Justice

by Faye Kellerman

  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." 305

  "Not to my satisfaction. 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. 306

  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. 307

  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 308

  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 bullet-proof 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 309

  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. 310

  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.

  "Listen to me, Chris," Decker said. "I know what's going on. So that explains a lot of your behavior to me. I know you're engaged to a girl who's fat, ugly, and stupid. Right now, you're in a hellhole. But you're willing to put up with it because you get time with the girl you love. How long do you think that's going to last?"

  Whitman's eyes sparked fury.

  "I know you love her, Chris," Decker went on. "Terry's beautiful. She's beautiful and smart, and truly, she loves you, too. But she's also one very young puppy, guy. She jumped into your arms because you're a strong, good-looking dude who gave her a shoulder to cry on. How long before she finds another strong, good-looking guy who'll give her another shoulder to cry on. Some college stud who won't be locked up in this pisshole "

  Whitman threw his cigarette at Decker's face. "Get the fuck outta here!"

  The lit end stung Decker's face; then the butt fell to the floor. Calmly, Decker wiped the hot spot on his cheek and crushed out the smoke. He lit another cigarette and placed it between Whitman's lips.

  "Son, she's good for about a year. Then she's going to start missing visits. So where will that leave you? And before you open your mouth to cuss me out, just think about what I'm saying. Because by talking to me, you may be helping yourself."

  Staring at the wall, Whitman said, "She meet someone new, Decker? Don't shit me."

  "Whitman, your girl is head over heels in love with you and that's no lie. But the future is a queer bird, know what I'm saying?"

  "You're sounding like my uncle." Whitman sucked on his smoke. "He buy you or something?"

  "No."

  "Then what's all this to you? You hate my guts."

  Decker didn't answer.

  "I don't get it," Whitman said. "What do you want?" 311

  "Tell me about the men in Cheryl's life."

  A long pause. Then Whitman said, "I'm sure Cheryl didn't tell me everything. I don't even know why she told me anything. I didn't give a damn."

  "Maybe that's why she told you."

  "To make me jealous?" He shrugged. "Didn't work. I didn't care what she did. Too busy stalking Terry."

  "Stalking Terry?"

  Whitman's eyes were far away. "After she blew me off, she started dating this ... nerd. But I could tell she liked him." His breathing became rapid. "Outside I was pure cool..." Short breaths. "But inside ... in my brain ... I was slipping ... on the cliff's edge with sweaty hands ... started thinking up plots of revenge. First it was killing him ... then it was kidnapping her ... keeping her in a basement. .. like in the book The Collector. John Fowles. You ever read it?"

  Decker nodded.

  "I could have done it, you know. I'm real good at hiding things." Whitman smoked down to the butt, then he crushed it with his shoe. "Got another one?"

  Decker gave him another cigarette.

  Whitman took it, blowing hard, leaning back and staring at the ceiling through a carcinogenic cloud. "You know why I didn't do it? Because I know the difference between having monstrous thoughts and being a monster. It's the difference between me and my uncle."

  He was absorbed in his nightmare, but Decker steered him back to the present. "Cheryl's partners, Chris."

  Whitman clucked his tongue. "I know she was having an affair with one of the teachers at the school Tim Gobies. He was head of the prom committee. Big surprise when she made prom queen."

  Decker flipped out his notepad and started writing rapidly. "Go on."

  "I know she did everyone in the group at one time or another."

  "The group being..."

  "Steve, tom. .. Steve Anderson, torn Baylor, Blake Adonetti. But I know she did other guys at school, too. She liked sex. Simple as that. She was pretty good at first. Then she got real stale real quick. I think that's why she started bartering for sex. Something different. Added a little thrill."

  "Trupp?"

  "Yeah, Trupp. In exchange for rooms whenever her mom or one of her mom's boyfriends kicked her out. She did Gobies to get the 312

  queen title and for an A in his class. She did this grocer for food ... anyone who had something that she needed. Mostly old guys. She liked their .. . desperation."

  "Any other men?"

  Whitman looked up at Decker and smiled. No longer toot
hpaste perfect. His two front teeth had been chipped and stained yellow from coffee and tobacco smoke. "She told me she'd done a cop."

  Decker managed to keep his face flat. "You have a name?"

  "Never said. Just that he was an old fart."

  "You think she was blowing smoke?"

  "Could be. Who knows?"