"That would be great. Tell him I'm waiting," Beck said and signed the visitor's log, then took his pass and walked over and took a seat.
A few uneventful moments passed with Beck sitting on the sofa, patiently waiting in silence, before the elevator's bell pinged and the silver steel doors slide open.
Jerry McDan stepped out of the cart and walked into the reception. Just like in his Facebook profile picture, he had short grey hair sideswept to his left and the tanned complexion of a man who had recently been on vacation. Except, in person, he looked older. Two or three years older, to be precise, Beck thought as he flicked his eyes up and down the man's slim-built frame that was decked out in formal attire - white shirt with a black necktie under a light grey American suit with big padded shoulders.
Jerry glanced Beck's way, saw him sitting on the black leather sofas on the other side of the front desk and walked over. He smiled and stuck out his right hand and said, "Jerry McDan. What can I do for you, officer?"
Beck paused a beat, looking at him with questions in his eyes.
Jerry McDan thought he was a cop. The receptionist had gotten mixed up. She must have interpreted what he said and his ID as being police credentials. Either way, he wasn't about to correct it.
Thinking he’s talking to a cop is going to make getting information from him a whole lot easier, he thought and stood up and shook Jerry McDan's hand. "Detective Beck," he said. "I'm here to ask you a few questions about a former tenant of yours."
"A tenant?" Jerry inquired, curiosity on his face, but suspicion swirling around in his eyes.
Beck made a face. "Mr. McDan," he began. "We know what you're up to.”
Jerry McDan’s eyes widened.
Beck continued. “We know about the apartments on Alfred Street. The tenanted apartments you own through Cayman Development Trust, your company registered in the Cayman Islands, headquartered underneath a palm tree on West Bay Beach. The apartments that aren't officially registered for let in Wayne County, that you're illegally renting on the side."
Jerry McDan said nothing. He felt warm and claustrophobic, his shirt collar and tie tightening around his throat like a boa constrictor. He swallowed, hard.
"But that's not why I'm here," Beck said to him. "I'm here about a man named Darius Adamczuk, who you rented apartment 1-A to. Now, do you have somewhere private we can talk?"
"Yes, follow me," Jerry said, in as cooperative a voice as he could muster, then led Beck to the elevator. He scanned his ID pass and pushed the button for level fourteen and the doors slid open.
They stepped in and rode the cart upward, arriving about a minute later. Jerry, then, led Beck down a narrow, white corridor to an empty, but spacious conference room that had a solid oak table surrounded by eight high-back cream leather chairs. "We can chat in here," he said, discreetly, gesturing Beck to step inside.
He did. He walked to the back of the room and took the seat at the head of the table. Not because he wanted to come across like he was in charge, but because it faced the door. He liked to be positioned facing entrances and exits, with a direct view of the main breach points.
Jerry sat down beside him on the right, just around the corner of the table.
"OK," he said. "How can I help you? What do you want to know?"
"Mr. McDan," Beck began.
"Please," Jerry interrupted. "Call me Jerry."
Beck paused a second. "OK, Jerry. As Darius Adamczuk's former landlord, I'm sure you'll be familiar with him. I'm sure, from the tenant background check, you'll be aware of what he's been involved with?"
Jerry stared at him, a blank look on his face.
"That's what I thought," Beck said.
Jerry said nothing.
"OK. Let me spell it out for you, Jerry. Not only have you been breaking county rental laws, you've also been harboring a wanted man."
Jerry's eyes widened.
"That's right. A man wanted for narcotics trafficking."
Jerry's eyes widened even farther. He swallowed hard and touched his nose.
Beck could see the discomfort on his face. He continued. "A man also wanted for murder."
Jerry swallowed, again, and shifted in his seat, beginning to comprehend the gravity of the situation. "I know nothing about any of that," he said, looking upward and away, blinking more frequently than he ought to. Anxious. Nervous.
"That's right, Jerry," Beck said. "Because, you didn't do any background checks. Because, you’re running a housing rental business on the wrong side of the law. You don't have the proper permits, the county authorizations, or compliance with the city's fire safety regulations. You're making a quick buck and you're pocketing the cash. Aren't you, Jerry?"
Jerry said nothing. He swallowed hard, again, and stared down at the grain of the wood on the surface of desk, a bleak look in his eye.
"Now, the good thing for you is, I'm willing to look beyond all of that," Beck said and paused.
Jerry flicked his eyes up at Beck.
"I just need you to tell me what you know about Darius Adamczuk."
Jerry shook his head. "I don't know anything."
Beck shook his head, slowly. "I don't believe you, Jerry."
"I don't. I promise you."
Beck shook his head, again, and sighed. "Bullshit. There's no way you rent a guy an apartment and know nothing about him."
Jerry shook his head, again, a distressed look on his face.
It was time to crank up the pressure.
"OK," Beck said and shifted on his seat, then leaned forward, clasping his hands together on the surface of the desk in front of himself. "Here's how it's going to go down. I'm going to give you one more chance. I'm going to ask you a series of questions. And you're going to give me a series of answers. One hundred percent truthful, honest answers. I so much as smell even a hint of bullshit, I make the call, Jerry. You'll be in jail faster than you can even deny it." He paused and looked down at the carpet, then back into Jerry's eyes, a disturbing look in his eye. "You ever dropped a bar of soap, Jerry?"
Jerry swallowed hard, again, and shook his head.
"You know how slippery those things can be once they've been through a hundred men's hands? A hundred big, hairy, burly men who'd chew a guy like you out for breakfast. And thoroughly enjoy the taste."
Jerry stared back at him, fear on his face and complete dryness in his mouth.
Beck nodded, ominously.
A few tense seconds flashed by.
"OK. OK," Jerry said. "Ask me anything, I'll tell you my God's honest truthful answer."
Beck leaned back and smiled. "That a boy, Jerry. That a boy."
Jerry took a deep breath.
Beck drew his cell phone from his coat and unlocked its screen. He opened his media app and pressed the record button, then laid the cell phone down on the table between himself and Jerry.
Jerry glanced down at it, fear and questions in his eyes.
"For the record," Beck said, then began his line of questioning, while staring Jerry McDan deep in the eye. "This is detective Joe Beck sitting here in the offices of Hamlin & Hughes in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I'm sitting in a conference room across the table from a person of interest in the Darius Adamczuk case." He paused a beat and let what he had just said sink in.
Jerry was tense. Sweating. He gulped. Grabbed his tie and tugged, loosening it for respite.
Beck could see dark, damp circles on his suit jacket underneath his armpits. He continued. "Please state your name for the record."
Jerry shifted on his seat and cleared his throat. "It's Jerry," he said. "Jerry McDan."
"OK, Mr. McDan. Mind if I call you Jerry?”
Jerry just looked at him.
"For the record."
Jerry nodded. "No. Please. Call me Jerry."
"OK, Jerry," Beck began. "Official evidence has Darius Adamczuk down as living at your apartment for four months. Between June and September of this year. Would that be right?"
"What evidence?" Jerry a
sked.
"Eye witness testimonies," Beck said. "Ten of them. Posts on online forums about the supply and sale of narcotics. Posts specifically quoting Darius Adamczuk's name alongside the address of your property."
Jerry glanced to his left, grimacing.
"Jerry?"
"That right," he answered. "He lived there just over three months. Just like you said."
"And what condition is this apartment in?"
"Very good. It's got all necessary fixtures and fittings. Gas central heating system. Wifi. Locks on the windows and doors."
"Does it have the proper permits issued by Wayne County that allow for its habitation by a paying tenant?"
Jerry scrunched up his face and looked at him.
"Jerry?"
Jerry swallowed hard, staring at Beck.
Beck sat silent, just looking at him. He flicked his eyes down at his cell phone.
"No," Jerry said.
Beck nodded. "That’s right. Which is a direct violation of Detroit City Code Chapter Nine. Article one, division three, requirements for rental property."
Jerry stared at him, a merciful plea on his face.
Beck shook his head. “Tell me, Jerry, how much was Mr. Adamczuk paying per month?"
"Seven hundred and fifty dollars."
"Seven hundred and fifty dollars," Beck repeated. "And were any taxes collected or paid on that amount?"
Jerry looked back at him, tears almost in his eyes.
Beck raised his eyebrows, gesturing him to answer, and looked down at his cell phone.
"No," Jerry said, again.
Beck nodded. "Just as we thought. And how was this tax-free income collected? What was the method of payment?"
Jerry looked down and coughed.
"Jerry?"
"Cash," he answered in a quiet-sounding voice.
"Speak up for the record, Jerry."
"Cash," he said, again, louder than last time.
"OK. And how was this cash collected?"
Jerry said nothing.
"Jerry?"
He sucked a deep breath. "In a brown envelope deposited into a post office mail box. OK?"
Beck shook his head. "No, Jerry. It's not OK. Was a background search ever conducted to verify the tenant's identity and source of income? To determine whether or not the tenant had the appropriate legitimate means to facilitate the payments?"
Jerry shook his head.
"I'll need you state your answer verbally, Jerry."
"No," he said, even more uncomfortable. "It wasn't."
"Which means, you had no prior knowledge of the man's status as a wanted drug dealer and murderer?"
"Absolutely not. I know nothing at all about that," Jerry said, much louder than before, eager to make that a known fact, thinking this recording was going to be used as evidence in the case.
"Which also means, you're culpable of negligence and guilty of laundering the proceeds of crime through whatever financial network you’re using to funnel these payments through your Cayman Trust. Isn't that right, Jerry?"
Jerry fell back into a somber silence.
"Now, as his landlord, you would have conducted routine inspections of the property. Correct?"
"That's right," Jerry answered. "I checked in, maybe, every 3 weeks? Just to make sure good standards of living were being kept."
"Which means, you might have been familiar with him receiving shipments of drugs and dealing directly from the apartment?"
Jerry's eyes widened.
"To one of your other illegal tenants."
He said nothing.
"Yes, Jerry. One of your other tenants has already supplied a statement admitting to having been a customer of Mr. Adamczuk's. As were many other men, women and children, who they said they observed stopping by during the late hours of the night."
Jerry said nothing. There was a polarizing look on his face.
"Children, Jerry," Beck added. "Drugs being dealt on your property to innocent little kids. You know about that?"
"No," Jerry said, shaking his head. "I don't know anything about any of this."
Beck paused a moment. "Is that because you didn't conduct any inspections at all?"
He said nothing.
“To give yourself some from of what they call ‘plausible deniability’?”
Jerry remained silent. His silence spoke for him.
"Which means, you've lied on record."
He kept quiet.
"What else have you lied about, Jerry?"
Jerry looked down at the carpet.
"Have you ever bought any of the drugs from Mr. Adamczuk?"
"What? No. For God's sake. I haven't bought any drugs. Jesus."
Beck remained silent for a second, a stern look in his eyes. "Have you ever accepted drugs as full or partial payment for Mr. Adamczuk's rent?"
Jerry shook his head. "No. Absolutely not."
"So, you've never opened one of those pink envelopes he left in your mail box and found it was full of Pink Magic?"
"Absolutely not."
"Are you sure, Jerry?"
"Yes, I'm Goddamn sure."
Beck stared at him a long moment. "I think you're lying, Jerry. Do you know what Pink Magic is?"
"No. I don't Goddamned know."
"I don't believe you, Jerry. I think you know what it is. Tell me what it is."
"I don't know," he shouted.
"What do you think it is?"
Jerry flung his hands in the air. "How would I know that? It sounds like some kind of pink sherbet dip dab thing."
"How do you know it's pink?"
Jerry stared at him, incredulous. "Because, you just told me. You said it was called Pink Magic."
"Doesn't necessarily mean it's pink, Jerry. And how do you know it's like candy? Ever seen any kids with a dose?"
"No. For Christ's sake. I don't know anything about any of this."
Beck shook his head. "I don't believe you. I think you're lying. I think you do know something, but you've just not said exactly what."
"Oh yeah? Like what?" Jerry snarled.
“You tell me, Jerry. But it better be good, if it’s going to keep you out of jail, now.”
“Tell you what?”
Beck didn't answer. He just looked at him, keeping silent. He knew, in that sort of situation, it was best to say nothing. Best to let the suspect's mind wander. Let his thoughts go haywire. Let him think the worst. That's what would make him talk.
Jerry shook his head, then looked down at the grain of wooden surface of the desk, something on his mind. Beck could see it in his eyes.
"What's on your mind, Jerry?" he asked him.
Jerry shook his head.
"Jerry?" Beck asked, again.
Jerry shook his head and sighed.
“Jerry, if you know something that could lead to us catching a wanted man, you really have to tell me. Otherwise, like I’ve said, this doesn't end well."
"No. I can’t. It's nothing," Jerry said.
Beck shook his head. "No it's not. I can tell from your face, it's not nothing. You can. What is it, Jerry?"
"It's nothing," he said, again.
"Is it Mr. Adamczuk? Do you know where he is?"
"No," he answered. "It’s not that. I've no idea where he is. It's nothing."
"Jerry," Beck began. "Don't lie to me. You lie to me, you know the consequences. I'm trying to help you, here. But I can't do that if you don't help me."
Jerry said nothing. He squirmed in his seat, and sweat was dripping down his face, but the room wasn't even hot.
"Jerry?"
He shook his head. "Please."
Beck could sense he had him. He reached for his cell phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Calling Greggs at the third precinct to tell him about your illegal property rental scheme."
Jerry's eyes widened. "Wait!"
"Well, unless you tell me..."
"OK. OK," Jerry said. "Please, you don't need to call an
yone. I'll tell you."
Beck looked him the question.
Jerry shook his head and put his right hand over his left, covering his thick gold wedding ring like a man ashamed of his transgressions. "There was a woman."
"What sort of woman?"
Jerry pulled a distressed face.
"What sort of woman, Jerry?"
"A prostitute."
Beck nodded, slowly. "A prostitute?" he asked. "Why, aren’t things getting even worse?”
Jerry said nothing.
“What can you tell me about her?"
"Her name was Vanessa."
"Vanessa?"
Jerry nodded.
"Vanessa who?"
"Don't know. But I saw her leaving the apartment a few times."
"And what was she doing at the apartment?"
Jerry pulled a painstaking face. "What do you think?"
Beck nodded, then moved to speak, before pausing, in thought. "You mentioned her name."
Jerry shrugged.
"If you only saw her leaving the apartment a few times, how do you know her name."
There was a look of fear in Jerry's eyes. He said nothing. He squeezed his wedding band, tight.
"Jerry?"
"Because," Jerry began, but hesitated.
"Jerry? How do you know her?"
He stared off into the middle distance, breathing quick light breaths.
Beck grimaced. "Jerry, Jerry," he said, spreading his hands apart on the table and shaking his head. "What's a married man like you doing messing around with whores?"
Jerry said nothing.
"You're wife not satisfying you?"
He said nothing. He just closed his eyes, slowly, and held them shut, as if he was ashamed.
"Does she know that? What do you think she would say if I told her? Vanessa, does she satisfy you? What do you think your wife would say if she knew about Vanessa? If I told her Vanessa was satisfying you better than she was?"
He opened his eyes quickly, fear on his face. "You wouldn't," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "The police doesn't do things like that."
Beck pulled a steely face. He recalled a news story he read recently about a guy named Peter Grant having been tied to a tree and left for dead in Nantahala National Forest. He, then, reached over and stopped his cell phone recording and looked at Jerry and grinned. "Maybe not here in Detroit. But us boys from down in North Carolina, we're no-holds-barred bastards. We do whatever has to be done. Believe me. Just ask Peter Grant."
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