The second officer nodded his understanding of the situation and brought his walkie-talkie to his lips. “McCollum?”
“Yeah, what you got?”
“Um, deceased male, approximately seventy years old. I’m no coroner, but from the impressions on his neck, it looks like he was strangled to death.”
Chapter 104
McCollum ushered Harlan into one of the three brightly lit interrogation rooms located at the back of the station. He sat him in a black folding chair behind a silver aluminum table which held two ink pens, one lined writing pad, a glass ashtray, and a box-shaped reel-to-reel tape deck.
McCollum exited the room without a word, leaving Harlan alone with his thoughts. Thirty minutes later, Detective Arthur Graham entered carrying two Styrofoam cups filled with steaming coffee. There was a crisp manila folder tucked securely beneath his arm.
The detective was tall, with a gargantuan belly that sagged over the waistband of his trousers. The wide brown-and-red-striped tie he wore was speckled with lint as was his cream-colored shirt, and he stank of Hai Karate cologne and menthol cigarettes.
“Hey, how you doing?” Graham said, setting the cups and folder on the table.
Harlan looked up into the man’s unbelievably blue eyes. “Good, I guess, considering the circumstances.”
The detective brushed his hand across his trouser leg and presented it to Harlan. “I’m Arthur Graham,” he announced with the eagerness of a salesman.
“Harlan Elliott.”
Graham’s handshake was firm and confident. “Nice to meet you, Harlan Elliott.” He pointed at the Styrofoam cups as he eased his bulk into the empty chair opposite Harlan. “The coffee is black. Sorry, but we’re out of cream and sugar.”
Harlan reached for the cup, “Black is fine with me. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Graham took a few sips of coffee. “So, it seems you’ve got yourself into a bit of a mess, huh, Harlan?”
“Yes sir, it looks that way.”
Graham wagged his hand at Harlan. “My father is sir,” he laughed. “Me, I’m just Arthur or Art. You can call me Art. My friends call me Art. We’re not friends . . . well, not yet. But I feel like we could be. So call me Art, okay?”
“Okay, Art.”
“Good. Now Harlan . . . You don’t mind if I call you Harlan, do you?”
“Harlan is fine.”
“Good! Now, Harlan, murder is a problem. It’s not a problem for the dead man, of course. His problems are all over. It’s probably gonna be a problem for his family, and it’s most certainly gonna be a problem for you. That is, if you are indeed the murderer . . .” He trailed off, reached for the manila folder, flipped it open, and scanned the pages. Harlan’s rap sheet was short. Mostly moving violations and his arrest and conviction in ’67. Since then, Harlan hadn’t even received a jaywalking citation.
“You have a bit of a history. But nothing violent,” Graham muttered. He raised his head and looked Harlan directly in the eye. “It says here you were born in 1917. Is that correct?”
“Yes sir, it is.”
“Art.”
“Sorry. Yes, Art. I was born in Macon, Georgia on December 24, 1917.”
“Well lookee here,” Art clapped his hands against the table, “I was born in 1917 too!”
Harlan nodded.
“We already have something in common,” Graham grinned. “I’m fifty-six years old, and you’re, well, gonna be fifty-six come December.”
Again, Harlan nodded.
Graham closed the folder and pushed it aside. His mood turned serious. “Harlan, you understand that if you are responsible for the death of Andrew Mailer—”
“Sir . . . I mean Art,” Harlan interrupted, “there are no ifs, ands, or buts about it, I murdered the bitch.”
Graham’s eyes stretched. He couldn’t remember ever having heard a man refer to another man as a bitch. But this was 1973 and America had put a man on the moon, so it seemed everything and anything were possible these days. He removed the soft pack of Kool cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt, shook one free, and offered it to Harlan.
“No thank you.”
“Good for you.” Graham slipped the cigarette between his lips and lit it. “I’ve been trying to quit since I started.” Eyes squinting against the white smoke, he said, “I want to make sure you understand the consequences of your actions.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You got any medical problems?”
“None that I know of,” Harlan said. “Knees ache some when it rains, that’s about it.”
“Wife? Kids?”
“Nope.”
“Anybody we should call?”
“There’s only me.”
“Okay. Let’s move on, then,” Graham said in a relaxed, friendly tone. “Harlan, I’d like you tell me exactly why you killed Andrew Mailer. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, I can.”
The detective leaned back in his chair and scratched his gut.
Arthur Graham was a thirty-year veteran of the force. In fact, at the end of that particular June week, he was to be officially retired. As he sat in the precinct interrogating Harlan Elliott, his wife Maggie was at home putting the final touches on his retirement party, which was scheduled to take place that Saturday evening.
The Grahams had recently placed their beautiful split-level Corona, Queens home on the market, and sold or not, in a month Arthur and his wife of twenty-eight years were moving into a two-bedroom beachfront condo in sunny Ft. Myers, Florida.
If Arthur could’ve had his way, he’d have stayed on the job for another ten years. He loved it. Police work was the one thing he was exceptional at. But he’d promised his wife that 1973 would be it, and Arthur Graham was a man of his word.
He had seen a lot of things in his three decades in law enforcement. He wished he could say that this thing that was currently unfolding before him was the most ludicrous of all, but it wasn’t, at least not yet. Technically, he should have been spending his last week filling out paperwork, tying up loose ends, and shooting the breeze with his coworkers. But the paperwork was all done and the loose ends had been tied up weeks ago. Goodbyes had been said and would be said again at the party.
What Arthur wanted was one last hurrah before handing over his gold badge and revolver. So when Detective Ellis had dropped the file on his desk and said with a wink, “One more for the road?” Arthur figured his prayers had been answered. “Open and shut?” he had asked.
“Yep. The guy is here to confess,” Ellis assured him.
It seemed simple enough. Easy-peezy, as Arthur’s wife would have said.
“I’m ready when you are,” the detective prompted when Harlan just sat there staring into his empty Styrofoam cup.
“May I have some more coffee, please?”
Art pressed his palms together. “I think we could both use some more coffee.” He left the room and returned with two fresh cups of coffee and a small box of donuts.
“It’s cliché, I know.”
“What is?” Harlan asked.
“Donuts and cops.”
“Oh.”
“I got a sweet tooth,” Art said as he plucked a powder-covered donut from the box. “Go on,” he pressed, jutting his chin at the donuts, “have some.”
“No thanks.”
“Watching your figure, Harlan?” The detective chuckled before biting into the donut, sending a flurry of white powder onto his chin and tie. He devoured the first donut, then reached for a second and did away with it in two bites. “Okay,” he announced, brushing crumbs and powdered sugar from his face and clothing, “that should hold me for a while. Let’s get back to business, shall we?”
Harlan nodded.
Art raised a finger. “Wait a minute, I don’t want to forget to record this.” He reached over and pressed the red lever on the reel-to-reel and cleared his throat. “This is Detective First Class Arthur P. Graham interviewing Harlan Samuel Elli
ott of Brooklyn, New York, concerning the murder of one Andrew Mailer. Today is June 19, 1973; it is approximately one twenty p.m.” He looked at Harlan and smiled. “Do you want to start by telling me how you knew the deceased?”
Harlan stared at the recorder but said nothing.
“Harlan?”
Harlan blinked. “Um, yes. But I want to tell you the whole story so that you’ll understand why I did it; why I had no choice.”
The smile remained glued to Art’s lips. “That’s exactly what I want to hear, Harlan—the entire story, from beginning to end.”
Chapter 105
The clock on the wall read nine twenty. They’d been at it for eight hours.
Arthur Graham eyed Harlan intensely and then reached over and pressed the lever on the reel-to-reel, halting the whirling spools of tape.
Harlan bowed his head, awaiting his Miranda rights.
Groaning, Art fell back into his chair, scratching the fresh growth of hair sprouting on his cheeks. He’d heard some outlandish stories in his time—tales so tall, they cast shadows. Fiction, fables, rambling yarns that grew more fantastical with each retelling. Yes, Art had heard it all. But as ludicrous as Harlan’s story seemed to be, there wasn’t a doubt in Art’s mind that he was telling the truth. He knew Harlan’s story was true because his own precious Maggie, the love of his life, wife and mother of their children, had also been in Buchenwald.
“What was the concentration camp called?”
Harlan repeated the name and Art’s spine went rigid. Their stories were identical—the Singing Forest, the beatings, murder by bullet, by hanging . . . the Bitch of Buchenwald. His wife had a scrapbook containing newspaper clippings of captured Nazi war criminals, all of whom had been living comfortable lives in foreign lands under assumed identities. After being spirited out of Europe by organizations such as the Red Cross and the Vatican, the criminals went on to fund their new lives with art, jewelry, and money they’d stolen from the very people they’d incarcerated and then murdered. Art remembered reading that in the home of one Nazi criminal, they’d found a velvet bag of gold-filled molars, no doubt removed from mouths of Holocaust victims.
Why Ilse Koch had chosen to live her life in America, as a man, as Andrew Mailer, was anyone’s guess. Perhaps she thought disguising herself in such a way would ensure she’d never be discovered. But as Harlan said, “You don’t forget people who’ve done bad things to you. She could have worn a monkey suit, and I still would have known it was her.”
Art had never thought of Negroes as Holocaust victims or survivors, and while Maggie had never mentioned black prisoners at the camp, it didn’t mean that it wasn’t so. Art figured the color of a person’s skin became insignificant when people were clawing to survive.
Whenever another Nazi war criminal was captured, Art would come home from work to find Maggie standing out on the porch, waiting for him. “We got another one.”
Now that Harlan had finished his statement, Art knew there was only one way this thing should go. Sitting forward again, he removed the reels from the machine and unwound the tape until it lay in ribbons between them on the table. After sweeping the tape into his battered attaché case, he said, “Let’s go, Harlan.”
Unclear as to what was happening, Harlan rose slowly from the chair.
The detective walked to the door, swung it open, and poked his head into the hallway. Without looking at Harlan, he gestured with his hand that he should follow.
Detective and suspect moved casually down the corridor, past the bathroom and four empty interrogation rooms. At the end of the long hallway was a steel door. Above it, a sign marked Exit.
Harlan’s breath caught in his throat.
In the alley behind the police station, beneath the glow of the new moon, Harlan and Art faced each other for the last time.
“I don’t know how much time you’ll have, maybe an hour, a day, or eternity.” The detective pumped his shoulders. “You just never know with these things.”
Harlan opened his mouth to speak, but Art shook his head and removed a battered wallet from his back pocket. “I’m not saying you need it, but I am saying you can’t go back to your apartment, not for anything—money, clothes, whatever.” He pulled a wad of bills from the wallet. “Go on, take it,” he said, pushing the money into Harlan’s hesitant hand. “It’s not much, but it’s enough to get a bus ticket out of town and a night or two in a motel.”
Harlan closed his fingers around the bills.
The night hummed.
Art thought to shake Harlan’s hand; instead, he clutched his shoulder and squeezed. “The world is round, Harlan.”
Harlan wasn’t sure what the detective meant by that, but he nodded anyway.
“I wish you the best of luck,” Art said, and then did offer Harlan his hand.
“Th-thank you, sir.”
“Art. My friends call me Art.”
“Thank you, Art.”
The detective watched Harlan walk away. He watched until the slate-colored night closed its arms around the black man and he was no more. Art removed the crumpled pack of Kools from his shirt pocket, shook out the last cigarette, and lit it. He hadn’t considered how he would explain this to his commanding officer, but he was confident that he would come up with a plausible explanation. He’d been doing this job for a very, very long time. He could pull out loopholes and lies as deftly as a magician pulled a rabbit from a top hat. And if that didn’t work, he’d call in favors. He had decades’ worth of favors.
He had put a lot of bad guys in prison; it felt good to know that his last hurrah was keeping a good guy out. He dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under the sole of his shoe. He couldn’t wait to get home to tell Maggie that they’d gotten another one.
Chapter 106
Under a sky clean of stars, Harlan fought not to run, not to turn back or sit down and throw his hands up in surrender. June heat chomping at his neck, heart slamming, eyes stinging with perspiration, he hastened past hand-holding lovers, old people escaping the fever of their apartments, hoodlums hawking nickel bags, tall trees with limbs flung wide like comforting arms.
This freedom felt unreal to Harlan.
Providence?
Yes. Not earned, but inherited, bound to his DNA and passed down the line like his brown eyes. Even though it had cloaked him his entire life, Harlan was hesitant to utter the word. God . . .
The world was open, so where to now?
Back to the city Emma said was the only place she had roots, back to Macon, where he could finally plant himself and flower.
There is no life that does not contribute to history.
—Dorothy West
Abbreviated List of Historical Characters
Louis Armstrong (1901–1971), nicknamed Satchmo and Pops, was one of the most influential artists in the history of jazz. His career as a trumpeter, composer, and singer spanned the 1920s through the 1960s.
Amiri Baraka (1934–2014), born LeRoi Jones, was an African American writer well-known for his political activism and social criticism, displayed through his poetry, drama, fiction, and essays.
Mary Bruce (1900–1995), originally from Chicago, taught dance in New York City for over fifty years. Over the span of her career, Bruce taught students such as Josephine Premice, Ruby Dee, Martina Arroyo, and Marlon Brando; she also offered free lessons to students who couldn’t afford them.
Eugene Jacques Bullard (1895–1961) became the first African American military pilot during World War I after working as a boxer in Paris. Bullard eventually became the owner of his own nightclub, L’Escadrille.
Leonard Harper (1899–1943) was a dancer, producer, and choreographer with his own studio in New York City during the Harlem Renaissance. Harper’s work spanned a variety of genres, from burlesque to Broadway musicals.
Lucille Nelson Hegamin (1894–1970) was born in Macon, Georgia, and became the second African American blues singer to record. She retired from music in 1934 to pursue a
career in nursing.
Ilse Koch (1906–1967), nicknamed the “Bitch of Buchenwald,” was one of the first Nazis tried by the US military. She was the wife of Nazi commandant Karl Otto Koch, and was known and feared for her especially sadistic practices toward prisoners.
Milton Mesirow, better known as Mezz Mezzrow (1899–1972), was a Jewish American jazz clarinetist and saxophonist. Over the course of his career, he played with and recorded many African American musicians, including Louis Armstrong.
Bessie Smith (1894–1937), known as the “Empress of the Blues,” was the most popular and influential female blues singer of her era.
Mike Todd (1909–1958) was an American theater and film producer best known for his Academy Award–winning movie, Around the World in 80 Days. He was married to Elizabeth Taylor before his death in a plane crash.
Ancestral Cast of Characters
Aubrey Gill (1885–1966)
Ethel Louise Gill (1884–1951)
Gwendolyn Dorothy Gill (1922–1997)
Irene Mae Gill (1908–1940)
Aubrey I. McFadden (1941–1992; depicted in this novel as Bre)
Harold Isaac McFadden (1917–1958; depicted in this novel as Harlan Elliott)
Robert L. McFadden (1942–2005; depicted in this novel as Bobby)
Chappo Robinson (1887–1951; depicted in this novel as Emma Robinson)
Louisa Anne Robinson (1845–?)
Reverend Tenant M. Robinson (1844–1895), pastor of the First Baptist Church of Macon, Georgia, was born into slavery near Charleston, South Carolina.
Sons of Reverend and Mrs. Robinson: Seth H. Adams, James Henry Robinson, and John Edward Robinson.
Darlene Smith (unknown)
John Smith (1927–2002) was an African American musician and a driver for the Safety Cab Company. His arrest on July 12, 1967, sparked a five-day riot in Newark, New Jersey.
The Book of Harlan Page 27
