshire Substation.”
“Wilshire Sub…What are you working on?”
Decker rubbed his forehead, feeling a heavy pounding behind his eyes. “The Diggs case. You know I was never satisfied with how it was handled. I just found out some new developments. Tell you about it later.”
Oliver paused. “It’s those black pubic hairs, right?”
“You’ve got a good memory, Oliver. Do you also remember the night clerk?”
“Henry Trupp.”
“I found out he was murdered outside an all-white, ex-con bar in Van Nuys. Strangled. There were African-American hairs found on his clothing.” Quickly, Decker filled him in. About Bert Martinez and how his investigation was curtailed, along with the matching evidence with Deanna Green.
A long pause. Then Oliver said, “Obviously someone shut us all down! It’s crappy, Deck. But that doesn’t mean Whitman didn’t kill Diggs. You’re treading thin ice because you have Whitman’s confession. And you’ll look like a dunce by opening up your own case—”
“Thanks for the support.”
“I’m being honest. So I’ll also tell you something else. I never liked what went down with Whitman, either. I understand what you’re doing. But our loo’s going to have a shit fit, you working on your own closed case. Davidson knows you’re never sick, Deck. Let me dodge him for you.”
“Thanks, Scott.”
“Where’re you off to?”
“Prison.”
A long pause. “To Whitman?”
“He was there.”
Oliver said, “You start pumping him for info on blacks, you’re handing the kid an appeal on a silver platter. Not to mention getting other community members up in arms.”
“I’ll be discreet.”
“That’s a good word. Not that I like Davidson, but I see his point. Between the riots, and our own bigoted dees on high-profile trials…ahem, ahem.”
“Very high-profile trials…ahem, ahem.”
Oliver said, “Last thing we need is more accusations of racism being tossed our way.”
“I’m in the kitchen,” Decker said. “I can obviously stand the heat.”
Long stretches of dusty road. In his head, Decker was in jeans, T-shirt, and high-tops, speeding in a four-by-four supercharged truck, dirt bikes in the back bed. In reality, he was in a suit and tie, sweating buckets, chugging along in the Volare whose air-conditioning couldn’t keep up with the searing temperatures. Heat waves radiated off the asphalt. Periodically, Decker had to roll down the window just to get some circulation. But the outside air was so damn scorching, it stabbed the car like a hot needle.
He made good time, though, reaching the penitentiary before eleven. Inside, the air was more tepid than cool, but any old port in a storm. Decker checked in his gun, passed through a sally port, and presented his credentials to a civilian clerk at one of four bulletproof glass windows. She told him to wait a moment. A few minutes later, Decker signed the logbook, then was buzzed inside the offices. He was met by a khaki-uniformed prison guard named Brackson. The guard led him to an empty interview room, turned on the light, and closed the door.
The area was tiny and stank of urine. Yellowed acoustical tiles on the walls and ceiling, a sticky black linoleum floor. There was a built-in table sided by two bolted benches under which dangled loose handcuffs. Decker managed to squeeze his legs under the tabletop. If he and Whitman were to sit at the same time, they’d be playing
kneesies. Decker elected to stand.
Ten minutes later, Brackson brought in a cuffed Whitman in prison blues. Decker studied the teen who had made a rapid transformation from high school senior to hard-timer, indistinguishable from the other cons who made up the institution’s population. He’d grown a beard, his head was nearly shaven. More impressive was Whitman’s girth. Kid must have put on twenty-five pounds and all of it was muscle.
Decker said, “Just anchor his right hand. I want his left hand free.”
Brackson nodded, told Whitman to sit, hands down, head and chest against the table. The guard then took a pair of cuffs from underneath the bench and secured the teen to his seat with his right hand. He then removed Whitman’s other manacles and told him he could sit up now.
Whitman sat up and stared at the wall in front of him. After the guard left the cell, Decker leaned against the door. “You making a statement with your hairdo, Chris?”
Slowly, Whitman turned to Decker, his eyes as flat as ever. He said, “Yeah. My statement is I don’t like lice.”
“Nothing to do with the Aryan brotherhood?”
Whitman rubbed his neck. “What are you doing here, Decker? Wait. I know the answer. Terry.” He blew out air. “Stupid bitch. What the fuck she tell you?”
Decker was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “You sound awfully hostile toward a girl you went to prison for.”
Whitman drew his hand over his face. “I really love that girl. I swear I’d die for her. But man, she is a girl. Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk. I got nothing to say to you.”
“You want a smoke, Chris?”
Whitman shrugged. “Sure.”
Decker lit up a smoke and gave it to Whitman. The teen inhaled deeply a couple of times, then sat back in his chair.
Decker said, “Tell me about Cheryl Diggs’s other sexual partners.”
“It’s over, man. Let me serve my time in peace.”
“And catch a little satisfaction while you’re at it?”
Whitman’s eyes widened. Then he let out a small laugh and said nothing.
“She’s trying to help you. Why don’t you help yourself and talk to me?”
Whitman was silent.
