by Ted Wood
I was thinking as I spoke. Going direct to the OPP would be smart. Drive right down there and let them sort things out. Only it bothered me. So far only Ferris was implicated. They might investigate the shooting and even put pressure on Berger at the Headframe and still not catch Harding. And he was the man I was trying to uncover.
I prodded Nunziatta with my toe. “Did Ferris tell you to kill Randy Wilcox?”
“I never done that. That was like I said at the inquiry.” He was still panicky but the tone of his voice had changed again. It sounded to me as if he had lied about this before. He was on familiar ground. I tried a different tack.
“How come a nice Catholic boy comes out and murders somebody on the say-so of a police sergeant? You always try to kill everybody somebody tells you to?”
“Of course not.” The fear was back.
“So why now?”
“Like I had to. I owe him.” His voice was almost a whisper.
“How much can you owe a cop that you promise to kill a guy?” I laughed harshly. “What's he got on you, Frankie? And don't bother lying to me. It's all going to come out when you go to court.”
“Court?” He looked up at me and lifted his hands from his head. It must have been killing him not to be able to use them as he pleaded.
“Court,” I said. “What did you think? I was going to kiss and make up because you've said you're sorry?”
“Lookit, I know it was bad, what I done to your car, but I never shot you, did I? Like I knew you wasn't in the car. I just done what I was told an’ I was goin’ home. Then when you came back to town I was gonna tell him, ‘Hey, I din't know he wasn't in the car.’ That's what I was gonna do.”
“You think he'd have let you off what you owe him for a story like that?” I prodded him with my toe. “If you think you're in trouble now, wait until he hears what's happened.”
For the effect, and to check that there was still no one else hiding, I walked around him. He tried to follow my movement with his head, swinging it first one way, then around to the other side as I circled. “Hey, please, you won't let him near me, eh?”
“Who else knows about this?”
“Howd'ya mean?”
“Come on,” I snapped. “Was Ferris the only guy you spoke to? Was he alone? What?”
“He called me at home. Said to come and see him outside the Headframe. When I got there he sat in my car, gave me the gun and told me what to do. He was on his own.”
“And what's he got on you? How come he can casually walk up and say, ‘Hey, Frankie, doing anything tonight? Good. I want you to off a guy for me.'”
“Of course not.” In the winter stillness I could hear him swallow nervously. It sounded like somebody clearing the bolt on a rifle.
“You're into something heavy and he can send you down. That's it, isn't it?”
“Not really.” The same whine in the voice.
“What is it? Gambling? Drugs?” I sneered. “Come on, Frankie. You're into something sleazy and Ferris knows. Does Harding know as well?”
“The chief?” Nunziatta seemed surprised. “No. I don’ think so. Like I fix the guys at the mine up with pills, okay? Nothin’ heavy. I wouldn’ touch nothin’ heavy. Just pills an’ grass an’ that. An’ Sgt. Ferris found out an’ him an’ me, we got an arrangement.”
Ferris again. I was beginning to wonder whether Harding fitted in at all. I hadn't seen enough of the way he worked to know whether he just sat back and drew his pay and let Ferris run the town for him. I've known chiefs like that in other small towns. They give the speeches at the Rotary dinners while the police work is conducted for them. Perhaps Ferris was the only bad apple in the barrel. But I had to be sure. The thought gave me an idea.
“Frankie, how would you like to make a deal?” I said.
“Yeah? What can I do?” He was tiring. His arms were slipping down and he was relieved when I told him, “Okay. On your feet.”
“Where're we going?” he asked nervously.
“You're going to get yourself off the hook,” I told him. “Come with me.”
“Can I take my hands down now, please?” His voice had dropped to its normal pitch but he was still worried.
“No,” I said. “Keep them up there till we get back to your car, then lean on it.”
“Okay.” He struggled to his feet. It's hard in winter clothing, with your hands out of commission. I didn't help him, just followed as he walked ahead back to his car and put his hands on the hood.
“Further back, and spread your feet,” I told him and he did it, moving as if he had done this before. I patted him down. He was clean. I pulled his wallet and checked his ID. Francis Nunziatta was the name on his driver's license and his union card. He also had a couple of hundred dollars. I handed him back his wallet and said, “Okay. Change the tire on your car.”
He got out his spare and changed the first one without saying a word. While he was doing it I checked the gun he'd used. It was mine. I wondered whether Ferris had made an official record of taking it off me that morning. If he hadn't then it would look as if I had committed suicide. The investigation done by Ferris would have ignored the holes through the glass and the multiple shots and the entry angle of the wound.
Nunziatta straightened up and put his blown wheel in the trunk.
“Get that coat off,” I told him.
“How'dya mean? I'll freeze,” he said.
“Do it,” I told him and he did. He was wearing a heavy flannel shirt and I opened it. He had an undershirt and I tugged it up. “Hands on your head again.” He did as I said and I leaned the rifle against his car and took out the tiny microphone from my pocket and the roll of surgical tape. I taped it on his chest. “Dress up again and sit in the car,” I told him. “The driver's seat.”
I picked up my rifle again, then switched off his car lights and took the keys out of the ignition. He watched me, then got into the car. “Wind the window up,” I told him. “And start talking.”
“Whaddya want me to say?”
“Your prayers might not be a bad idea,” I said. I took the receiver out of my pocket and stuck the button in my ear and held the tape recorder in my hand. “Go on, talk.”
I walked away listening. Nunziatta was talking almost to himself, a low mumbling that I could make out as baffled swearing. I could see he was watching me and he began to speak louder. “I can see you. I'm talkin'. What more you want me to say?” I checked the playback on the recorder, then switched it off and put it into my pocket.
“Okay,” I called and nodded to him, then walked back and got into the car next to him. “Here.” I gave him the keys. “Start the car.” He did, turning the heat up high. “Now I'm going to caution you on a charge of attempted murder.”
“I thought we had a deal,” he blustered.
“We do, but this is one of the conditions.”
He swore, but under his breath, and I gave him the caution and his rights. “Okay Mr. Nunziatta, tell me what happened tonight, the sixteenth of November.”
I switched on the tape recorder and led him through the facts, asking a couple of polite questions so that the tape would be clean enough to use in evidence, then thanked him and switched the machine off.
“Right, Frankie. Let's go.” I could see he was angry with me for using the diminutive for his name. That was my reason for doing it. It gave me control, treating him like a naughty child.
“We're going to call on the chief,” I said. “Drive.”
We drove into town and I gave him his instructions. He was to pull up on the street, somewhere out of the lights, where I would not be visible from the house. He was to open his parka and go to the door and ask for the chief. He then had to get the chief alone and tell him what he had done.
“What if he asks me for the gun?”
“Tell him that Ferris said to leave it in my car,” I told him. “Let's go.”
He drove up to the house and I crouched in my seat as he got out and walked to the door. I turned
the tape machine on and waited.
On my earplug I heard the ringing of the doorbell. Then the clatter of the door and a woman's voice. “Yes?” she asked curtly.
“I need to speak to the chief. It's important,” Nunziatta said.
“He's at the police station. Why didn't you go there?”
“I din’ think he'd be there this time of night. Sorry to bother you.” I heard the door close and then Nunziatta came back. He got into the car. “He ain't in.”
“I heard,” I told him. “Drive to the police station and park on the street. If there's any policemen around, go up to them so they don't come and look in the car. Tell them you're looking for the chief. Otherwise, go right on in.”
“Okay. You're the boss.” Having me crouched out of sight had given him back his normal cockiness. When we reached the station he said, “There's two p'lice cars here, an’ the chief's car, an’ Sgt. Ferris's. What if the sergeant's there?”
“If Ferris asks you what you want, start making a commotion, make sure the chief gets into the room.”
“Lookit, I ain't no goddamn actor,” he blustered.
“No, but you're Italian. Just start waving your arms around, talking loud—that ought to do it,” I said. “And get it right, Frankie. If we don't nail the chief on this one, all bets are off, you're going inside. So remember that and be goddamn convincing.”
He swore but he didn't argue. He got out and walked into the station. On the monitor I heard the door slam and then a man's voice asking, “What do you want?”
“I have to see the chief. It's important. His wife said he was here.”
“The chief's busy,” the voice said. I recognized it; it was Walker speaking.
“This time of night an’ he's busy? Hell, it's after eleven. I figured he'd be home, gettin’ ready for bed.”
“He ought to be,” Walker said. “We all ought to be. Only something came up.”
“What happened, for Chrissakes?” Nunziatta was acting natural, the indignant citizen.
“It'll be on the radio in the morning, I guess.” Walker's voice was tight and high, anxious.
“Yeah, well I can't wait for the morning. I have to see him now, this is important. I told you.”
“Way to go, Frankie,” I murmured.
“You're a pain, Nunziatta,” Walker said. Then there was a clattering and a short wait and I heard Harding's voice.
“Yes. What's this about?” he asked.
“It's private, chief. Like I'm sorry if you're busy but I have to talk to you on your own.”
“Go ahead then. Walker, you go through to the guardroom. Don't touch anything, put your hands in your pockets. Understand?”
“Yessir.” More noise and then it was Harding's voice. “This had better be important.”
“It is important.” Nunziatta sounded nervous. He cleared his throat, it was explosive in my earpiece. “Like it's something I done for Sgt. Ferris.”
“Indeed?” Harding's voice dropped its anger, becoming almost playful. “And what would that be, Mr. Nunziatta?”
“Yeah, well, like he asked me to kill a guy. He gave me a gun and told me where the car would be an’ that. I had to go up there and walk around next to the car an’ shoot ‘im through the window.”
“When was this?” Harding's question took me by surprise. He should have acted startled, not matter-of-fact.
“He called me around nine-thirty. Said to meet him at the Headframe, which I done. Then he gave me a gun an’ told me to go out to the clearing on the old logging road. Said there would be a car there with a guy in it. I was t’ go up beside it an’ let ‘im have it.”
“And did you do it?” Harding's voice was still smooth, almost a purr.
I had coached Nunziatta on his answer and he played it perfectly. “I did what he said.” Even the grammar was correct.
“Then I have to tell you that you're in a whole lot of trouble,” Harding said.
I frowned and straightened up. Nunziatta's voice was spluttering in my ear. “How'dya mean? Like this guy's a cop, a sergeant, for Chrissakes. He told me to do somethin’ an’ I did it. It's him's in trouble. Not me.”
“I think you'd better come and see him for yourself,” Harding said. “This way.”
There was a clatter as the countertop flap was raised, then Nunziatta was walking a few paces. I heard a door open and then Nunziatta gave a half scream. “Mother o’ God, what happened?”
“Suicide,” Harding said. “It seems that Sgt. Ferris felt so bad about what he'd asked you to do that he came back into the station, went into the guardroom and blew his brains out with his service revolver.”
THIRTEEN
I sat listening to Nunziatta's babble, not even taking in the words. Ferris was dead. What did it mean? And what did I do next? The confession I'd taken from Nunziatta meant nothing now.
He was babbling, but making sense. “Listen. I didn't kill nobody,” he was saying. “Like it was Offic'r Bennett in the car only he wasn’ in the car. He's outside now. He said to come in.”
“Then we'd better have a word with him,” Harding said smoothly. “Walker, go and bring Bennett in, will you.”
I took the earplug out of my ear and put it in my pocket, then I turned off the tape recorder and sat up, innocent as a baby, waiting for Walker.
He came to the side of the car and I opened the door. He looked anxious.
“Reid, what the hell's goin’ on? Nunziatta's in there sayin’ he tried to shoot you.”
“He did, with my own gun yet. Ferris sent him. That's why I brought him back to talk to the chief.”
“Yeah. That's the other thing.” Walker was almost frantic, the words exploding out of him. “Ferris shot himself. I found him when I came in for work. He's in the guardroom, on the floor.”
“You're kidding.” I wasn't married to an actress for nothing. I got out of the car and shoved my arms apart speechlessly.
“True,” Walker said. “Really. I nearly threw up when I saw him. Anyways, all hell's breakin’ loose. The chief's down here an’ when Nunziatta came in an’ said he'd been sent to off you, Harding said he wants to talk to you.”
“I guess he does. Let's go.” I slammed the car door and followed Walker. He was half a pace ahead of me, almost running to get back inside.
He led me through to the guardroom. Harding was standing by the door and he held one hand up. “You can't come in, Bennett.”
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. Mr. Nunziatta says he was sent out to meet you and shoot you. Says he did what he was told, and yet here you are, large as life. What's going on?”
“You'd better ask the sergeant. He's the guy who sent Frankie out there.”
“I'm afraid that's not possible.” He turned and stepped back a pace so I could see into the room. “Look.”
I craned forward to see. Sgt. Ferris was lying on his left side on the guardroom floor. There was a pool of congealed blood under his head, and I could see the neat black entry wound in the right temple, just forward of the ear. On the floor behind him was a service revolver where it had fallen from his sprawled hand.
“Who found him?”
I expected him to snub me, but he answered at once. “Walker did. When he came in for the midnight shift.”
“What time was that? Nunziatta tells me he was talking to Ferris around nine o'clock, outside the Headframe.”
Now Harding collected himself, drawing himself up taller, putting his own horrors behind him. “I want to know where you were between then and now.”
I could see Nunziatta staring at me, ready to break into a babble of denial if I said anything he didn't feel comfortable with. I adjusted the story slightly. “I wanted to talk to him about the cave-in at the mine. He said he'd meet me outside town. Sgt. Ferris must have heard about it because he gave Nunziatta a gun and told him to look out for himself. I wouldn't have known except I saw the bump in his pocket and took it off him.”
Harding held out his hand
. “Where is it?”
I took it out of my pocket, emptied the shells into my hand and gave him the weapon, broken open. He took it and snapped it shut. “A police weapon.”
“Yeah. It's mine. That's why I came back here with Nunziatta, I wanted to know how come Ferris had handed him my gun. Didn't he keep a record of taking it off me this morning?”
“I'll check,” Harding said. He turned his back on me and walked over to Nunziatta, digging him in the chest with a stiff forefinger. “What did the sergeant say to you?”
Nunziatta was a gifted liar. He picked up my story and embroidered it.
“He said he'd heard I was s'posed to be meeting Mr. Bennett an’ he said that Bennett was mean. I needed some protection. So he gave me the gun.” He did a beautiful Neapolitan headshake. “Hell, I don’ know nothin’ about guns. I done like he said. I took it, put it in my pocket, only Mr. Bennett guessed an’ he took it offa me.”
“I want a formal statement, off both of you,” Harding said. “Walker, take a statement from Mr. Nunziatta. Bennett, you come with me.”
He turned away and marched in front of me, down the corridor to his office. He went inside and shut the door. “Sit,” he ordered and I sat.
He paced up and down once behind his desk, hands behind his back, thoughtful.
“You're not what you seem, are you Bennett?”
“I don't know what you mean,” I said. Playing dumb is always the best thing to do, people explain themselves and you get an idea of their motives.
He sat down abruptly, putting his elbows on the desk, hands clenched, staring at me. “Let me spell it out for you. I had a nice, well-run department until you arrived. We were doing a good job of keeping the peace in a place where it's not always easy. Then you arrive. Suddenly I've got a bar owner who thinks you're trying to shake him down. I have a prostitute murdered, or close to it. Then her money turns up in your lunch pail. And now this.”
I shrugged. “None of this has anything to do with me, chief. I was just trying to do the job the way you outlined it for me.”