Robert B Parker - Spenser 01 - The Godwulf Manuscript

by The Godwulf Manuscript(lit)

  I looked down at Terry Orchard. There were tears running down her cheeks, and less of her weight leaned on me.

  "Sonova bitch," she said. "Sonova bitch, sonova bitch, sonova bitch."

  "When you can talk to me, talk to me. Till then keep walking," I said.

  She just kept saying sonova bitch, in a dead singsong voice, and I found that as we walked we were keeping time to the curse, left, right, sonova bitch. I realized that the broken door was still wide open and as we sonovabitched by on the next swing I kicked it shut with my heel. A few more turns and she fell silent, then she said, half question-"Spenser?"

  "Yeah."

  "Oh my God, Spenser."

  "Yeah."

  We stopped walking and she turned against me with her face hard against my chest. She clenched onto my shirt with both fists and seemed to be trying to blend into me. We stood motionless like that for a long time. Me with my arms around her. Both wet and dripping and the dead boy with his wide sightless eyes not looking at us.

  "Sit down," I said after a while. "Drink some more coffee. We have to talk."

  She didn't want to let go of me, but I pried her off and sat her on the day bed. She huddled inside the blanket, her wet hair plastered down around her small head, while I made some more coffee.

  We sat together on the day bed, sipping coffee. I had the impulse to say, "What's new?" but squelched it. Instead I said, "Tell me about it now."

  "Oh, God, I can't."

  "You have to."

  "I want to get out of here. I want to run."

  "Nope. You have to sit here and tell me what happened. From the very first thing that happened to the very last thing that happened. And you have to do it now, because you are in very big trouble and I have to know exactly how big."

  "Trouble? Jesus, you think I shot him, don't you?"

  "The thought occurred to me."

  "I didn't shoot him. They shot him. The ones that made me take the dope. The ones that made me shoot the gun."

  "Okay, but start with the first thing. Whose apartment is this?"

  "Ours, Dennis's and mine." She nodded at the floor and then started and looked away quickly.

  "Dennis is Dennis Powell, right?"

  "Yes."

  "And you live together and are not married, right?"

  "Yes."

  "When did the people come who did this?"

  "I don't know exactly--it was late, about two thirty maybe."

  "Who were they?"

  "I don't know. Two men. Dennis seemed to know them."

  "What did they do?"

  "They knocked on the door. Dennis got up--we weren't asleep, we never go to sleep till very late--and asked, 'Who is it?' I couldn't hear what they said. But he let them in. That's why I think he knew them. When he opened the door they came in very fast. One of them pushed him against the wall and the other one came into the bedroom and dragged me out of bed. Neither one said anything. Dennis said something like, 'Hey, what's the idea?' Or 'Hey, what's going on?' One of them had a gun and he held it on both of us. He never said anything. Neither one. It was spooky. The other guy reached in his coat pocket and came out with my gun."

  "Is that your gun on the floor?" I asked.

  She wouldn't look but nodded.

  "Okay, then what?" I asked.

  "He handed my gun to the first man, the man with the gun, and then he grabbed me and turned me around and put his hand over my mouth and bent my arm up behind me and the other man shot Dennis twice."

  "With your gun?"

  "Yes."

  "Then what?"

  "Then--" She paused and closed her eyes and shook her head.

  "Go on," I said.

  "Then the man that shot Dennis made me hold the gun in my hand and shoot it into Dennis. He held my wrist and squeezed my finger on the trigger." She said it in a rush and the words nearly ran together.

  "Did he have on gloves?"

  She thought a minute. "Yes, yellow ones. I think they might have been rubber or plastic."

  "Then what?"

  "Then the one who was holding me made me lie down on the bed. I didn't have anything on but my top. And the other one poured some kind of dope in my mouth and forced it shut and held my nose till I swallowed it. Then they just held me there with a hand over my mouth for a little while. Then they left."

  I didn't say anything. If she'd invented that story coming out of a narcotic coma, she was some kind of special species and nothing I could handle. She might have hallucinated the whole thing, depending on what she had taken. Or the story might be true.

  "Why did they make me shoot him after he was dead?"

  she asked.

  I discovered as I answered that I believed her. "To hook you on a paraffin test. When you fire a handgun cordite particles impregnate your skin. A lab man puts paraffin over it, lets it dry, peels it off, and tests it. The particles show up in the wax."

  It took a minute to register. "A lab man, you mean the police?"

  "Yes, honey, the police."

  "No, can't we get out of here? I'll go home. You won't say anything. My father will pay you. He has money. I know he can give you some..."

  "Your boyfriend, dead in your apartment, killed with your gun, you gone? They'd come and get you and bring you back. Do you know a lawyer?"

  "A lawyer, how the hell would I know a freaking lawyer?" She looked desperately toward the door. "I'm splitting, screw this scene." Her voice had gotten harsh and tough with fright, and I noticed her lapse into the jargon of her peer group as her fright increased. When she'd been clinging to me she talked like a young girl in college. When she wanted to get away from me her voice and language changed. I held her against me with my arm around her shoulder.

  "Listen," I said. "You are in trouble enough to pull up over your head and tie a knot in. But you're not in it alone. I'll help you. It's my line of work. I'll get you a lawyer in a bit.

  Then I'll call the cops. Before I do, though--" She started to speak and I squeezed her. "Listen," I said, "When the cops come don't say anything, don't talk to them, don't argue with them, don't be hostile, don't be smart. Do not say anything to anybody till you talk to the lawyer. His name is Vincent Haller. He'll see you soon after you go downtown. Talk only with him present and say only what he says you should. Have you ever been busted?"

  "No."

  "Okay. It's not anywhere near as bad as you think it is.

  No one will hurt you. No one will grab you under a bright light and hit you with a hose. You'll be okay, and you won't be in long. Haller will take care of you."

  She nodded. I went on.

  "Before I make my call--do you have any idea why the men did this?"

  "No."

  "Do you use drugs?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know what they gave you?"

  "No. It tasted like paregoric and smelled like ether. It wasn't anything I'd tried. Whatever it was, was a downer though."

  "Okay. Get dressed. I'm going to call."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE FIRST OF Boston's finest to arrive were two bulls from a radio car. They came in, told us not to touch anything, got our names, frisked me, took my gun, and looked closely at us till the homicide people came. They came, as they always do, in large numbers: technicians, photographers, someone from the medical examiner's. Two guys in white coats to carry out the corpse and some dicks to investigate the crime and question the suspects. In this case the crew was led by the commander of the homicide bureau, Lieutenant Martin Quirk. I'm six foot one and he was taller than I was, taller and thicker. His hands and fingers were thick and his lips were thick and his nose was broad. His thick black hair was cut close. He was clean-shaven at four A.M. and his shoes gleamed with dark polish. His shirt was freshly ironed and his tie neatly knotted.

  His suit was immaculate and sharply creased. He wore a Tyrolean hat with a feather in it and a white raincoat, which he never took off. His face was pockmarked and there was a short scar at one corner of h
is mouth.

  He stood now looking at me with his raincoat open and his hands in his hip pockets. "This is sure a lucky break for us, Spenser, having you on this to help us out. We need slick professionals like yourself to straighten us out and all. Keep us from forgetting to look for fingerprints, missing clues, and stuff."

  "I didn't plan to get into this, Lieutenant. The kid called me for help, and I came over and found her. And him.

  She was badly drugged. I got her sobered up a little and called you."

  "How did she know you?" Quirk asked.

  "I'm on a case that she's involved in."

  "What case?"

  "Looking for a missing rare manuscript stolen from a university."

  "What university?"

  "If it seems pertinent, I'll tell you."

  "If I want to know, you'll tell me." Quirk's voice squeezed out sharp and flat like sheet metal.

  "I'll tell you if you need to know it. I don't make a living telling cops everything they want to know about clients."

  "I don't make a living taking crap from hole-in-thewall shysters like you, Spenser."

  A thin, bluejowled sergeant named Belson drifted in between Quirk and me.

  "Come on, Lieutenant, this don't get us far. Both the girl and the victim are university students, and there's a fair bet that it's the same university that hired Spenser."

  Quirk looked at me, then Belson. "Do you know him?"

  he asked, nodding at me.

  "Yeah, he used to work out of the Suffolk County D.A.'s office about five years ago. I hear he got canned."

  "Okay, get his story." He turned to me. "You're not working for the D.A. now, boy, you're working my side of the street, and if you get in my way I'll kick your ass right into the gutter. Got that?"

  "Can I feel your muscle?" I said.

  Quirk looked at me without saying anything, then turned away and walked over to the girl.

  Belson shook his head and pulled out a notebook.

  "Start up with the lieutenant, Spenser, and you'll end up looking like you went through a pepper mill."

  "I won't be able to sleep without a night light," I said.

  Belson shrugged. "Okay. Start from the beginning.

  You're in the business. I don't have to lead you."

  I told him, omitting, mostly from stubbornness, the name of my client, but including, because it was sure to come out anyway, the incident in the Pub that afternoon, when I had knocked the kid down.

  Belson shook his head again. "How could anyone get mad at a sweetheart like you? I would have thought he'd have been hypnotized with the way you're so agreeable."

  I let that go.

  "You're sure you might not have been hustling his chick just a little, Spenser? And maybe you were over here hustling her again and he came home and caught you, and an argument developed?"

  "Yeah, and I pulled out my fourteen-dollar Saturday night special and let fly at him. Come off it, Belson. You're just talking for the hell of it. You know I didn't do it. You know I wouldn't use a piece of cheap tin like that gun. If I had, you know I would have covered it better than this."

  "Okay, maybe I don't like you for it. I've known you a long time, and it's not your style. But it could happen. You got nothing against girls, I can recall. It could be his gun and you had to take it away from him and it went off. Lotta people get killed by people in a way that ain't their style."

  "And I shot him four times in the chest getting it away from him?"

  "Could be to cover it up, make it look different."

  "You're fishing, Frank," I said.

  "Maybe."

  "Have you heard the girl's story yet?"

  "Nope, lieutenant's getting that now."

  "He's going to love it," I said.

  "Of course you got it before you called us," Belson said.

  "She was way under from something. I had to bring her out."

  "And then you had to ask her what happened and then she had to tell you. And then you had to fix up a story maybe."

  "Wait till you hear the story. You don't think I'm smart enough to work up something like that. You guys are cops, not priests. Calling you isn't a ritual act. I called you as soon as my judgement told me it was both feasible and prudent."

  Belson set fire to a half-smoked cigar before he said anything. Then he said, "You talk good for a dumb slug; feasible and prudent, my, my."

  From the other side of the room Quirk spoke over his shoulder without turning his head. "Belson, bring the private license over here."

  Belson nodded me toward Quirk and I walked over.

  Quirk was straddling the only straight chair in the room, with his forearms crossed on the back. Before him Terry Orchard was on the couch. She had on a denim shirt and Levi's again, but her hair was still wet and tight on her skull.

  She looked awfully small.

  "Spenser," he said without looking up. "She says she won't say anything unless you say it's all right. She says you told her not to talk to us without a lawyer."

  "Right enough, Lieutenant. I knew you wouldn't want to take advantage of her when she was confused, or perhaps in a state of shock."

  "We're going to take her in."

  "I thought you might."

  "We'd like you to come along, too," Quirk said.

  "I wouldn't miss it," I said.

  Terry looked at me with her eyes very wide and dark. I said to her, "Haller will be there. Just do as I said."

  The assistant M.E., a small man with thick glasses and gray curly hair, came over to Quirk.

  "I'm through," he said. "If you are too, we'll haul him off."

  "Any opinions, Manny?" Quirk asked.

  "Yeah, I'd guess he was shot in the chest."

  "That med school training really gives you insight," Quirk said. "Anything that I need to know that you can tell me now?"

  "Shot sometime within the last five or six hours, cause of death presumable gunshot. I don't see any other signs. Got any corroborative testimony?"

  Quirk looked at Belson.

  "Spenser says the kid was dead when he arrived at three fifteen and that the blood had gotten tacky and the skin was cool," Belson said.

  The assistant M.E. said, "That seems about right, but it could be a couple hours earlier for all I can prove here."

  Quirk nodded. "Okay, thanks, Manny." And then to the two white-coated interns, "Take him away."

  They bundled Dennis Powell onto the stretcher. He'd already started to stiffen and he was getting awkward to handle. They straightened his arms out down by his side, put his ankles together, wrapped the tarp around him, and strapped him into the stretcher. Then they dollied him out. They had to stand him up to get him out the apartment door, and when they did the top of him lolled against the straps. Terry made a noise and looked away. The stretcher bumped down the stairs and out to the ambulance. A few curious early risers stood around staring. The two harness bulls who'd showed up first kept them away from the door. A little fat dick in a long blue overcoat with a button missing came in after letting the stretcher out.

  "Nothing, Lieutenant. Nobody heard nothing, nobody saw nothing, nobody knows nothing. Half of them are goddamn faggots, anyway."

  "Jesus Christ," Quirk said. "Just give me information; don't review the witnesses' sex life for me."

  "Okay, Lieutenant. I mean I figured that being as they was faggots you might not want to take their word. You know how these goddamn perverts are."

  "No, I don't know, and I don't want you to tell me. Stay around, ask questions. See what you can find out about these two. Try to remember you're on the homicide squad, not the vice squad. When I want a fag count, I'll let you know."

  The dick hustled out. Quirk shook his head. Belson was looking up at the ceiling, puffing the cigar butt that was barely clearing his lips by now.

  "Take 'em downtown, Frank." Quirk said to Belson.

  "I'll clean up here and be along."