Even dt-1

by Andrew Grant

  That never made any sense to me.

  And nothing’s happened in the meantime to change my mind.

  The day-tour detectives didn’t arrive too early. Somewhere in the region of 9:30 A.M., I’d guess. There were two of them. A uniformed officer named Cauldwell let them into my cell. He must have relieved Jackman when the night shift went off duty.

  Apart from wearing suits instead of uniforms, the detectives reminded me of the officers who had picked me up in the alley. They had the same weathered, capable appearance, though one of them was a little younger. Probably in his early forties. He was the first to speak.

  “My name’s Detective Gibson,” he said. “This is my partner, Detective Harris.”

  I nodded.

  “We’ve been assigned to your case,” Gibson said. “We need to get a couple of formalities out of the way, then I thought we could go upstairs and get this whole thing worked out?”

  “Got any coffee upstairs?” I said.

  “As much as you can drink.”

  “Any food?”

  “Maybe some doughnuts. Could be stale.”

  “They’ll have to do,” I said, standing up. “Let’s get on with it.”

  We stopped on the first floor for photographs and fingerprints, then carried on up to the detectives’ squad room on the fourth. It was basically an ordinary open-plan office, but there was a strangely austere, regimented feel to the place. The rows of storage cabinets behind the administrator’s desk were inch-parallel, and they were all neatly closed. There were no keys in any of the locks, and no papers peeping out from between any of the doors. The desks were evenly distributed around the room. There were six pairs, all facing the same way, all with identical chairs tucked in underneath. The surface of each one was absolutely clear, apart from the matching computer keyboards and mice. There were no mugs or family photos or personal effects of any kind, and the sleek flat-panel monitors were all switched off. There was nothing on the windowsills, and all the trash cans I could see were completely empty. It felt more like a furniture showroom than a place where real people did important work.

  Harris and Gibson led me around the side of a small booth that had been built in the center of the room. We passed the entrance and kept going toward the far wall. A line of doors was spaced out along it. There were six. We headed for the last one, which was almost in the corner. INTERVIEW ROOM THREE. Harris flipped a slider across to the OCCUPIED position and pushed the door open. Lights set into the ceiling flickered on automatically as Gibson and I followed him inside.

  The room felt small and cramped after the expanse of the main office. The ceiling was lower, and the blinds were shut across the window, blocking out any natural light. Most of the space was taken up by a wooden table. It looked solid and sturdy, as if it were built to withstand some abuse. It had already taken some, judging by the dents and blemishes in its surface. There were three chairs around it. Harris took the one at the far side. Gibson guided me to the next one, which was on its own at the long side of the table.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he said.

  The remaining chair was to my left, so there was nothing to block my view of a mirror built into the opposite wall. It was rectangular, four feet high, six feet wide. I smiled into it politely in case anyone was on the other side, already watching.

  I’d expected Gibson to sit down as well, but when I turned back to him I saw he’d moved across to the door.

  “Back in a minute,” he said, and left the room.

  I looked at Harris. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention to me at all. He was just leaning back in his chair, vaguely smiling, and staring into space. There was a tape strip alarm running along the wall, a few inches from his shoulder. I found myself wondering how quickly he could reach it. Then I saw him glance up to the corner of the room above the door. I turned to look, and saw a tiny CCTV camera mounted on a metal bracket where the walls met the ceiling. A red light next to the lens was blinking steadily.

  Maybe that’s why he was looking so smug.

  Gibson returned to the interview room carrying a notebook, some papers, and three white polystyrene cups with lids.

  “No doughnuts,” he said as he sat down. “Sorry.”

  “Just don’t tell me you put milk in my coffee,” I said.

  “No. For you, I guessed no milk, no sugar.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  The detectives were silent as I took a sip of coffee. It was surprisingly good. A little cold, maybe, but I allowed myself a moment to enjoy the strong, bitter taste. Gibson left his cup on the table and watched me. Harris emptied his with a single gulp and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Now, before we start, I need to tell you something,” Gibson said. He spoke really slowly, as if he thought I might not understand. “It’s important you should know, you can have an attorney present if you want one. But before you make a decision on that, I think you should hear what we’ve got, and let me tell you what you can do to help yourself. Then, you can decide which way to go when you know all the facts. What do you say?”

  “Fine with me,” I said. “I’m not looking to drag this out.”

  “OK then, let’s not waste any more time. I just need you to sign something to say you’ve passed on the attorney for now, and we’re in business.”

  Gibson took a ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. Then he shuffled through the papers he’d brought back with him, selected a single sheet, and slid it across. I scanned my way down the page until I came to a box at the bottom. Someone had highlighted the outline in yellow. It was too small for my signature, so I just scrawled right across the bottom of the page. Gibson reached over and gathered up the pen and paper. He looked at the form for a moment and frowned.

  “Nope,” he said. “Can’t read that. And the guys downstairs told me you don’t have ID, so maybe you can start by telling us your name?”

  “David Trevellyan,” I said.

  “And where are you from, David?”

  “England. Originally.”

  “Thought I recognized the accent. So what are you doing in New York?”

  “Working. I’m here on business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Telecommunications.”

  “And is that why you were out on the street last night, David? You were doing telecommunications work?”

  “Of course not. I’m a consultant, not an engineer.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I work with corporate clients. Give them advice. Help them with strategy, overcoming operational problems, that sort of thing.”

  “What kind of problems were you overcoming last night?”

  “None. I wasn’t working last night. I’ve just finished a contract and I don’t have to be back in the U.K. until tomorrow, so I was taking a night off.”

  “What kind of contract was it, you just finished?”

  “Government.”

  “No offense, but why would the government hire a British consultant? Don’t we have plenty of our own?”

  “Not your government. The British government.”

  “If it was the British government, why are you in the United States?”

  “I was working for the Foreign Office. I started at the embassy in Washington and then moved on to the consulate here in New York.”

  “Where were you before Washington?”

  “On another job. In Paris.”

  “Paris, France? You came directly from there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When?”

  “Six weeks ago.”

  “Then you came directly to New York?”

  “Right.”

  “When?”

  “Three weeks ago.”

  “Been here ever since?”

  “Haven’t set foot outside Manhattan.”

  “And your contract finished, when?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday was Sunday.�
�

  “So?”

  “What time yesterday? Morning? Afternoon?”

  “Late afternoon. The project owner’s based in London, so I had to wait at the consulate until sign-off came through.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Five-thirty.”

  “People can verify that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. ’Cause we may need to talk to them. We’ll come back to you for names if we do.”

  I shrugged. It would be a pain, but I could find some people to say the right thing if he really insisted.

  “Now, let’s see if I got this,” he said. “Five-thirty, you’re at the consulate getting a sign-off on your project. Midnight, you’re in an alley with a corpse.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Six and a half hours after finishing work, I was unfortunate enough to discover a dead body.”

  “Fill in the gaps.”

  “I left the consulate, obviously. Went back to my hotel. Had a shower. Got changed. Went out for a meal.”

  “Where?”

  “At a small restaurant. Fong’s, it was called.”

  “Who with?”

  “No one. I went on my own.”

  “What about the receipt?”

  “What about it?”

  “It wasn’t with your things.”

  “So?”

  “So where is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why not? What did you do with it?”

  “I paid cash. I didn’t keep it.”

  “Convenient.”

  “How is it convenient?”

  “Anyone see you there? Staff? Customers?”

  “Sure. Try eating out alone and not getting stared at.”

  “Maybe we’ll go ask. OK. What else?”

  “I finished my meal. Started walking back. Saw the body. It was in an alley off Mulberry Street. I checked to see if I could help the guy, and was on my way to call 911 when your colleagues arrived.”

  “Why not call on your cell phone?”

  “Don’t carry one. I don’t like cell phones. They fry your brain.”

  “So, you just found the body lying there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It was already there when you went into the alley?”

  “Right.”

  “Already dead?”

  “Afraid so. I did check, but it was too late.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Doesn’t quite add up, does it, David?”

  “Doesn’t add up how? That’s what happened.”

  “Think about it. You’re a businessman. A consultant. A respectable citizen enjoying a well-earned night off. And with all the wonders of New York City to pick from, you choose to spend your time in a shit-filled alley where there just happens to be some bum’s body, still warm, full of bullets? Sorry. Doesn’t work for me.”

  “That’s not what I said. I told you, I spent my evening in a restaurant. I found the body afterward, when I was walking back to my hotel.”

  “Why were you walking? Why not take a cab?”

  “And I only went into the alley because I saw the body lying there. You could see it from the street. Other detectives were there. And uniformed officers. Check with them. They’ll confirm where it was.”

  “We don’t care where the body was, David. We only care about how come there was a body.”

  “And if you know anything about that, now would be the time to tell us,” Harris said, looking at me for the first time since we entered the interview room.

  “You need to work with us on this, David,” Gibson said. “If you’re straight with us now, maybe we can help you. But if you keep lying to us, we’ll make sure this whole thing falls right on you.”

  I sat and looked from one to the other. I felt insulted, more than anything. If I had been lying, there was no way anyone would know about it, least of all either of these guys.

  “You should be looking to get out in front of this, David,” Harris said. “Be smart. This is your last chance to do yourself some good.”

  “We’ll find out later, anyway,” Gibson said. “But then it’ll be too late to help. You need to tell us now.”

  “I’ve told you what I know,” I said.

  “Look, I don’t believe you’re a bad guy, David,” Harris said. “But if you didn’t mean what happened, you need to let us know now. Stop wasting our time.”

  I took another sip of coffee.

  “Maybe the guy attacked you?” Gibson said. “Forced you into the alley?”

  “Yeah-maybe it was his gun,” Harris said. “He used it to get you into the alley, you struggled, the gun went off…?”

  “So it was an accident?” Gibson said. “You never meant to kill him. That would definitely help you.”

  “But if that was how it happened, you need to tell us,” Harris said. “Then we can help you with your statement. Make sure it shows you in the best light.”

  “You think it might have been an accident?” I said. “I’m curious. Would that be a single accident, where the gun went off six separate times? Or six individual accidents, one after the other?”

  “Hey, David, we’re just trying to help,” Harris said.

  “I appreciate that,” I said. “So listen to what I’m telling you. I found the body. Nothing else.”

  “If that’s how you want to play it-fine,” Harris said. “But there’s something else you should know. Someone saw you.”

  “Saw me find it?”

  “No. Saw you kill the guy.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “No, David, it’s true. They called 911.”

  “How do you think the radio car got there so quick?” Gibson said. “It was there before you even left the alley, right?”

  “Maybe someone did call 911,” I said. “Maybe they did see who killed the guy. But it wasn’t me.”

  Harris reached into his jacket and took out a tape recorder. It was a tiny, handheld one such as people use for dictation. He held it up so I could see clearly what it was, then stood it upright on the table in front of him. Both detectives were looking at me intently. Harris’s lips were glistening.

  “Anything to add, now’s the time,” he said.

  I picked up my cup and sloshed the dregs around for a moment.

  “I could do with another coffee, actually,” I said. “This last bit’s gone a little cold.”

  Harris scowled.

  “This is taken from the 911 voice recorder,” he said, reaching out to the tape machine.

  A synthesized female voice gave out a date. March 15. That was yesterday.

  “New York Police Department Central Emergency Reception,” it said. “The time is 23:57 hours. Agent 8304.”

  “Nine-one-one Emergency,” a real operator’s voice said, taking over. Her voice sounded harsh and metallic through the tiny speaker. “Your name, telephone number, and address, please.”

  “Please, just help me,” a man’s voice said. It was high-pitched and trembling. “I’ve just seen a guy get murdered.” He was breathing hard, and I could hear some light traffic noise in the background.

  “I understand that, sir, but I need to start with your name, telephone number, and address.”

  “OK, it’s Andy Newm-”

  Harris leaned forward and pressed a button. The voice on the tape squealed and jabbered for a moment, so I couldn’t make out any more details. Then Harris let go of the machine and I heard the operator speaking again.

  “… me what you saw?”

  “OK, well, there was, like, this guy. A big guy. He went into the alley. Up to a bum. The bum saw him. Stood up. Real slow. Shaky on his feet. Like he was drunk or something. The guy pulled a gun. The bum just stood there, looking at it. Then he backed up. Kept going back. Right back. All the way to the wall. He tried to climb on the Dumpster, but the guy… the guy just… shot him. In the chest. A bunch of times. Like, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. And that w
as it. The bum was dead.”

  “What happened next?”

  “The bum fell down. On the ground. The big guy just left him there. Then I ran. Didn’t want him to see me.”

  “Where is this alley?”

  “Near Canal Street. Mulberry. Off there.”

  “And where were you when this was happening?”

  “Right there, on the street.”

  “Are you sure the man with the gun didn’t get a look at you?”

  “No. I was hiding. Down from the kids’ playground.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Yeah. I got a real good look.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Sure. He was white. Tall. Bout six four. Black leather coat. Round collar. Sort of medium length. Didn’t reach down to his knees. Black jeans. Black boots. But the weird thing about this guy was, he had a big chunk of hair missing. Back of his head.”

  “What, like he was going bald?”

  “No. Like it had been shaved off. Like for an operation or something. I thought maybe he was mental, or had a lobotomy or something.”

  “But you said the bald patch was at the back of his head?”

  “Yeah, I said the back. Had stitches in it.”

  “How many stitches?”

  “A lot. Maybe ten or fifteen.”

  “OK, and can-”

  Harris switched the machine off.

  “David, I notice you’re a white male,” he said. “You’re about six four tall, wearing black boots, black jeans, and a black three-quarter-length leather coat. And the collar is… round.”

  “Your point being what?” I said.

  Harris got up and walked around behind me. I felt him lean his weight on the back of my chair. His breath was warm on my neck. I watched him in the mirror, making a show of examining the back of my head. I guessed he was focusing on the shaved patch. That, and the line of twelve neat stitches running across the center of it. I was beginning to resent that scar. It wasn’t the only one I had. It wasn’t even the largest. But it was causing more than its share of trouble.