Crime School
Page 36
Deluthe kept his head down and stared at the photographs as she held them up, one by one, angling them away from the glass wall of Jack Coffey’s office. And now she fed Deluthe his cue, the first question, “This one?”
The young cop nodded.
“Are you sure?”
Deluthe nodded again.
In a departure from the script, Mallory bent down to him and lowered her voice. “Don’t talk, don’t move. We’ve got some time to kill before I go back in there. I know you can’t get that dead man out of your mind. You never will. He’s part of you now—and what you did to him.” She nodded toward the large man beside him. “Detective Janos volunteered to look after you for a while.”
Deluthe stared at her with fresh damage in his eyes. “You think I’m a nutcase?”
Mallory nodded. “We all go crazy.”
“Crazy is a place,” said Janos. “You go, you come back.”
“Happens so often, we even have a protocol for it—the suicide watch.” She held up the photograph again. “Now tap this picture and we’re done.”
He stretched out his handcuff chain to do it.
Mallory counted to ten slowly. “Nod one more time.”
He did as she asked, then lowered his head, eyes fixed on the floor, a genuine portrait of remorse.
“Good job.” She prized realism.
Deluthe slumped over, fists clenched, eyes shut tight. The anesthetic benefit of shock was wearing off. She turned to Janos. “Get him back to the hospital.”
Mallory made a show of looking at one photograph on the long walk back to Coffey’s office. Arthur Wang blocked her way, handing her the evidence bags with the notes and the original film carton with the Polaroid logo. “The boss is done with these.”
Detective Wang opened the door to the lockup room and handed Lieutenant Coffey a duplicate set of photographs. Mallory had only given him one line to say: “It’s the one on top.”
Jack Coffey stared at the picture for a moment, then laid it down on the table in front of Loman. “The scarecrow picked you.”
“He picked you.” Mallory pushed Lars Geldorf’s photograph across the desk, then turned to Alan Parris, saying, “You can go now.”
The ex-cop quickly left the office, and Geldorf sank down in the vacated chair. He clutched the portrait of himself at age fifty-five and shook his head. “This is crazy. Crazy.” There was a flicker of panic in his face when he looked past Mallory, raising his eyes to stare at the tall man standing behind her chair.
No need to turn around.
With only the eyes in the back of her head, she pictured Charles’s wonderful tell-all face stricken with surprise—the real thing. No actor could portray shock and betrayal so well as an honest man with her knife in his back.
Welcome to my job.
She watched Lars Geldorf’s face and saw the reflected sorrow of Charles Butler, who had finally understood his role tonight. He had been gulled into preparing this old man, his friend, for the close, the kill. And now he joined the list of the wounded as he walked toward the office door, eager to put some distance between himself and his assailant—Mallory.
Ah, but she was not quite done with him yet. “Charles?” He stopped. She knew he would. There was a bruised and battered look about him when he turned to face her.
Was he wondering how far ahead she had planned for this moment?
“I’m sorry. I wanted it to be Parris or Loman,” said the queen of all liars, and only Lars Geldorf believed her. The door closed on Charles Butler, and the old man’s sole source of comfort was gone.
The room was colder now.
“I never set eyes on Natalie’s son,” said Geldorf.
“That’s probably what kept him alive,” said Mallory.
The old man turned to Riker. “Help me out here. I’m telling you, I never—”
“Lars—don’t,” said Riker, deadpan. “It’s over. Why would the kid lie?”
“My apologies.” Mallory smiled. “I thought you botched this case because you were such a lousy detective. In fact, you were the one who fed me that line.” She picked up the small square Polaroids of the old crime scene, then dealt them out across the desk like playing cards. “I know why Parris isn’t in these shots. He was only in that room for two seconds. And you?” She stacked the photographs into a neat deck. “You’re not in them because you took all the pictures that night.”
“I could’ve told you that!” said Geldorf.
She held up the empty film carton. “This always bothered me. The scarecrow left one at every hanging. It had nothing to do with Natalie’s murder—only her crime scene. This one’s twenty years old. The boy found it in the hall while you were shooting pictures of his dead mother.” She dropped the film box on the desk. “A little something to remember you by.”
“And now it makes sense,” said Riker. “The kid’s family always knew a cop killed his mother. We wondered how a six-year-old would recognize a cop in street clothes. We thought that narrowed it down to Parris or Loman—the uniforms.”
“The scarecrow set us straight,” said Mallory, lying as easily as she drew breath. “When he watched you shoot those pictures of his mother, he knew you were police. And that was his second look at you.”
Geldorf sat back in his chair and grinned. “You guys are good, but you can’t scam the master. I invented this little game you’re playing. You got nothin’.” He stood up and buttoned his jacket. “Try this on some other sucker.”
“Not so fast, Lars.” The man was stunned when Riker put both hands on his shoulders and forced him back into the chair. “We haven’t booked you yet. The charge is murder.”
And that charge hung on a pack of lies told by a fly on the wall.
“All those sausages,” said Mallory. “Too many for one person, remember? Natalie was making dinner for her son. The boy was in the bathroom while you were killing his mother. We always figured the perp was someone she knew.”
“Her ex-husband!” Geldorf shouted this in the tone of, Are you blind?
“No,” said Riker. “He was Natalie’s first stalker. Then he met his new wife, and the harassment stopped. You were the one who left the notes under her door. You scared her right back to the station house—back to you. What a joke. You and that beautiful girl. Even twenty years ago, you were twice her age.”
“You didn’t expect Natalie to be home that night,” said Mallory. “She was always at work when you stopped by with your love letters. She caught you leaving that last one under her door. That’s why the boy didn’t hear any conversation before you killed his mother. How could you explain a thing like that?”
Riker was on his way through the door, saying, “I’ll tell the boss it’s a wrap.”
And Mallory continued, “He said his mother reached for the frying pan and dropped it. Then she tripped and fell. That’s when she hit her head on the stove. She was out cold, but you thought she was shamming. You pulled her through a puddle of grease, and then you rolled her on her back.”
Were Geldorf’s eyes a little wider? Yes.
“She was coming to,” said Mallory. “Were you afraid she’d scream? Is that why you wrapped your hands around her throat and crushed the life out of her?”
Jack Coffey was standing in the doorway. “Is that when you panicked, old man?” He walked into the room and tossed a pad of paper to Mallory. “That’s Loman’s statement.”
Geldorf craned his neck to read the upside-down lines of longhand on the top sheet. “Loman? The other—”
“Alan Parris’s ex-partner.” Riker strolled into the room, smiling. “He rolled over on you, Lars. He claims you tried to bury this case, concealing evidence and—”
“I was protecting my evidence!”
“Well, it’s your word against his.” Mallory looked up from her reading. “And he’s a lieutenant.” Though Loman’s statement was worthless, only repeating Geldorf’s own story of misleading reporters, she said, “And that’s it. We’re done.”
“That’s the landlady’s granddaughter, Alice White. She saw a man steal the rope and duct tape out of the handyman’s tool chest.” Another lie, another nail. “She’s on the way in for a photo ID.” Mallory picked up the photograph of Geldorf and casually dropped it into the box. “She’ll testify that Natalie’s son was in that apartment for two days. Just his dead mother for company—and the flies, the roaches. No wonder that little boy went psycho.” In an echo of Susan Qualen, she said, “Who do you call when a cop kills your mother? The cops?” She turned to Geldorf. “He told us the buzz of the flies was deafening, but he was only six years old. I guess the noise got louder as he got older.”
“You have the right to remain silent,” said Riker, pulling out his Miranda card, preparing for the last formality that would allow their suspect to call for a lawyer.
They were cutting the timing very fine.
Mallory snatched the card away from her partner and handed it to Geldorf. “Look, it’s been a long night. You know all the words. Just sign the damn thing, okay?” She held out the pen, and Geldorf accepted it like thousands of felons before him. So natural to take an object when it’s offered. But now he only stared at the card.
Planning to lawyer up, old man?
In a preemptive strike, she slapped the desk. “Sign the card! Bring on the lawyers!”
They were coming to the closing shots—almost done, for Geldorf must realize that no deal was in the offering, and this was the sign of a case with abundant evidence. He began to shrink, shoulders slumping, hunching. His hands were rising, as if to beg. “I loved that woman. I grieved for her. Natalie was—” He had lost his train of thought, his reason; he had lost everything. The old man bowed his head, and Mallory strained to catch the mumbled words, “I was a good cop once. That’s worth—something.”
She stared at him, incredulous. “You were expecting a deal?”
“I don’t care if he was a cop.” Jack Coffey lifted the carton and feigned impatience. “We’re not gonna offer him any—”
“It’s my case.” Mallory turned to Geldorf. “I know what you’re thinking, old man. All that embarrassment to the department. And saving the city the cost of a trial—that should be worth something, too, right?”
Geldorf nodded.
Jack Coffey dumped the carton on the floor, saying, “Keep it simple, Mallory. I’m not giving him the moon.”
She leaned forward, eyes trained on Geldorf. “This is the best deal—the only deal you get. The state won’t request the death penalty. No cameras, no media circus, and the real story never leaves this room. If you waive a trial, we can probably get the DA to push your arraignment through night court—quietly.” In fact, the arrangements had already been approved. Sentencing would follow in the morning. “All the standard perks for an ex-cop, and you’ll do fifteen years in prison.” A life sentence for a man of seventy-five.
She pushed a yellow pad across the desk. “Make up any version you like. Call it a crime of passion. Say you once loved a woman to death. You’ve got six seconds, old man. Take it or leave it.”
“Time’s up!” Jack Coffey’s fist came down on the desk, and Geldorf jumped. “Now we book him. Right now!”
Lars Geldorf picked up the pad of paper, and his hand trembled as he began to write out his confession.
Mallory followed her partner across the squad room, not willing to let him out of her sight—not yet. He was one of few people who mattered to her, but that did not mean she trusted him. Riker sat down at his desk far from the pool of fluorescent light. The ember of his cigarette glowed in the dark as he dropped his match into a dish of paper clips.
“How’s Sparrow?” This was a test. According to her paid informant, a nurse, Riker called for updates every hour.
“It’s almost over,” he said, “just a matter of hours.”
Mallory bit back a comment that he would not like, and they sat in uneasy silence for a while, watching his smoke twist and curl. “You wanted Sparrow’s case so bad,” she said. “Just keeping faith with a snitch? Or maybe you thought Frankie Delight’s murder would come back to bite you.” She wanted it to be one of these two things, something cold, less personal.
Riker shrugged. “There was more to it, but that’s between me and Sparrow.” He rose from the chair and stubbed out his cigarette. “I’m heading back to the hospital. I wanna be there when—”
“No you don’t,” said Mallory. “I know she’s out of the coma. You weren’t planning to tell me that, were you?” Mallory stared at him until he met her eyes. “It’s my turn at Sparrow.”
What a kick in the head, huh, Riker?
After all he had gone through on that whore’s account, now he must stand back, virtually handing a helpless woman over to her worst enemy. And yet he could not raise a challenge. Her claim on the dying prostitute was so much stronger than his.
He nodded, and their deal was done.
Mallory watched from the window on the street until Riker emerged from the building. Reporters converged on him with cameras and microphones—star treatment. Sergeant Bell came running out the front door to rescue him with a press release of lies, waving the paper as bait. After the mob had deserted Riker for fresh meat, he stepped into the street and let two cabs go by unhailed, for he was a man with nowhere to go from here.
A lamp switched on at the back of the squad room. The chief of Forensics sat in a small patch of light, hands folded, waiting.
Spying, Heller?
The criminalist stared at her across the span of five desks. How much had he overheard? As Mallory strolled toward him, she could see that his eyes were red and sore from lost sleep.
“Warwick’s Used Books.” He simply put these words out in the air between them, then solemnly awaited her reaction. Mallory was stunned and feeling threatened. He misunderstood her expression. “So Warwick was a suspect. I knew it.”
Mallory settled into a chair beside the desk. Dancing with this man was a tricky business, but she would not admit that she was mystified. “I can’t give up any information on him.” Always best to mix lies in equal parts with the truth. “The scarecrow wasn’t Warwick. Does that help?”
Heller’s face lifted and brightened, flesh deepening in the folds of a wide grin. “Well, I guess you won’t need this.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “Too bad. I called in a lot of favors to get it.”
She scanned the brief synopsis of a psychiatric history: As a child, John Warwick had stood accused of murdering his twin sister. An eyewitness had cleared the boy, but not before the police had spent six hours wrenching a false confession from a terrified eight-year-old grieving for his twin and crying for his mother. Gangs of reporters had stalked the family, increasing the trauma of a guiltless child. And John Warwick had spent the rest of his childhood in a mental institution, clinging to the fictions of cops and newspaper headlines, irretrievably lost in deep pain and unable to believe in his own innocence.
She dropped the bio sheet on the desk, unenlightened and unimpressed. From what she remembered of the bookseller, he was not capable of killing even one of the thousand flies left at each crime scene. This connection of Heller’s was so pathetic. Something had clearly gone awry in his good brain. And this foray into Warwick’s past was outside the scope of Forensics.
Mallory smiled, for she was always happiest in the attack mode. “You shouldn’t have messed in our business, Heller. If Warwick had been a solid suspect, you could’ve queered everything.”
“I had to know,” he said. “That bastard Riker couldn’t trust me to keep the book quiet. It should’ve been recorded on my evidence log.” There was no animosity in Heller’s voice—far from it. He was one happy man.
The book.
Mallory was making linkages at the speed of a computer. Her machine logic f
lickered and faltered, for the paperback western had shown no trace of damage from the fire or the hose. Yet this book must be what Riker had snatched from the watery floor of Sparrow’s apartment. And his other gift to her was the innocent deniability of a crime. He had risked everything to hide a dangerous connection between a whore and Markowitz’s daughter.
“Homecoming,” she said, “by Jake Swain.”
When Heller nodded, Mallory knew this man had solid proof against Riker, and no machine logic could have guided her to the next conclusion: Her partner was Sheriff Peety in a bad suit.
Riker commanded such deep respect that no one could believe him guilty of a corrupt act, not even when guilt was proven beyond doubt. And Heller, of all people, had been unable to believe his own evidence, for how could Riker steal anything? The criminalist had denied his own religion of all-holy fact. He had stepped a hundred miles out of character to doggedly hunt down proof of Riker’s innocence where none existed. And Heller had actually found something that looked the same, that shined like truth—though it was only faith.
Without another word between them, they left the station house and parted company on the sidewalk. And there the young detective continued her silence as she endured a civilian’s tight embrace and oft-repeated thanks. Mallory stepped back and stared at the smiling face of the next and final victim of the man who killed Natalie Homer. Susan Qualen had believed the press reports that her sister’s only child was still alive.
And so the damage of a twenty-year-old murder would not end tonight. It would drag on well into the morning hours. Following Lars Geldorf’s rushed arraignment and sentencing, Natalie’s sister would be quietly told that the police had killed her nephew after all—with a baseball bat.
“So sorry, ma’am,” Jack Coffey would say.
24
When Charles closed his tired eyes, he saw a tiny thief who ran with whores and lived by guile, surviving on animal instinct to get through the night—an altogether admirable child. Louis Markowitz’s hero.