But during the forty minutes since Pierce had left for Seaview, Cohen had failed in every attempt to bring Smalls’ sunken guilt to the surface. He’d gone over all the people who’d seen Smalls in the park, hammered him with details, darted from this witness to that incident. He’d told him about talking to the Krafts, the people who’d hosted the birthday party Cathy had attended, then everyone at the party, all the parents who’d later arrived to collect their children, and that none of them, not one, could possibly have had anything to do with Cathy’s death. He went through all the other stages of the investigation—the interviews with school friends, teachers, the search that had been made for any suggestion that someone might have been stalking Cathy before her murder or had any reason to do her harm, the fruitless search for the man Smalls claimed to have “scared” Cathy Lake, a search that had yielded so little, the man himself had been dubbed “invisible.” All of that professional, by-the-book labor, wearing out the shoe leather, covering all the bases … and nothing.
During all this time, Cohen had gone over the course of the investigation with Smalls in precisely the way Pierce had wanted it, fast and furious, throwing out the time line, coming in at a slant, dodging, weaving, slashing, but at the end of it Smalls had remained unshaken, repeating again and again that he had done no harm to Cathy Lake.
For all his frail appearance, Cohen thought, Albert Jay Smalls was smart, clever, and so far he’d slithered out of every trap they’d tried to catch him in.
Even so, he might yet stumble, and for Cohen, this constituted the final hope of the interrogation, the possibility that Smalls might slip. He would never willingly swallow the bait, but he might yet be hooked.
And so Cohen decided to abandon his earlier method of interrogation in favor of one that allowed for the unexpected emergence of seemingly inconsequential facts. This was a noose that could be drawn in slowly, almost invisibly, until it was tight enough to squeeze the truth out of Albert Smalls.
But where to begin? Cohen wondered. He decided to press the simple fact that Smalls had not been randomly plucked from the park and brought to police headquarters.
“You know, Jay, we talked to a lot of people about Cathy,” Cohen began. “About her murder, I mean. We didn’t just pick you up and bring you in for no reason. And even after we brought you in that night, we didn’t stop looking for other people. We did a full sweep, Jay, a full sweep of the park early the next morning after those first cops found you in the pipe. I was there for the sweep, so I know we looked for other people. Chief Burke made sure of that.”
4:37 A.M., September 2, City Park, Central Field
Burke stood silently before the ranks, erect and full of authority, the pose required of him at such a moment. He well understood that his men did not look forward to carrying out the order he was about to give. There was a world no one wanted to see. It existed in the nether regions of the park, a realm populated by people broken beyond repair. This world was lit by fires made from slats and burning tires, and around those pathetic hearths, as Burke had too often seen during his years on the force, the lost ones huddled in their intractable misery, all ambition or desire reduced to the cindered hope of being left alone.
“When you go into the park,” Burke told his men, “remember that although some of these people may be criminals, the vast majority have done nothing but”—he did not utter the phrase that pierced his mind—but fall beneath the blade. Instead, he said, “Most of them have done nothing of a criminal nature.” He let his eyes drift over the uniformed officers who stood in ranks before him, then to the few plainclothes detectives who were to accompany them through the park. He noticed Detectives Pierce and Cohen just off to the side. Pierce in his dark suit, shouldering his daughter’s death, and so perhaps the perfect choice, Burke decided at that instant, to track down the man who’d ripped Catherine Lake from her mother’s care.
“It is unlawful for anyone to be inside the park after midnight,” Burke continued. “But this is not a roust. We are not here to make arrests. We are not looking for vagrants tonight. We are looking for a murderer, someone who killed a child here in the park at approximately seven o’clock last night. We are also looking for something he might have taken from this child. A small necklace.”
He stopped, waited for questions, continued when there were none.
“The locket on the necklace is silver, in the shape of a heart. It was on a short silver chain. You are to search for this locket as thoroughly as you deem necessary. Any questions? All right. Proceed.”
And so they moved, the blue lines fanning out along the far perimeters of the park, then closing in, step by step, upon the unsuspecting men and women who lived, for the most part unseen, within it, sweeping down deserted lanes and under the stone bridges that arched over them, the soft beat of their footfalls drumming through the melancholy dark. Quietly, methodically, the officers pried the park’s bedraggled inhabitants from beneath shrubs and out of boxes. They called them from their muttering sleep and urged them out of drainage pipes and from the woody culverts where they lay balled like infants, clinging to the roots of trees.
Once brought to their feet, the vagrants were gathered into groups of five and escorted to the center of the park, a strange, straggling herd that staggered meekly beneath the dripping trees to the designated place of concentration.
Here the men were assembled in ragged, shifting lines, then searched one by one. The officers said little to the men they searched; they rarely looked them in the eye. The method had long been established, and the officers followed it meticulously, explaining briefly that someone had been murdered, something stolen in the process, something they were looking for now in pockets and waistbands and the frayed cuffs of filthy trousers, spilling what they found onto the wet grass so that after a time curious pools began to grow at the feet of the derelicts and drunks and madmen who now stood, dazed and murmuring, a mounting detritus made up of half-gnawed crusts of bread, the milky remains of ice cream cups, wine bottles, cigarette butts.
Watching all this, Burke recalled how, at a similar sweep five years before, he’d seen Scottie stagger out of the ragged column, so thin and wizened, he’d looked more dead than alive. For a moment, Burke and his son had stared mutely at each other. Scottie had made no attempt to distinguish himself from the rest, nor had Burke intervened. They had simply faced each other during the search Burke’s men were conducting, and when it was over, both had turned and walked away.
But this time Scottie was not among the vagrants, and once Burke was sure of that, he felt a curious relief wash over him, followed by a dread no less terrible. If not here, he wondered, where?
Within an hour it was over. The park’s inhabitants retrieved what they wanted from the debris at their feet, then scrabbled back into the secret recesses of the park.
Burke waited until the last of them had disappeared into the misty wood and the officers once more stood before him. “Thank you,” he told them. “You may go.”
The policemen broke ranks immediately, and as they did so, Burke motioned for Pierce and Cohen. “I’d like the two of you to be in charge of this case,” he said when the two detectives joined him.
Then he turned and walked away.
9:44 P.M., September 12, Interrogation Room 3
“That’s when Detective Pierce and I were assigned to the case, Jay,” Cohen said. “That night in the park. We’ve been trying to figure out what happened to Cathy ever since.”
He remembered how he’d watched the helpless vagrants stagger into the ball field, and imagined his own people marched through narrow European streets and herded together in rain-soaked village squares, the trains already waiting in the distance. Had they been as faceless to their guards, he wondered, as the derelicts in the park’s gaseous mist had been to him? Never again, he decided abruptly, never again this particular duty.
“Anyway,” he continued. “For all that work we didn’t find anything that morning. We took a few men in an
d questioned them, but we couldn’t find any reason to believe they were connected to Cathy’s murder.” He waited for Smalls to respond, and when he didn’t, cleared his throat. “And so we had to take a closer look at you, Jay. Do you know why? Because of all the people in the park, you were the only one who lived near the duck pond. You’d had contact with Cathy. Recognized her. And there was more. Those toys you had. Plus, you were spotted just a few yards from where her body was found.” Again he waited for a response; again, Smalls offered nothing. “But even more important, we know that you were also near Cathy before she was murdered. Not just after she was killed, when the woman saw you. But before she was murdered. You know how we know that, don’t you, Jay? You remember what we found?”
9:30 A.M., September 2, Clairmont Towers, 490 Clairmont Street
Pierce rapped resolutely at the door.
It opened seconds later. A short, stocky man stood in the doorway, absently picking his teeth with a wooden matchstick.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Homicide.” Pierce pulled out his badge. “You’re Herman Getz, the building superintendent?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess you know the Krafts?”
“Sure. They’ve lived here for ten years. Maybe more.”
Pierce pocketed his shield. “They had a birthday party for their daughter yesterday afternoon. One of the little girls who attended the party was murdered in the park yesterday evening.”
“Jesus.” The man’s lips fluttered around the matchstick. “I heard a kid got killed. So that was the kid, I guess. The one her mother came looking for. The kid was supposed to wait for her in the lobby, she said.”
“But she didn’t wait for her,” Pierce said. “Evidently she went to the park. We don’t know why.”
Getz shrugged. “Me neither.”
Cohen surveyed the soiled wool shirt, rumpled trousers, and bare, unpolished shoes. Had Getz gotten up that morning with the idea of making himself as undesirable as possible, he could not have assembled a more fitting wardrobe.
“When did you see the little girl in the lobby?” Pierce asked.
“About a quarter to seven. She was standing close to the door. Long hair, right?”
“Yes,” Pierce said.
“I just went through the lobby. On my way out. Because there was this guy in the alley next to the building. There’s an overhang back there. Bums use it sometimes. A roof over their heads, you know? Anyway, I chased the bastard off.”
“What did he look like?” Cohen asked.
“Ragged,” Getz answered. “Beard. A bum, like I said. I went over and gave him a nudge with my shoe, told him to be on his way. He got up and done what I told him. Didn’t give me no trouble. Just got to his feet, walked away.”
“Where did he go after he left the alley?”
“Back to the park. That’s where he lives, I bet. Anyway, he crossed the street and stood over there by the gate. Sort of leaning against it.”
“He didn’t go into the park?”
“Don’t know. I went back inside.”
“Was the little girl still in the lobby?”
“Yeah, she was.” Getz nodded. “Standing right at the door, just like before.”
“Was anyone else in the lobby?”
“No.”
“And that was the last time you saw the girl?”
“Yeah, it was. I went through the lobby again about ten minutes later. It was raining like hell by then. Anyway, on the way out I didn’t see the kid, so I figured her mother picked her up.”
“Did you see anybody else in the lobby?”
“Just Mr. Stitt. He was—” He stopped.
“What?” Pierce asked.
“He was … straightening stuff up. Chairs and stuff. It looked like things had been tossed around a little.” Getz glanced about furtively. “Look, we got all kinds in this building, you know. I wouldn’t want to get nobody in trouble.”
“What kind is Mr. Stitt?” Pierce pressed.
“He’s … well … he’s … He plays the horses, that sort of thing.”
“A bookie?”
“Yeah, okay, but, look, I can’t … I mean, I can’t go telling stuff on people in the building. I’d lose my job, I started doing that.”
Cohen presented a reassuring smile. “We’re homicide detectives, Mr. Getz. We’re looking for a guy who killed a little girl, nothing else. And if this Mr. Stitt was in the lobby when you say he was, he might have seen something.”
“Okay, but don’t say it came from me,” Getz said, lowering his voice. “That Mr. Stitt was in the lobby, I mean. What he does. None of that came from me, okay?” He glanced about. “Apartment 14-F. That’s where Stitt lives. Burt Stitt.”
“Thanks,” Cohen told him.
Seconds later Pierce and Cohen stood at the door of Apartment 14-F.
Pierce knocked once, then called, “Police! Open up.”
The door swung open instantly. A tall, gaunt man stood before them, black hair swept back and greased down, a narrow mustache across his lip. His cheeks were sunken, like his eyes, and there was a slick snaillike quality to his skin, the sense that wherever he went, a slithery trail followed behind.
“Burt Stitt?” Cohen asked.
“Yeah.”
Pierce and Cohen presented their shields.
“Homicide,” Pierce told Stitt. “We’re looking into the murder of a girl in the park yesterday.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“May we come in?” Cohen asked.
Stitt shrugged. “Sure, okay,” he said indifferently. “But I don’t know nothing about a little girl.”
Pierce gave the room a quick perusal, taking in the things that told him most about Burt Stitt, the racing form on the sofa, the cheap detective novel on the floor, a torn ticket stub from a nearby strip joint. But more than these, Pierce noticed the things that weren’t in Stitt’s apartment. There were no family photos, no dining table, no chair that didn’t face the radio. The absence of such things told Pierce that Stitt ate alone, with the plate in his lap, had no memories that meant anything to him, no wife or children he hadn’t lost touch with long ago.
“We understand that you were down in the lobby yesterday evening,” Cohen said. “Around seven.”
Stitt nodded. “That sounds about right.”
“Did you happen to see a girl in the lobby at around that time?”
“Eight years old,” Pierce added. “Long, dark hair.”
Stitt considered this. “Yeah, I remember a kid in the lobby.”
“What else do you remember?” Pierce asked.
“I don’t remember nothing else. Just some kid. That’s all. Like you said, a little girl. Hair down to her waist. Dark.”
“Did you notice anyone else in the lobby?”
“No.”
Pierce leveled his gaze on Stitt. “Do you remember straightening up the place?”
Stitt smiled. “Yeah, sure. I was straightening up a couple of chairs. But that didn’t have nothing to do with that kid I seen. I mean, she was just standing in the lobby when I came in. Looked like she was waiting around for somebody. Anyway, she didn’t have nothing to do with them chairs being all thrown around.”
“What did happen in the lobby, Mr. Stitt?” Cohen asked.
“A tussle, that’s all,” Stitt answered. “I had a tussle with this freak who followed me into the building. Bum. Most of them, they leave you alone. They ask for a handout, and if you say no, they take no for an answer. But not this guy. He went nuts. Tossed a chair right at my face. Screaming his head off.”
“Where was the little girl during all this?” Cohen asked.
Stitt thought a moment. “She was there when it started, but then, I guess she left. Maybe she got scared.”
“Okay, the guy you had the fight with? What did he look like?”
“A bum, like I said.”
“You can do better than that.”
“Not
by much. I was too busy getting rid of the bastard to pay much attention to him. He was white. I can tell you that much. Twenty-five, thirty, somewhere in there. Shorter than me by maybe four, five inches. Skinny as hell.”
“Do you remember what he was wearing?”
“What they all wear, baggy pants, some old ragged jacket smelled like piss. Bum clothes.”
“Where did he go?”
“He just left the building. Turned right, I think. Yeah. To the right.”
“What did you do after the argument?” Cohen asked.
“Nothing. I mean, straightened the place up, like you said. Then I went upstairs.”
“Did you ever see this guy again?”
“No,” Stitt answered promptly. “Never seen him before neither. Just a bum, like I said. A panhandler.”
“There was a bum hanging around in the alley at about this time. The super chased him off. Could this have been the same guy?”
Stitt shook his head. “Nah. I know the guy you mean. I’ve seen him in the alley a few times. The bum who came at me was bigger than him.”
“Okay, well, if you do see the guy who attacked you again, let us know,” Cohen said.
“Yeah, sure,” Stitt said.
Pierce gave the room a final glance, found the look of it uncomfortably like his own place, then followed Cohen out the door.
On the street, they stood, facing the park, the iron gate that led into its emerald depths.
“Cathy got scared,” Pierce said. “Two guys yelling, one of them throwing things. Any kid would try to get away from something like that.” He continued to stare at the gate. “But why did she go into the park, Norm? She could have just stood by the gate, watched for her mother. Why did she go into the park?”
“Maybe he went after her,” Cohen answered, knowing it was sheer supposition. “The guy who threw the chair at Stitt. Maybe he came across the street and she saw him and she ran away from him into the park.”
The Interrogation Page 8