The Interrogation

by Thomas H. Cook

  “You’d be surprised.” Dunlap stopped and drew back a curtain. “Here we are.”

  “Now can you put on a fucking light, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Dunlap said. He hit a switch and a single bulb flashed on. “Have a seat.”

  Blunt stared around at the mountains of clutter, boxes overflowing with moldy books, chipped ashtrays, mismatched cups and saucers. “Where?”

  “Just a second, I’ll clear a space.” Dunlap began removing boxes from a battered yellow sofa.

  “This better be worth the effort, Harry, ’cause if it ain’t …”

  “It is, believe me.” He tossed the last bit of debris into the nearest corner. “There. Have a seat.”

  Blunt surveyed the back room once again, his eyes roving from the mattress on the floor to the filthy sink to the plastic shower curtain through which he could see a rusty toilet. “You got a real dump here.”

  Dunlap shrugged. “You want a drink?”

  “I want to get the fuck out of here is what I want.” He dropped onto the sofa with a grunt. “You got five minutes.”

  Dunlap looked as if he’d been hit by an electric current. “Okay, okay, but you got to swear—”

  “Fuck that,” Blunt said. He started to get to his feet.

  “No, wait,” Dunlap said hastily. “It’s just that this is, you know … it’s dangerous, Ralph. It’s a dangerous situation I’m in.” He looked at Blunt sorrowfully. “Maybe I’m already fucked is what I’m saying.”

  “Fucked how?”

  Dunlap hesitated, then said, “I went to see Burke.”

  Blunt stared at him.

  “Chief Burke,” Dunlap said.

  “You what?”

  “At the hospital,” Dunlap said. “Where his kid is. The kid was a bum, Ralph. A fucking dope fiend. Slept on the steps out there till I give him a room.”

  “You gave Chief Burke’s kid a room?”

  “Well, not exactly give,” Dunlap admitted. “But I didn’t charge him that much. That’s what I wanted to tell you before. But not in the bar, you know?”

  A look of utter bafflement seeped into Blunt’s eyes. “What the fuck are you getting at, Harry?”

  “What I’m telling you is that I figured, okay, I knew the kid, so I can go and sort of, you know, pay my sympathies.”

  “Why the fuck would you do that?”

  “’Cause I figured it was a way I could maybe find out a little something. I mean, I was desperate, Ralph. I had to find out if the cops were getting anywhere with that freak, you know, about the dead kid. So the thing is, I went over to Saint Vincent’s. I figured I’d tell the Chief that I was maybe friends with his kid, you know, and then maybe we’d get to talking, and I’d maybe find out a little bit about that wacko they got locked up. But the Chief, he hated my guts right off. I could see it in his eyes. The bastard. He don’t even know me, and here I pay a sympathy call on that dope fiend son of his, and he don’t even give a shit about that, and hates my guts right off, so he don’t tell me nothing about what they got or ain’t got on that fucking freak they picked up in the park. So, anyway, that’s where I am with the Chief.” He sighed. “Fucked.”

  A small light illuminated the wooly depths of Blunt’s mind. “What I’m hearing is that you pulled all this dumb shit just to find out about that guy we picked up in the park.”

  “That’s right.”

  “The one that killed the kid.”

  “Him, yeah.”

  “Which I still can’t figure out why you give a shit anyway.”

  “’Cause I got an interest, like I told you.”

  Blunt looked at Dunlap with cold menace. “You do something to that little girl, Harry?”

  “Fuck no,” Dunlap squealed.

  “’Cause if you fucking put one finger on that kid, I’ll—”

  Dunlap thrust his hands up. “Jesus, you think I’d do something like that? Jesus. Fuck, no, Ralph. Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with you? It’s just that, like I said, I lied to them cops that come over … and—” He stopped and struggled to calm himself. “And, well, I got this problem, you know?” He waited for Blunt to speak, but the detective only stared at him dumbly. “This problem with the cops.” He walked to a splintered rolltop desk and fished around in one of its murky drawers. “He come into my store, the fucking wacko. He come in a few days before that kid got killed. I took some stuff off his hands. A box full of junk. I went through it all, and I found this.” He opened his hand to reveal a tarnished metal key. “It’s for a storage shed.”

  Blunt bent forward and looked closely at the key but did not touch it.

  “It says right on the side there. Number twenty-seven,” Dunlap said. “A storage shed at AJS Storage. Way back when, I used to use them sheds myself.”

  “When you was fencing?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. If something was really hot, I’d put it in one of them sheds and let it cool off before moving it. Hot, Ralph. That’s the problem. I got some real hot stuff in that fucking shed.”

  “What shed?”

  Dunlap shook the key. “That shed, for Christ’s sake! What shed you think?”

  Blunt glared at Dunlap. “You better watch your fucking mouth.”

  Dunlap ducked his head. “Yeah, sorry, Ralph. It’s just that I’m under a lot of pressure here. I mean, this stuff I got in that shed, it’s fucking hot is what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s money, that’s what it is.”

  “Money?”

  “You know, fake stuff.”

  “Counterfeit money?” Blunt said. “You never done nothing like that.”

  “I didn’t fucking make the stuff. I just took it off a guy’s hands. He asked me could I find a place to stash the stuff, and I said yeah, sure.”

  “How much money we talking about?”

  “Guy said it was fifty grand.”

  A light flickered again in Blunt’s eyes. “Holy shit.”

  “Guy give me a grand just to stash the fucking stuff. I figured that was a good deal. But now I got to get it back. Today, Ralph. I got to get it back to him today.”

  Blunt stared at Dunlap dimly. “So, what’s any of this got to do with me?”

  “Okay, here it is,” Dunlap said. “When I found this key, I didn’t say nothing to the creep. I figure, maybe one day I’ll go out, see for myself what the wacko’s got stashed out there. Then he gets picked up, and I know goddamn well he bumped off that kid, right? So the bastard’s going down for a long time, you know, so that fucking shed, he ain’t gonna have no use for it. So I figure, it’s perfect, right? A shed in somebody else’s name. So, I went over to check it out. And it was empty, Ralph. Plenty of room, you know, for my stuff.” He shrugged. “So that’s where I put the money. Fifty grand, can you believe it? I figured it’s safe ’cause the word is, that pervert ain’t never gonna see the light of day again, you know? So, okay, he’s fucked. Better for me, right? Then the fucking cops come by. So, I get real nervous, you know, ’cause they’re snooping around, nosing into this and that, and I figured they was sure to come back, and I had this stuff, you know, that I already took over to this shed I’m telling you about. So, okay, all right, I figure I’ll just go back and get the money and drop the fucking key in the river and that’ll be the end of it. But, you know how it is, Ralph, one idea leads to another, and so before long I’m totally rattled. I mean, you got murder in the deal here, and you got the money, which is a federal fucking rap. And me a three-time loser if they nail me. And I already got these fucking cops on my ass. So, the thing is, I freeze up, Ralph. I freeze up and so the money stays put and the cops, I figure, are getting closer and closer, you know?” His voice turned confiding. “I ain’t had a wink of sleep, Ralph. Not a wink since they picked that bastard up. I keep thinking, these fucking cops must be grilling the shit out of him, and I keep thinking it’s gonna come up, he’s gonna spill something about how he’s got this shed and all, and the
n the cops go over to the fucking shed and they ask around and they find out that some guy come over a few days ago. A short guy, you know? A guy that stashed some goods in this shed, see. A guy, Ralph. Meaning me and all.”

  Blunt blinked dully.

  “So what I’m saying, Ralph, is how do I get that fucking money this guy wants, you know, today? ’Cause the guy’s coming for it like I said, and this guy, he ain’t to be fucked with. So what do I do, huh, to get this money?”

  “You just grab your balls and go get it,” Blunt answered.

  “Oh, yeah, and suppose while I’m there the cops pull up?” Dunlap howled. “You got a picture of what happens to me then, Ralph?” He jabbed the air with two fingers. “Three times, Ralph. A three-time loser, that’s me. They’ll throw the fucking key away, you know? Plus, I got the problem I lied to the bastards, told them I didn’t even know the son-of-a-bitch they’re grilling. They don’t like that, Ralph. Not in a murder case. And it a little kid too. You know how they get when it’s a kid. They’ll fuck me up, you know they will.”

  Blunt scratched the side of his face thoughtfully. “So, okay, what?”

  “Well, the thing is, it ain’t come out yet, right? I mean, you ain’t heard nothing about no shed.”

  Blunt shook his head.

  “So, okay, then, where are they at with Smalls? Are they gonna pin that kid’s murder on him?”

  Blunt shrugged. “There ain’t enough evidence. That’s what I hear. There ain’t enough evidence to keep him locked up.”

  “So, they gonna let him go, then?”

  “There ain’t enough evidence,” Blunt repeated. “So they got to get it out of him. They’re working him over right now. They been doing it six, seven hours now.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Dunlap breathed. “What if he says something about that goddamn shed? Seven fucking hours. Oh, Jesus.” He swabbed his brow with a soiled handkerchief. “I’m cooked. I’m fucking cooked, Ralph.”

  Blunt shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “You got a spring poking through here.”

  “I got worse problems than that,” Dunlap said glumly. “Seven fucking hours.” He considered the situation for a moment, then said, “Listen, Ralph, can you help me out here?”

  “Like how?”

  “Like maybe go get the money,” Dunlap said. “I mean, I’d go get it myself, but, like I said, suppose they see me? What could I say, that I was over at Titus for the clams?”

  “Titus?” Blunt asked.

  “That’s where the shed is. Where you’d have to go. It ain’t that far from here, Ralph.”

  Dimly Blunt figured the time, the distance, what might go wrong. “Well, suppose you’re right, and the cops are there, what do I say to ’em?”

  “That you was sent.”

  “Sent? By who?”

  “By fucking God,” Dunlap shrieked. “Jesus, Ralph, how do I know? Somebody downtown. The Chief. I’m in deep shit here.” He lowered his voice. “You got to help me, Ralph. You don’t, I’m fucked. So, please, we’re family, you know? Can you do this for me, Ralph? Can you go get that shit for me?”

  Blunt stared at Dunlap mutely, his lips parted slightly as if airing out his brain. “What do I get out of it?”

  “Twenty percent of what the guy give me for stashing it.”

  Blunt laughed.

  “Thirty.”

  Blunt waved his meaty hand.

  “Okay, five hundred dollars,” Dunlap said. “An even split. Five hundred apiece. That’s a lot of money for a little trip to Titus.”

  Blunt raked his fingers down his jaw. “When you need this done?”

  “When?” Dunlap yelped. “Fucking now, man.”

  “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause I got to meet somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “What do you care? It’s important.”

  “Important? What could be more important than making five hundred bucks for a little drive in the country?”

  Blunt’s face took on a bullish aggressiveness. “I ain’t even said I’d do it yet.”

  The two men faced each other morosely, then Dunlap said, “So, what’s the story, Ralph? You gonna do this thing?”

  Blunt pulled himself to his feet. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Please, Ralph. Do me this one favor and—”

  “I said I’d think about it,” Blunt repeated.

  And as he made his way down the aisle, kicking unseen clutter from his path, Blunt did just that, the rusty cogs of his brain grinding forward, forcing the thinking part of his mind to come drowsily awake.

  What’s your secret?

  1:51 A.M., Criminal Files Room

  Burke returned the initial interview of Albert Jay Smalls to the file, then drew out the transcripts of the interrogations that had been done since Smalls’ arrest eleven days earlier. As he reread the September fourth transcript, he was not surprised that Pierce and Cohen had begun their questioning with the salient facts they’d gathered during the previous two days of their investigation. By then they’d found two witnesses who’d seen Smalls standing at the gate of the park. A vendor had identified him, along with a man who worked at a nearby newspaper stand. The vendor had also seen Cathy Lake, though only briefly, a little girl in a red dress rushing across the street just as a rainsquall hit the city. Neither of the men had seen Smalls follow Cathy as she darted by, and no one in the park had seen him behind her once she entered it. Both Pierce and Cohen were convinced that Smalls had done exactly that, however, and they were determined to make Smalls admit it.

  PIERCE: Why were you following Cathy Lake?

  SMALLS: I wasn’t following her.

  PIERCE: We know you saw her leave Clairmont Towers.

  SMALLS: I saw her cross the street.

  PIERCE: And you saw her go into the park?

  SMALLS: Yes.

  PIERCE: Did you know where she was going?

  SMALLS: No.

  PIERCE: But you were watching her?

  SMALLS: I saw her cross the street.

  PIERCE: And when she went into the park, you followed her, didn’t you?

  SMALLS: No.

  PIERCE: Well, you went into the park directly after she did, didn’t you? Don’t bother to deny this, Smalls. We have plenty of witnesses who saw you go into the park at the same time she did.

  SMALLS: I went in after she did, but I wasn’t following her.

  PIERCE: Where did you think she was going?

  SMALLS: Home. She lives on the other side of the park.

  PIERCE: How do you know where Cathy Lake lives?

  SMALLS: I’ve seen her in the playground. Her mother picks her up and takes her home. They walk to the other side of the park.

  PIERCE: Seems like you really have kept an eye on Cathy Lake.

  SMALLS: I watch all the children.

  I watch all the children.

  Burke considered the statement. Was it possible that Smalls thought of himself as a guardian of the children in the playground and the park? Someone who watched over them? But if so, why murder one of the very children he had set himself to protect?

  He returned to the transcript.

  PIERCE: I’ll tell you why you were watching Cathy Lake, Smalls. You were watching her because she had something you wanted.

  COHEN: That’s true, isn’t it, Jay? You noticed something Cathy was wearing.

  SMALLS: No.

  PIERCE: A locket, right? Cathy Lake was wearing a pretty locket. Isn’t that what you wanted?

  SMALLS: No.

  PIERCE: You saw it around her neck, and you figured you could take it from her, isn’t that true?

  SMALLS: No.

  PIERCE: You saw this little girl, and you decided to rob her.

  SMALLS: I never stole anything from her.

  PIERCE: You told us before that you get things from the garbage and sell them, right?

  SMALLS: Yes.

  COHEN: How about Cathy’s locket? Did you intend to sell it to
someone?

  SMALLS: No.

  Burke could feel the two detectives’ frustration growing each time Smalls denied having anything to do with the murder. Already, he thought, Pierce and Cohen had begun to sense that in Albert Jay Smalls they had hit a wall they might not ultimately be able to penetrate. And so they’d shifted their approach, Cohen now beginning to take on the Good Cop role, his tone growing friendlier and less accusatory.

  COHEN: You know, Jay, it would go a lot better for you if you told us what happened to Cathy.

  SMALLS: She was killed.

  COHEN: And you understand that you’re here because we think you know something about Cathy’s death, right?

  SMALLS: Yes.

  COHEN: Why do you think we think that, Jay?

  SMALLS: Because you found out.

  COHEN: Found out what?

  SMALLS: About …

  COHEN: About what?

  SMALLS: About … how …

  COHEN: What did we find out about, Jay?

  SMALLS: You … that I was there.

  Burke focused his mind on Cohen’s final three questions. Smalls had answered each haltingly, as if confused or holding back. As if he’d not known how to answer, his final response merely something he’d seized upon in desperation, since the fact that he’d been in the park at the time of Cathy Lake’s murder was something he already knew Cohen had “found out” days before. So why had Smalls faltered? Why had he been caught off-guard? The answer seemed clear. Smalls had momentarily believed that Cohen already knew something that Cohen did not know. Was that what he’d missed, Burke asked himself, that Smalls had something to hide, something he felt accused of and had to conceal, but that his crime was not the murder of Cathy Lake?

  2:17 A.M., Seaview, Boardwalk

  Pierce looked right and left down the deserted boardwalk. “We could be here all night,” he said edgily.

  Yearwood drummed his fingers along the curve of his cane. “Avery keeps strange hours,” he said calmly. “You’ll just have to wait for him to show up.”

  “I don’t have that kind of time.” Pierce glanced again at his watch. Less than four hours. “Where is this guy?”