Witch House

by Dana Donovan

  “No,” I said, casting a sidelong grin. “We have a few questions, that’s all.”

  “`Bout what, that 10-54 yesterday.”

  “Yes, that’s right, but that 10-54 has a name. It’s Landau.”

  “Figures.”

  “What figures?”

  He tossed his hands up and let them drop onto the table freely. “Every time my path and his crosses, I get hauled in for questioning by the Gestapo.”

  “Gestapo? Sergeant, I take offence. I am the senior investigating officer in charge of a murder investigation. You have a history with this man. It’s only reasonable you should expect to answer some questions.”

  He shook his head dismissively. “Whatever. Am I under oath or anything?”

  Spinelli said, “Sergeant, you have been investigated by Internal Affairs three times. I think you know by now that you are always expected to tell the truth in matters such as these.”

  Powell made a face and pointed at Spinelli. “Who is this punk? Why don’t you go fetch me another bottle of water, kid?”

  “Hey!” said Carlos, slamming the heel of his fist on the table. “His name is Detective Spinelli. I expect you to show him the same respect you show me. Do you understand?”

  “Fuck you, Rodriquez. How’s that for respect?”

  Carlos came out of his chair and palmed the table as though he might leap across it and choke the shit out of Powell. I stood and spread my arms out between them. “Enough,” I hollered. I looked at Carlos and motioned for him to sit. “Carlos, please.” To Powell I said, “Look, Sergeant, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can get the hell out of here.”

  “What? You’re telling me that I can’t go now if I want to?”

  I gestured toward the door. “There it is. You want to go? Go. We can do this in the D.A.’s office if you prefer.”

  He shook his head. “Fuck it. Ask your damn questions.”

  I took a seat after waiting for Carlos to reclaim his. “Let’s start with the casino robbery. Tell me what you remember about that day.”

  Powell crossed his arms at his chest and dropped his gaze to the floor. “What’s to remember? I started my shift early that morning, about a quarter to seven. I was out patrolling Monroe Boulevard a mile east of the casino and I stopped at the White Hen to pick up a coffee to go. I had just radioed in my 20 when the call came in: a 2-11 in progress at the casino. I radioed back that I was on my way.”

  “What time was that?”

  “6:55”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Simple, I looked at my watch the moment the call came in. I remember thinking; boy the shit’s hitting the fan early today.”

  “Okay, what happened next?”

  “I don’t know. I hit the switch to light up my roof rack and everything went dead, the lights, engine, radio—everything. It was like some electrical anomaly had shorted everything out.”

  “Did you call it in on your portable radio?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “We didn’t have the portables then. I think the department only had four patrol cars and a K-9 back then.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “Well, after fuck'n around with the battery terminals for a couple of minutes, I went into the White Hen and phoned in a disabled unit call.”

  “How much time do you think elapsed between the 2-11 call you received and the call you made back to the department telling them you were disabled?”

  He shook his head. I knew that the D.A. had asked him that question a dozen times before, yet still he seemed to think about it. His answer to the D.A., as I later found through records Spinelli dug up, differed by as much as ten minutes from what he told us. “I guess about two or three minutes.”

  “Two or three?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  I saw Carlos and Spinelli trade mistrustful glances. I know Powell saw it, too, but he was not sweating it. He eased back in his chair, rocking it up on two legs until it tapped the wall behind him. I had my notepad out, similar to the one Carlos uses, only mine was filled with questions, not answers. I flipped to the next page. “Tell me how you knew to look for René Landau up at the cabin a few days after the robbery.”

  He laughed. “What, you think you plainclothes preppies are the only ones who can do detective work?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You think you’re big hotshots.” He looked at Spinelli. “College boy over here takes a class or two in criminal investigation and they promote him to Det 3 after only a couple years in uniform. And you,” this to Carlos, “you made grade 2 thirty years ago. Is that the best you can do? It seems to me you can’t detect your way out of a paper sack.”

  “Now see here,” I said.

  He rocked his chair back onto four legs, pressed his chest to the table’s edge and planted his still-folded hands squarely on top of it. “See what, Marcella, see how you and your cronies manipulate the system? What are you, twenty-five, six? How the hell did you become grade 1, S.I.O. anyway? Your old man didn’t have that much pull around here. Was it your girlfriend, your little witch bitch?”

  “I wouldn’t call her that to her face,” said Dominic.

  Powell pointed at him and smiled slyly. “It was you, wasn’t it? You’re like one of them Bill Gates computer geeks, aren’t you?”

  Dominic opened his mouth to refute the claim, but I shut him down. “I’m asking the questions here, Powell. Tell us how you knew to look for Landau up at the cabin that day.”

  He rolled back again. “Like I said, you three aren’t the only dicks on the force. I can do some handy detective work myself. You think I can’t make detective if I want to?”

  “I hope you never do,” said Carlos.

  “Fuck you!”

  Once more, Carlos started across the table, and once more, I sprang into action to head him off. “Carlos!” I pushed down on his shoulder. “Don’t let him rile you, man. You’re better that that.”

  Powell made a tick sound through his teeth. “Yeah, that’s right, you’re better than me. You dicks are better than us blue boys downstairs, ain’t cha?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yeah, but that’s what you meant.”

  As soon as I got Carlos settled into his seat, I came around the table, pulled another chair up next to Powell and sat down. “You like making waves,” I said to him, though low enough that I did not think Carlos or Spinelli could hear me. “I’m going to tell you something. You see that clock over there?”

  He looked past Carlos and Dominic to the clock on the wall behind them. “Yeah.”

  “If you keep jerking my chain, I am going to do to your hands what I’m about to do to the hands on that clock.”

  Powell eyed me with disdain, but when he looked again at the clock, he saw the hour and minute hands curl into twisted spaghetti loops and drop off the dial. His head snapped back to me as if snagged by rubber bands. My lips thinned neatly. “Get it?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  I got up and returned to my seat. Powell had found the clock again, tweaking Carlos and Dominic’s curiosity. Both turned and looked over their shoulders. The clock remained intact, its hands sweeping smoothly across its face. I saw Carlos wink at Dominic and both smiled at that.

  “Do I need to ask you again?” I said to Powell.

  He blinked back his dismay. “What?”

  “The cabin, how did you know to look for Landau there?”

  He shuddered, as if waking himself from a fog. “Like I said, I did some detective work, asked around, called in a few favors. I got a lead on his possible whereabouts from an informant I knew.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Some druggie, doesn’t matter now. He’s dead.”

  “What happened next? You drove up to the cabin and bumped into him there?”

  “Yeah, more or less. It’s a narrow road leading up to the place. As I was
driving up, he was driving down. All I had to do was stop in the middle of the road to block him in, which I did. I pulled out my service revolver and took him in without incident.”

  “What about his accomplice, Johnny Buck? Did you see him there?”

  “Johnny, yeah I saw him, but he looked like a charred twig by then. According to Landau, the cabin was already on fire when he got there. He said Johnny Buck must have fallen asleep and knocked over a lantern, said the money and everything went up in smoke right there on top of that hill.”

  “I see.” I looked to my left. Carlos and Spinelli were already looking at me. I could tell from their expressions that they were not buying a word of it. “So, that was the first time you ever met René Landau?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And this morning at Pete’s Place, did you know that was Landau’s body we were looking at?”

  Powell rocked his head ambiguously. “You know, I thought he looked familiar, but I didn’t know it was him until you found his I.D. card.”

  “You didn’t know he was out of prison.”

  “How would I? Do I look like his fuck’n keeper or something`?”

  I flipped to the next page of my notepad. “Do you know Stephanie Stiles?”

  His answer came quickly. “No.”

  “No?” I hooked my brow and drew a conspicuous bead down at his watch. “That’s a nice time piece. I don’t think I have ever seen one with a cop shield on the face of it like that before.”

  He smiled confidently. “And you won’t. It’s one of a kind. I had it made special.”

  “Oh, wait,” I said. “That’s right. I did see one exactly like it yesterday morning at Stephanie Stiles apartment. Carlos, look. Isn’t that exactly like the one we saw yesterday?”

  Carlos craned his neck to steal a peek at the watch, knowing well that we had never seen it before. “Sure, I remember seeing that watch. It’s just like the one on her night stand.”

  “All right, fine,” said Powell. “I know Stephanie. What’s the crime in that?”

  Carlos answered, “Besides you being married?”

  “Fuck you, dick.”

  “Sergeant,” I said. “We know you are seeing Stiles on an intimate basis, so you can cut the pretences.”

  “Fine, I admit it, but my relationship with Stephanie is none of your business.”

  “Yes, it is, since she and René were engaged to be married, I think that makes it our business.”

  “Married?” I watched him deflate into his seat.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I had no idea.”

  “I have to ask you this, Sergeant, are you carrying the rent on Stiles’ apartment?”

  That made him laugh. “Are you kidding? On my pay? Look, she’s a good piece of ass, but she’s not that good.”

  I looked to Spinelli. He seemed satisfied with that. I flipped to the next page in my notepad. “You like to gamble, Sergeant, don’t you?”

  “Fuck, here we go again. Did I.A.D. put you up to this?”

  “Up to what?”

  “You know what. Listen, Internal Affairs has raked this dead horse over the coals until it is black and blue. So I go to the casino occasionally; does that mean I have a gambling problem? No.”

  “Did I say you did?”

  “You were going there.”

  “No, I was going to ask you about your relationship with Chief Running Bear.”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you consider yourselves good friends?”

  He gave that some careful thought, possibly weighing the consequences of answering in the affirmative. “We are on a first name basis, if that is what you mean.”

  “You call him Dan?”

  “I call him Chief.”

  “Has he ever done any favors for you?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, like maybe forgive gambling debts?”

  “No.”

  “Do you owe the casino money now?”

  “What? No! Look, Marcella, I don’t see what any of this has to do with Landau. Now, unless you have something relevant to ask me, I think we are just about through here.”

  “Last year you responded to a 211 at the casino, which ultimately involved the shooting deaths of two burglary suspects. Dispatch documented your arrival on the scene within three minutes. How was it you able to get there so quickly?”

  “Are you kidding?” Powell’s face wracked with disgust. “First you criticize me for answering a call too late, and then again for answering too soon? What is with you, Marcella?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Forget it.” I flipped to the next page. “Were you on duty the night before last?”

  “You know I was.”

  “So, you were on duty at twelve-fifteen when a 10-103 went out, but you didn’t respond to it, did you?”

  “A disturbance? Where, at Pete’s? I didn’t hear it.”

  “Why not? Where were you?”

  “I called in a 10-48 about then.”

  “A 10-48, not available?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why weren’t you available?”

  “I was taking a shit. Is that all right with you?”

  “Where were you between the hours of one and three A.M. that night? Were you with Ms. Stiles?”

  “Is that about the time Landau died?”

  “It is.”

  “Then yes, I was with Stephanie. You can ask her.”

  “We will. In the meantime, I don’t want you talking to her about this case.”

  “Marcella, come on, what do you take me for?”

  I put my hand out. “Let me see your weapon.”

  “What?”

  “Your gun, let me have it.”

  He unstrapped his holster and handed me his .38. I opened the cylinder and spilled five rounds out onto the table. I then sniffed the breech and muzzle and held it to the light for inspection. I looked to Powell. “You’ve recently cleaned this weapon.”

  He scoffed. “No shit, Dick Tracy. A good cop keeps his piece clean and oiled.” He turned to Spinelli. “They do still teach that in Academy, don’t they, kid?”

  I said, “When is the last time you fired it?”

  “Last month at the shooting range.”

  I handed it to Dominic. “Check it with ballistics.”

  “Hey, just a minute!”

  “Don’t worry, Sergeant. You will have it back before the start of your next shift.”

  “No. This is bullshit. I demand you tell me what’s going on. Am I a suspect in Landau’s murder now?”

  “No, we simply have to check out a few loose ends so we can eliminate the fringe elements of the case.”

  “Fringe elements? Is that what I am?” He pointed to Carlos. “Have you done ballistics on his weapon? How `bout his?” He pointed at Spinelli. “What about your own piece, Marcella? What about Burke, Delgado, Chandler or Smithy? Have you run ballistics on their weapons, too?”

  “Sergeant, you have a history with Landau, and intimate ties to key figures in this investigation, not to mention the fact you just admitted to spending several hours of company time on personal affairs. Now, you know as well as I do that we need to run ballistics on your piece, not to incriminate you, but to rule you out as a suspect. Which I am sure we will do once the results come in.”

  He eased off. “All right, fine, but I’m not going to forget this, Marcella. You boys upstairs like to stick together. What you forget is that all too often you rely on us downstairs boys to cover your asses when things get rough, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t. What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying what goes around comes around. That’s all. You would be wise to remember that.”

  Powell left, leaving the three of us scratching our heads in dismay. “Did he just threaten us?” I asked.

  Dominic answered, “I think he did.”

  I gestured toward Powell’s gun. “Gee, I am sorry to say no
w, I am kind of hoping ballistics comes up positive match on that.”

  Carlos stole a glance over his shoulder at the wall clock. “Maybe we should discuss this over lunch.”

  “Great! You buying?”

  He pulled back and pursed his lips. “Ooh, I don’t know. Payday is not till Friday and I don’t….”

  “I’ll spot you. I know you’re good for it.”

  “Yeah,” said Spinelli. “It’s your turn, Carlos. I bought last time, and Tony paid the last three times before that.”

  “Yeah, so what do you say?”

  What could he say, with the two of us tag teaming him down on the matt like that? If he only knew that Dominic and I had planned that two pronged attacked for weeks, then maybe he could have weaseled out of it. As it was, even with me floating the check until payday, it could have been worse. We could have invited the girls along for company.

  We arrived at the Percolator in the middle of the lunch hour rush. A clan of six from traffic and vice had squeezed into our favorite booth by the window, with half the rest of the precinct filling the others, leaving us with the wobbly table in the corner, across from the lunch counter, almost in the restrooms. Carlos did not mind, though. He drinks so much iced tea with his lunch, we knew it would all work out for the best.

  We took our seats and perused the menus. I do not know why we do that, as I am sure that we, along with everyone else in the diner, could recite it by heart. I suppose we keep expecting that one day we might find something new between its folds, like the time they added the Hillary chicken special to the menu: a small breast, large thigh and a left wing. Carlos is still trying to understand that one.

  “So,” I said, alternating glances between Carlos and Dominic. “Tell me your thoughts.”

  “I’m thinking about the turkey plate,” said Carlos.

  “No! I mean about Powell. Is he hiding something, or isn’t he?”

  “He is definitely hiding something,” Spinelli replied. “It is so obvious.”

  Carlos said, “I agree. He did not have an answer for everything. He did not even lie well for the answers he did have.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “All right, first off you asked him why he did not respond to the 10-103 disturbance call, and he said he didn’t hear it.”