by R.J. Ellory
Miller was aware of how obviously his eyes widened.
Robey started laughing. ‘I checked you out as well,’ he said. ‘This little situation you had with the pimp and the hooker. Brandon Thomas, right? And Jennifer Irving? That whole fiasco was another beautiful example of something becoming what someone else wanted it to be.’
Miller was still taken aback. ‘I don’t understand—’
‘What? You don’t understand what exactly? How that situation was made to appear as if it was something else? A simple matter of questioning a potential witness becomes a question of coercion, of vested interest, of whether or not a police detective is corrupt. Were you involved with her? Did the detective fuck the hooker? Was the argument with her pimp because the pimp saw that the hooker had fallen in love with the cop and might leave him behind? Was it jealousy? Was the pimp fucking the hooker, or was he beating on her when the detective came calling? Did they fight, and was it a fair fight, and did the detective defend himself? Or did he pull his gun and walk that pimp out to the stairwell, and then push him down the stairs? What really happened that day?’
Miller opened his mouth to speak but Robey interjected.
‘I’m not asking you, detective,’ he said. ‘It really isn’t any of my business whether you killed the pimp or not. To tell you the truth, if you did it would be of no concern to me whatsoever. The issue here is not whether you killed the pimp intentionally. The question is how the newspapers made it a question of race. The hooker was black, the pimp was a mulatto with dreadlocks. He had a rap sheet. He had been arrested four times in the previous year for aggravated assault. He probably deserved to die. Faced with a man like that in their back yard . . . Jesus, any one of those liberal assholes who bleated endlessly about how you should have been hauled before the grand jury would have prayed for someone like you to blow the guy into the neighbor’s swimming pool . . .’ Robey paused. He was almost breathless.
Miller was watching him intently, the way he emphatically stated everything as if it was so important. The man was driven, somehow compelling.
‘This is the world within which we live, Detective Miller, and this is the world we have created for ourselves, and though you might have a hundred thousand questions for me the truth of the matter is that you should not be looking so narrowly at what has taken place.’
‘You say these things, Professor Robey,’ Miller said. ‘You say these things as if you have some idea of what’s happening here . . . like you know things that I don’t. And I’m listening to what you’re saying, and even as the words are coming out of your mouth I’m wondering what the hell it is that you know.’
‘I know almost nothing, Detective Miller, only what I have read in the newspapers.’
Miller felt angry, infuriated. He wanted to grab Robey by the throat and shake him. He wanted to hold him still and press a gun to his forehead and ask him how, if he knew nothing, if he only knew what he’d read in the papers . . . then how the fuck did Catherine Sheridan’s hair wind up in a brush in his bathroom?
But he did not ask this. Robert Miller did not take out his gun, nor did he raise his voice, nor did he grab Professor John Robey by the throat and push him against the wall. Robert Miller leaned back in the chair.
‘I believe you are being too patient, detective.’
‘Too patient . . . what the hell are you talking about, too patient?’
‘All these things I’ve talked about . . . about Nicaragua, about the cocaine wars that went on back then—’
Miller raised his hand. ‘This is somewhere we are not going.’
‘Not going? What d’you mean, not going? It is already somewhere we have been, detective. This is the sacred monster you are looking for . . . this is the thing you are finding it so hard to face. You are looking for a man, and what you need to be looking for is a monster that men have created.’
‘If you have something to tell me then tell me, professor—’
‘I believe that there is something you have to tell me, detective.’
Miller thought to respond, and then he stopped dead in his tracks. Robey looked at him with such knowing certainty that Miller felt tension crawl along his spine and grip the back of his neck. He thought of the illegal removal of evidence, of soliciting the help of Marilyn Hemmings, of implicating and involving a colleague in a felony, of how the papers would view it, of the photograph in the Globe, and how they would run that picture over and over again . . . Assistant Coroner Marilyn Hemmings and Detective Robert Miller, now appearing before an Internal Affairs enquiry, making statements before the Grand Jury regarding whether they had conspired to implicate respected author and Mount Vernon College Professor of Literature, John Robey . . . hell, if they could steal something from such a man’s house, then wasn’t it possible that they planted the hair of the dead woman? The dead woman was right there in the coroner’s freezer. It could not have been easier. Take some of her hair, wind it between the bristles, and suddenly they have incriminating evidence. How convenient. How perfect. People capable of doing such things were evidently more than capable of falsifying autopsy documentation. Did the mulatto pimp fall or was he pushed? The exonerated detective now looks like an altogether different type of man, and his accomplice, the beautiful and dangerous assistant coroner . . . ?
Miller closed his eyes for a moment. He felt something, but for a moment it was difficult to identify it as fear. For so long he had pretended that these events had not touched him, could not touch him, but every time he closed his eyes he saw the image of Jennifer Irving, and then beside it, almost as if those images were related, was the image of Natasha Joyce, the way she’d been found lying there on her bed, the sheer brutality inflicted upon her . . .
‘Lavender,’ Robey said matter-of-factly.
Miller started. ‘What?’
‘Does he leave the smell of lavender at the scene of the crime?’
Miller couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There was no way Robey could have known about the lavender. It had not been reported in the newspapers, it had not been part of any official statement. Miller’s mind went back to the conversation with Hemmings and Roth, the hypotheses presented, that the man who had done these things would’ve had to have access to police files, the autopsy reports . . . Either that, or he was the one who left the lavender in the first place.
‘How—’
‘How did I guess?’ Robey asked.
‘You did not guess, Professor Robey. There is no way in the world—’
‘But there is a way in the world, detective . . . there is most definitely a way in the world that I could have known. I keep telling you things. I keep pointing you in the right direction. I keep dropping hints and leaving signs, and waving flags to get you to look at what is right there before your eyes, and for some reason you are finding it so hard to see it. That’s all I’m asking, detective. That you simply look. Just open your eyes wide and look at what’s right in front of you. Ask the questions that you really want to ask. Go talk to people who were involved in these things. Find out what they can tell you . . . more importantly, find out what they are not willing to tell you, and then you will begin to see the big picture.’ Robey spoke patiently, like a teacher, accustomed to explaining things over and over and over again. ‘Most importantly perhaps, ’ he added, ‘you will begin to see what I have seen.’
‘I don’t know that there is anything that makes sense—’
‘Lavender,’ Robey said. ‘He leaves the scent of lavender at the scene of these killings, yes?’
‘I cannot tell you that,’ Miller said.
‘Which means that he does, because if he didn’t you would simply deny it.’
‘The simple fact that you are so sure of this gives me sufficient justification to make your interrogation official.’
Robey laughed. ‘It does not do anything of the sort. What are you going to do? Arrest me? Take me to the Second Precinct and have me questioned?’
‘Yes . . . based on
the fact that you have demonstrated specific knowledge of a crime scene that was not in any way made public.’
‘Who said I did?’
‘I did.’
‘So it would be your word against mine . . . Me, the reputable and respected Mount Vernon College professor, and you, the cop who was dragged through the newspapers because everyone thought he might have killed a pimp in a fit of jealous rage? You want to play that game, detective . . . is that really the way you want to play this?’
Miller didn’t reply.
Robey shook his head. ‘I didn’t think so . . . and all you have managed to do is confirm that he does in fact leave the scent of lavender at the scene of the crime.’ Robey paused. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he spoke he said, ‘And he leaves a ribbon tied around their neck, yes?’
‘That much was in the newspaper,’ Miller replied.
‘And there is a tag . . . a blank tag, rather like the tag you find suspended from the toe of a dead person when they are stored in the morgue.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Miller had lost ground he could never take back. Had he not been guilty of stealing potential evidence from this man’s apartment he might have been in a more defensible position. But he had taken it, and he had implicated someone else, and if it came down to it would she lie for him? Would the world believe her a second time?
‘So why the lavender, and why the name tag, detective? Why does he leave these things behind for you to find?’
‘He doesn’t leave them for me . . .’
‘You don’t think so?’
Miller smiled, something almost nervous in his expression. ‘No, he doesn’t do these things for me . . . of course he doesn’t.’
‘He did Natasha for you,’ Robey said.
‘For me? Are you crazy? What the hell are you talking about? He did not kill Natasha Joyce for me . . .’
Robey was nodding his head. ‘I’m afraid he did. I’m afraid to tell you that if you and your partner hadn’t gone over to her apartment, she would still be alive today and her daughter would not be with Child Services—’
‘How in fuck’s name do you know—’
Robey waved aside Miller’s question. ‘Like I said, I did some research. I did a little digging of my own. I read up on these things so I could understand the kind of man you believe me to be—’
‘This is just so much horseshit, Robey—’
‘Horseshit? Is that what it is? Jesus, detective, what is it that you are so afraid of? Do you have any idea in the world how wide and deep this thing is? Do you have the faintest clue what you’re dealing with here? This isn’t about the death of some women . . . this is about the murder of a generation—’
‘Enough,’ Miller interjected. ‘Say what you mean to say or say nothing at all.’
‘Or what?’ Robey asked. ‘You will arrest me? What will you arrest me for? Answer me that question if nothing else, detective . . . what on earth could you possibly arrest me for?’
Miller looked back at Robey. The man was not arrogant, merely self-assured. He possessed no air of self-importance, merely the confidence of certainty. His eyes were still and quiet, his gaze unwavering, and when he smiled it was not a smile of conceit or superiority, but an expression of conviction.
‘I say what I mean to say,’ Robey replied. ‘Always.’
‘Then I simply don’t understand you,’ Miller said.
‘Understanding is not a quality that can be bought or sold, Detective Miller. Understanding is something that results from observation and personal experience.’ Robey rested his elbows on his knees and pressed his hands together palm to palm. ‘I have seen things that would make a dog retch. I have seen children running from burning homes with their hair on fire. I have seen a man shoot his own wife to protect her from what he knew would happen to her. I have seen men buried alive, decapitated, hung and butchered . . . I have seen three or four hundred innocent people massacred in a handful of minutes . . . and all of it has been carried out in the name of democracy, unity, solidarity, in the name of the great and wonderful United States of America . . . or perhaps I am crazy. Perhaps these things exist merely in my imagination. Perhaps I am the craziest person you will ever meet.’
‘And are you going to tell me how any of this relates to what has happened to these women, Professor Robey?’ Miller asked. ‘Are you going to give me any idea of how this connects to those five dead women?’
‘No, detective, I am not. I am not going to tell you anything. I am going to show you something, and then you can work it out . . . you can go look for yourself. You can make the decision about whether you want to pursue this nightmare or not.’
‘Show me something? Show me what?’
‘Show you the sacred monster, detective . . . I am going to show you the sacred monster.’
FORTY-FOUR
‘None of them owned anything as far as I can tell,’ Chris Metz said. He tossed a manila folder across the desk towards Roth.
‘Went back as far as we could. All three of them - Margaret Mosley, Barbara Lee, Ann Rayner - all leased their respective houses or apartments. Rent paid on time month in, month out. As I said before, the first two, Mosley’s apartment on Bates and the Rayner woman’s house on Patterson, have been leased to new tenants. Barbara Lee’s place on Morgan has been completely redecorated. And,’ Metz continued, ‘there was no testament or will in any case and no-one came forward to make claim against any estate. All possessions and records were turned over to the County Probate Court—’
‘So we have this stuff?’ Roth asked.
‘Application in writing, minimum turnaround is a month regardless of who’s asking for it.’
‘So we get a warrant . . . we get a warrant from whoever and go and get this shit out of Probate Court.’
Metz shook his head. ‘Not as easy as it sounds . . .’
‘You can’t seriously tell me that Probate Court—’
‘We spoke to Probate Court,’ Metz interjected. ‘We spoke to the county registrar, and he said that even if we had a warrant signed by the United States Supreme Court it would still be at least a week before they got through the paperwork. They have hundreds of cases a month, sometimes as many as a thousand. This stuff goes into a vast network of storage facilities, and it can take days to even track where it went.’
‘Okay, whatever . . .’ Roth said. ‘Jesus, I don’t believe this shit. So we’re gonna leave that the fuck alone and go after McCullough, okay? That’s what we do . . . you and me, we go after McCullough. Track this guy down once and for all.’
Metz raised his eyebrows. ‘McCullough?’
‘Retired sergeant from the Seventh.’
‘And what’s Miller doing?’
‘He’s doing a thing.’
Metz frowned, started to smile. ‘Doing a thing . . . what the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
‘Means he’s doing something.’
‘Like the coroner woman, right?’
‘Whatever,’ Roth said dismissively. ‘Miller is doing something, and it’s not the coroner woman. Jesus Christ, you are an animal.’
‘Answer me something,’ Metz said. ‘That thing with the pimp . . . you figure Miller did that? You figure he actually killed the guy for real?’
‘He defended himself against an asshole,’ Roth said. ‘You know how this shit gets turned around by the papers. Last thing he needs is people inside his own precinct—’
‘Oh come on, man,’ Metz retorted. ‘You really think I give a fuck about the moral issues here. Jesus, half the people we deal with deserve to get pushed down the freakin’ stairs. I’m not making some kind of accusation here, Al . . . I’m just—’
‘Talking about something I don’t know anything about. That’s what you’re doing.’
‘Hey, you’re the guy’s partner . . .’
‘Which means what?’ Roth replied. ‘That I have some kind of inside line on what Miller does when he’s on his own?’
‘Partne
rs talk, right? That’s what partners do. They sit in cars for hours and they talk shit to each other. And what you said there. The fact that he was on his own when he went out to see that chick—’
‘Enough already,’ Roth said emphatically. ‘Miller is a good fucking detective. He happens to be my friend. I don’t give a fuck what you might or might not think about him. He did what any of us would have done in the same situation, and that’s the end of it.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Metz replied. ‘Hell, man, I didn’t mean for you to get so wound up.’
‘Then why the fuck d’you keep winding, eh?’
‘I’ve backed down, alright? End of discussion. We go do this thing with the McCullough guy, okay?’
‘Yes, we go find McCullough.’
‘So what have you got?’
‘We have a copy of his ID card.’
‘Old or new issue?’
‘Old.’
‘So no picture then. You haven’t been able to pull a picture from archives?’
‘Haven’t had a chance to take a piss. We need to follow it up.’
‘What else?’
‘Social security card, the number of which tracks back to a Michael McCullough who died in 1981. We have a fabricated phone bill, an account with the Washington American Trust that McCullough opened with fifty dollars, an account that never received the pension he was supposed to get.’
‘And he was in the department how long?’
‘Sixteen years . . . apparently.’
Metz shook his head. ‘Don’t make sense.’
Roth smiled. ‘If I had a dollar for every time someone has said that while I’ve been on this case . . .’
‘So what d’you wanna do with this one? All the usual lines exhausted . . .’
‘Guy named Bill Young was captain at the Seventh when McCullough came on temporary transfer. He remembers him. He had one fuck of a stroke, but he hasn’t lost his memory. Young actually saw the guy, so we know he exists.’