“You Earl Walker?”
He smiled and nodded, but his smile had tears behind it. “Yes. Yes, sir. I’ve lost some weight.”
“You sure to God have. What’s the matter, don’t they treat you right here?”
That smile looked pasted on. “Why, sure. Hold on now. I’m not saying anything about the way I’m treated here.”
He jerked his head toward the bugged fan, scared.
I shrugged. “What the hell? I got nothing to say they can’t hear. Have you?”
He looked ill. “Oh, no. It’s just that, well, you see Mr. Ballard, they allow me only three visitors this month. I don’t want to make them mad. I don’t want to make anybody mad. I begged them to let me see you. They kept telling me I ought to see my lawyer and not you.”
“They were right, too.” I walked across the room, reached up and jerked the cords from the wall. “Feel better, Earl?”
“Oh God,” he muttered. “They might think I did it. They’ll take away my privileges. They won’t let me see my wife.”
“I’ll tell them I did it.”
He sat down at the table suddenly and buried his head against his arms. He burst into tears without warning. He tried to stop crying and couldn’t, and after a moment he covered his head with his arms as if someone were beating him about the head and he couldn’t take it any more.
His sobs wracked him. I stood there and stared at him, not knowing what to say. I felt myself withdrawing from him. He was a wreck. The Earl Walker I remembered had been cocky and arrogant. He was what was left of the man they’d arrested, questioned, tried, sentenced and imprisoned.
I sat on the edge of the table and counted the hairs on the back of my hand, waiting for him to come out of it.
Finally he stopped crying and looked up. I hated looking at him. I should never have come. I could smell the death house on him, and the hell of it was, so could he.
Now that he’d stopped crying there was nothing in his eyes any more; they were like fish eyes after three hours in the sun. His sunken cheeks twitched, he was without hope.
“I’m sorry I cried like that.”
“It’s all right. God knows, you’re sick. I can see that.”
He shook his head. “No, Mr. Ballard, I’m not sick. Anyway not sick the way a man is with pneumonia or arthritis, anything like that. This doc told me—he’s the headshrinker here—Mr. Ballard. Real nice guy. Young. I mean for a head doctor, he’s young. He told me about myself. He says it’s all in my mind, that’s where I’m sick. He says if I could accept all this, and forget about—outside the prison—I could eat, and when I did eat I could keep it on my belly, and I wouldn’t cry all the time like a sick woman. I can’t help it. It’s a hell of a thing, but that’s what I do. I just start to cry. It doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing. I start crying and I can’t stop for hell.”
“This doctor. Can he do anything but give you pep talks?”
“Wait, now. He’s real fine.”
“The room’s not bugged any more.”
“No. I mean it. He tries to help me. He even told me I was—the word is constitutionally—I was constitutionally unable to commit murder. I thought he was on my side. I started yakking to him like something crazy. I thought I’d found somebody who’d believe me and help me.” The sobs started again and he really couldn’t control them. He wiped his hand across his nose. “He finally t-told me he was convinced I had killed Ruby Venuto—that though in my right mind I could not commit murder, I might have been under a compulsion, a passion strong enough to—derange me.”
Walker bit the backs of his fingers. “It ain’t that, Mr. Ballard.” His sunken eyes got a sly secretive look. “He’s young, the resident doctor. He doesn’t want trouble while he’s here, doesn’t want to make enemies. He—he’d rather see me go insane than to—to stand up and tell these people he knows I’m innocent.”
I tried to keep my voice even. “Well, he’s got a real problem, Walker. Every man in this place is innocent.”
He stared at me, his mouth quivering. His eyes were fixed on my face until I wanted to look away.
“I am innocent, Mr. Ballard.”
I shook my head. I was tireder than ever. I thought about the bus trip home. Faint threads of the concert music seeped into the room. The light faded slightly now the sun had sunk below the ceiling-high window.
“Look, Walker, I don’t know why you kept begging me to come up here. I don’t know what you want. You put on a terrific sales campaign. Your preacher down home called me, your mother called, some guy called who said he was your teacher in high school. The only guy who didn’t call was your scoutmaster.”
“I hated to hound you, Mr. Ballard. It was just that I knew you were busy. I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
“I don’t know why I did.”
His mouth quivered again. His voice got a strange timbre in it, as if he had a cold. “I’ll tell you why. Because I prayed you would. Every night and all day long I prayed you’d come up here.”
It was hot and close in that coop, dry with the smell of hopelessness. Walker leaned across the table. Tears welled in his eyes and spilled. “I’m begging you, Mr. Ballard.”
“Well, don’t. I don’t like to see you beg any more than I like to see you cry. You’re sick, I understand that. But you need a medical doctor, and your lawyer. They got to be forced to put you in a hospital.”
His mouth worked. “Why? What for? What difference does it make what I’m like in the electric chair?”
“None, I guess.”
“Look, Mr. Ballard, I haven’t much time. I got so much to say. You must know why I sent for you.”
“Sure. They all told me. You’re innocent. You want somebody to prove it.”
He nodded, his head jerking as though once he started nodding about his innocence, he couldn’t stop.
“Let’s get this straight, Earl. Maybe this is why I came up here. It’s the biggest favor I can do you. The police investigated. No matter what you think, they had nothing against you, they didn’t mean to persecute you. They proved to their satisfaction that you killed the Venuto dame. The prosecuting attorney believed it, the jury must have believed it. God help you, Walker, I’m sorry for you, but what in hell good does that do you?”
“I’m innocent.”
“Now’s not the time, Walker. If you could have proved you were innocent, you wouldn’t be here. The head-shrinker is right about one thing. You make your mind up you got to take it.”
“Oh God, help me.”
“Nobody can help you.”
His hands trembled on the varnished table. “Please. I’m not asking for me. It’s—for Peggy. She’s got nobody. Without me, she’s got nobody. She’s scared to be alone—hell, she’s even scared of the dark.”
“She’s got to get used to it.”
“I’m innocent, Mr. Ballard.”
I shrugged. “All right.”
“So help me God. That’s why I sent for you. I got to thinking about you, after I started praying. I know this sounds crazy—and like I’m sick—but I kept praying to God for somebody outside that could help me. I prayed all the time. At first nothing happened. Then one night, I remembered you. I remembered all about you. It got clearer and stronger, like it was the answer. Oh God, I know how this sounds. Of all the cops, all those weeks, you were decent. You—you gave me every break. You didn’t try to railroad me. You let up on me—you treated me like I was almost human. You don’t know how important that gets when you’ve been through what I went through.”
“I’m just a cop, Walker.”
“You gave me a break. The others—they beat me to get what they wanted me to say. You never did.”
“I’m sorry, Walker. Make no mistake. I didn’t think you were innocent. It just didn’t make any difference to me. I just didn’t give a damn.”
He sprawled forward on the table and stared up at me. It was as if he were seeing something he’d never expected to see, never prepared
himself to face.
He pressed his hand against his mouth.
“You—just—didn’t—care.”
I breathed in deeply, stood up. I said, “I get no pleasure out of hurting you, Walker.”
“It wasn’t that I was a human being. You just didn’t give a damn.”
“I told you. I’m sorry. I had something else on my mind, that’s all. The dame that was killed, what the hell? If you hadn’t done it, the next guy in line would have.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“All right. Fine. But I’ll tell you this. I had forgotten your case, and when I decided to come up here, I went back over all the evidence. You’re guilty, Walker. There ain’t a chance to do anything for you. I’m sorry about that. The dame deserved killing. Only trouble is, instead of a medal, they gave you the chair. I’m sorry, Walker. Can you get that in your head? I’m sorry for you. You could be me—or any other guy that fiddles a wrong dame. Take my advice. Make them put you in the hospital. Stop all this believing in prayers and magic. You’ve had it.”
Walker jumped to his feet. He reached out, grasped my lapels. “I’ve dreamed about it!” he whispered. “I’ve prayed. I’ve waited too long. You’re my only chance. You can’t walk out on me.”
His body shook. I caught his hands and thrust them down. He spoke wildly through his choked throat.
“Just go to see my wife. Just talk to her.”
“Forget it. Walker. I’m trying to do you a favor. I don’t want you counting on anything. Not from me. When I walk out of here, that’s it. Use your head. Try to get well.”
“God help me. I know it’s no use. But I’ve prayed so long I can’t give up—not even when I know it’s hopeless.”
He sank against the table, completely whipped. I thought he was going to crumple to the floor. He was trembling all over.
“I’m doing you a favor, Walker. I’m telling you, you’ve had it.”
The tears squeezed from his eyes. He clutched his fists against his stomach.
“Oh God, I thought you’d help me. And you’re just a son of a bitch that didn’t even care.”
I shrugged again. “Sure. There’s just one difference between us, Walker. I’m the son of a bitch that can walk out of here—and you can’t.”
Chapter Two
It was the Monday before Christmas. I stopped in at the Greek’s for a double shot in black coffee. That bus ride home from the pen was murder, and for some reason I couldn’t sleep after I got to bed.
I went up the steps into headquarters, tasting the inside of my mouth with my tongue and feeling the sun like a fever at the nape of my neck. The Santa bells, the car horns and chatter around me wasn’t a lot of sounds, it was one unpleasant sound.
“Mike!”
I recognized the voice and must have flinched so it showed. Gault’s voice got apologetic. “Just a minute, if you’ve got it. Lieutenant.” He motioned toward the blind man’s coffee counter in the corridor. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Straight?” I said. “What are you trying to do, poison me?”
“If you’ve got a minute, Mike. Please.”
A couple of uniformed patrolmen were in the booth. Gault motioned to them. They hurried off the last swallows of coffee and got up, taking their paper cups away with them.
“Sit down, Mike, sit down.”
I sat down and waited while Gault brought paper cups of coffee from the blind man.
He sat down across from me and I didn’t see anything about him to cheer my day. He was turning fifty, and on him it wasn’t sitting well. His dry hair was thin and gray and after he took his hat off, he kept scrubbing his hand through it. He’d lost a lot of weight; his shirt collars were loose on him. I drank some of my coffee and looked around the corridor so I wouldn’t have to see his face.
“I hate to bother you, Mike.”
“All right.” I still didn’t look at him. “What is it, Ernie?”
“I been waiting for you to come in. I’m up a stump, Lieutenant. That’s all there is to it. That’s where I am, all right. Grace is in the hospital. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“No. I’m sorry to hear that, Ernie.”
“Hysterectomy.” He whispered it, face coloring, and glanced over his shoulder as though he’d said a naughty word.
“Tough.”
“Oh, she’s been having trouble for a long time.” He took a deep breath. “Well, Mike, the truth is, with Grace in the hospital, the three kids are having it tough right here at Christmas.”
I didn’t say anything. I turned the cup in the brown ring it’d made on the tabletop.
“Mike, I want you to know I wouldn’t ask you. Not for myself.” He gave a sharp laugh. “Look at this suit. Go on, Mike, look at it.”
I glanced at it. “Who’s your tailor?”
He laughed, quick and empty, then stopped laughing. “Yeah. Tailor, that’s a good one. Mike, it’s those kids. They ought to have a Christmas, no matter how it is with Grace and me. They’ve been patient. It ain’t been easy for them.”
I saw a woman coming up the steps into headquarters. I watched her legs.
After a moment, Ernie went on, his voice quivering. “The fact is, I can’t afford three kids. Maybe I ought to pack ‘em up and burn ‘em in the stove or something. Eh, Mike?” He laughed.
“What you mean is, you just can’t live on a sergeant’s pay?”
He glanced around. “Right now, it’s rugged.”
“Could you live on a captain’s pay, Ernie?”
His head jerked up and he could see the way my mouth twisted. The hell with it, I didn’t try to hide it.
I saw his mouth working, his swallowing, his wanting to ask me if I could. But he was hitting me for a loan. He had to take it, and go on smiling.
He straightened his shoulders a little. “I’m all borrowed up, Lieutenant. I would never have come to you otherwise. Credit union, bank, loan company, couple poor slobs in the department. Up to here. There’s just nowhere to turn. Looks like everything has come due all at once, Mike. You know how that is.”
“No.”
He straightened a little more now, his mouth getting set. “Hope you never do know, Mike. Hope you never find out.”
I just glanced at him. I pushed the cup away and started to get up. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Mike.” This boy was desperate. He reached across the table, caught my arm. He looked around, embarrassed and pale.
“All right, Ernie. What you want?”
He swallowed again, and wet his lips a couple of times. “I’d never bother you, Mike, but I need a hundred bucks. Now. This morning. The worst way.”
I looked at him, and couldn’t help smiling. I knew he really needed that money or he never would have asked me. I knew what he was going through, sitting there letting me grin at him while he begged.
I let him sit there a couple of minutes. I pushed my cuff back and checked my watch. I didn’t even notice what time it was; it didn’t matter.
“Mike.” He whispered it, voice tense. “Please, Mike, for God’s sake.”
“You know you can have anything from me,” I said. “Anytime at all. Why didn’t you ask me before?”
His jaw was a hard line. If I had cared, I could have looked at him and seen what he thought of me.
“How much do you need?” I fished my wallet from my hip pocket, and held it before me on the table.
“A hundred, Mike. A hundred will be fine.” His ears were red. He looked miserable. From the corners of his eyes he was watching to see if anyone was looking. No one was around but the blind man behind his counter. He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers. “I’ll pay you back, soon as I can. Maybe ten a week. Okay?”
“You know you don’t have to worry about that.” I stood up, took two fifties from my wallet. I looked at them a moment then I looked at Ernie Gault. I dropped the money on the table before him.
I turned and walked away.
There was a note o
n my desk to see Captain Burgess the moment I came in. His office at the end of the detective bureau usually stood open. This morning it was closed.
I walked past the other desks. A few of the boys were there, a couple of them talking together over a report. Ernie Gault came in and hung his hat on a peg. He watched me go toward Burgess’s office. The others were watching, too, but hiding it.
I paused for a moment, straightened my coat, and turned the knob. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. I left the door standing open.
“You wanted to see me, Neal?”
Neal Burgess glanced up from his desk. His face got beefy red. He stared at the open door.
“When a door is closed, Ballard, why don’t you knock?”
I waited, looking at him. Neal was round and solid, with a short neck and scrub-cut hair.
“Close the door,” he said.
I pushed it shut with my foot. I looked around, waiting for him to speak.
“Sit down,” he said. I sat in the chair across his desk. He waited until I sat down and then he said, “Mike, you’re in trouble.”
There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that. I waited. I felt warm across my shoulders and I wondered if that gnawing in my diaphragm was really an ulcer?
“It’s the works, Mike. The commissioner swore he’d break me if I told you. It’s that bad. I told him I was in charge of my department, and nobody got to my men except me.”
“Good to know somebody so well you can talk to them like that.”
He inhaled sharply and stood up. “If your job means anything to you, Mike, you better straighten up and fly right. Now, that’s all I can say. But that’s all I need to say. The rest is up to you. They’re investigating you, Mike. I can tell you that for sure. Keep your skirts clean, or they’ll get you.”
“Why do they want me?”
He leaned across the desk. “What does that one mean?”
“Just what it sounded like. I do my job, why do they suddenly decide to want me?”
Brute In Brass Page 2
