by Justice
“No.”
The catch in Whitman’s throat was so quick, Decker almost missed it. “No one tried to call you?”
“No.”
Decker wrote a note to himself to check calls on Whitman’s telephone. “You went right to sleep.”
“Yep.”
“Right smack to sleep.”
“Yes.”
“Just dropped off like a fly.”
“I was very tired.”
“You slept in your tux?”
“No, I took off my tux—” Whitman paused. “I took off my tux, brushed my teeth, and then went to sleep.”
The two men locked eyes. Then Decker said, “I’d like to go over a few more points again.”
“Sergeant,” Moody said. “Is this really necessary?”
“S’right, Mr. Moody,” Whitman said. “I don’t have anything better to do. And I don’t have anything to hide.”
21
Upon entering the sixth hour of nonstop questioning, James Moody demanded a break. Decker complied, taking his breather in the viewing room. Davidson was standing in front of the one-way mirror, eyes fixed in a squint, peering at Whitman and his representation as if looking through binoculars at enemy infiltrators. Scott Oliver was slouched over the tabletop, having grown deep bags under his eyes. To Decker’s surprise, Elaine Reuter had stuck around long after her job was done. She was usually meticulous in her appearance, but as the night wore on, so did Elaine. Her hair had become a straggly mane, her posture folded and wrinkled. Decker didn’t feel too hot himself. He ran a hand over his steel-wool face. He was sorely in need of a shave.
He said, “We’ve been plowing the same ground for the last four hours, Lieutenant. What do you think?”
Davidson licked his lips, but didn’t answer.
Elaine rubbed her eyes. “I liked Whitman’s initial outburst about sex not being a big deal to him. Pretty big admission for an eighteen-year-old.”
“Don’t you believe it!” Davidson said.
“Fucking A right.” Oliver picked his head up, then dropped it. “Sucker’s bragging. Reverse macho. ‘I’m so cool, I don’t need it.’ Meanwhile he was boffing Cheryl Diggs on a regular basis. Probably boffing others as well.”
Davidson perked up. “You got names, Oliver?”
“Yeah, I’m holding back on everyone—”
“Oliver—”
“No, I don’t have names, Loo. The kids I talked to didn’t know much about Whitman, period, let alone his sex life.” Oliver looked at Decker. “What about the girls?”
“Same story.” Decker sat down. “But I agree with Scotty. I think Whitman has had other partners. Be nice if we dug one of them up.”
“Not literally, I hope,” Elaine said.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Decker said. “But it’s a possibility.”
“A strong one,” Davidson said. “He’s got the look.”
Decker said, “Be nice if we found a living partner. See if he has any strange proclivities.”
“Like bondage?” Elaine said.
Decker said, “You said the machine wiggled when he spoke about tying up girls.”
“I also said it was within normal limits,” Elaine said. “Like I stated, it’s probably a long-standing fantasy of his.”
“Only this time, he made it a reality,” Davidson said.
“I’ve still got a good three, four hours left in me,” Decker said. “But truthfully, I’ve gone as far as I can go with him. What do you want me to do?”
Davidson looked pained. “You’re telling me to spring him when I know he did it?”
Decker said, “I’m not telling you anything. It’s your call.”
“I need evidence, Decker!”
“Get me a warrant and maybe I can get you his tux,” Decker said.
“What if he rented one, then returned it?” Elaine said.
Oliver said, “If he rented, he didn’t use a local shop or he didn’t use his real name. I’ve called every rental place within ten square miles of the school.”
Decker said, “Being a big kid and Donatti’s son, I’m betting he owned one.”
Elaine said, “So all we have to do is find his tux, match the fibers to the bow tie found at the crime scene, and we’ll have something incriminating.”
“Putting it that way, it sounds so simple,” Decker said.
“It is simple,” Davidson insisted.
“Kid’s smart,” Oliver said. “He’s probably ditched the tux by now.”
Decker said, “Scotty, tuxes don’t disappear. He admitted—on record—that he had been wearing one on prom night.”
Elaine said, “Ah, so that’s why he gave you that look. Your comment about him not even taking his tux off before he dropped off to sleep.” She smiled. “Man, he sure fell into your trap.”
“Yep,” Decker said.
“He knew it, too,” Oliver said. “What if he already went out and bought a new one?”
Decker said, “Be difficult to pull something off the rack on such short notice, especially at prom time.”
“So he’d go custom,” Oliver said.
Decker said, “Scott, the murder happened Sunday morning when all the stores were closed. Today’s Monday. He’s had about six hours to dredge something up…assuming that he knew his tux could incriminate him. Though it can be done, I think it would be hard to make a tux on such short notice.”
“All it takes is money, Rabbi,” Oliver said. “He got fitted today, he’ll pick up the monkey suit tomorrow.”
“So we’ll put a twenty-four-hour tail on him. See if it leads to a tailor.”
Elaine said, “Pete, what happens if you find the original tux? So it matches the bow tie at the crime scene. Whitman admitted being in the room. Why wouldn’t he say he just left his bow tie behind?”
“That’s exactly what he will say,” Oliver said.
Davidson said, “Matching the bow tie used to bind Cheryl’s hands to Whitman’s tux is enough to get us an indictment. That’s all I care about. Because with the bow tie we’ve got the big three—opportunity, means, and motive, that being Diggs’s pregnancy.”
“His fiancée knows about Cheryl’s pregnancy, Lieutenant,” Elaine said. “She hasn’t ditched him.”
“Reuter, let me tell you how the mob works,” Davidson said. “To save face in front of the police, Mafia’s gonna stick up for their own no matter what. To us, they’re gonna say everything’s fine. But when Whitman gets home, back to Daddy Benedetto and Uncle Joey Donatti, he’s gonna lose a nut.”
Oliver held his groin. “Ouch!”
“We’d be doing the kid a favor if we put him away,” Davidson said.
“You actually think he killed Cheryl because her pregnancy was a threat to his engagement?” Elaine asked.
“I know that’s why he killed her,” Davidson said.
“But Whitman swore the kid wasn’t his.”
“He’s bluffing,” Davidson said.
“Even though he’s willing to give us blood and semen samples to prove it?” Decker asked.
“That’s what he says now,” Davidson said. “Bet your ass, he’ll have a sudden change of heart. And even if the baby wasn’t his, Cheryl threatening him was probably enough to get him riled. It don’t even have to be true.”
“I don’t agree,” Decker said.
“Course not,” Davidson growled. “It’s against your religion to agree with me.”
“If he murdered Cheryl—even with the bondage—I don’t see it as a premeditated thing. Maybe a sex game gone bad. Could be he was doing some sexual experimentation before taking the plunge. Because I don’t reckon Daddy Benedetto would cotton to him tying up his daughter.”
“I don’t buy that,” Davidson said. “Whitman’s mob. All mob men have armpieces.”
“Armpieces?” Elaine said.
“Mistresses,” Decker said.
Oliver said, “A good-looking broad on their arm.”
Decker said, “Except Ben
edetto is big time. He’s an old-fashioned Italian daddy. His daughter’s his princess.”
“But the husband—the man—is still the king,” Davidson said.
“Granted,” Decker said. “He may accept Whitman getting a mistress after he’s earned some stripes. But first Whitman’s going to have to prove himself. No way at this time, Benedetto would tolerate an eighteen-year-old punk still green around the edges messing around on his daughter.”
“Well, Diggs is dead whatever the reason,” Davidson said. “And whatever the reason, Whitman did it.”
Decker said, “We don’t have a warrant now and we don’t have enough to hold him. What do you want to do with him?”
Davidson rubbed a meaty hand over his face. “Go another half hour…should give me enough time to assign a tail until I can get the warrant.”
“I’ll do the tail,” Oliver said.
“You’re half dead,” Davidson said. “I wouldn’t trust you to watch my goldfish.”
Decker said, “When do you think you can get a search and seizure warrant?”
Davidson looked at the wall clock. “No sense waking up a judge at one in the morning since Whitman’ll have a tail on him. I’ll ask Ronnie Peterson first thing tomorrow morning. We go back a ways.” Davidson rolled his shoulders. “Stall Moody for another half hour, then let him go. Any questions?”
The room was silent.
“Then class is dismissed,” Davidson announced.
22
Under the yellow glow of his porch light, I fell asleep, shielded from wind by a giant potted banana plant, my stack of books warming my lap. What woke me was the turn of his key. From my nestled position, I opened my eyes and whispered a hi. He jerked his head around, eyes skating through air until they lowered and landed on my face. I started to get up, but he motioned me to stay down. He put a finger to his lips and said nothing.
Chris opened his front door, stepped inside, then shut me out. I waited, and finally he opened the door a crack and told me to crawl in through pitch darkness. Once inside, he turned on the light and I was allowed to stand. Glaring at me, he backed me against his front door and leaned his face an inch from mine. His voice was eerily soft.
“I told you I couldn’t see you anymore.”
I waited a beat, then said, “How’d it go?”
He didn’t react. Instead, he whispered, “I’m being watched. Who knows? The police might even have tapped the room. I’ve got to get you out of here before someone spots you. So this is what we’re going to do. I’ll leave here in five…maybe ten minutes. You wait another ten minutes after I’m gone. Then go over to the window, imperceptibly part the blackout drapes. If there’s a brown ’89 Cutlass still parked outside, you stay put. When it leaves, you go to your car, go back home, and never come back. Understand?”
“I don’t have a car, Chris. I walked over here.”
His eyes glowed hot blue lights of anger. “You walked here?”
“It’s only a couple of miles. Besides, it was daylight when I started out.”
He spoke between clenched teeth, giving equal emphasis to each word. “Well, it isn’t daylight now.”
“This is true.”
He glanced at his watch. He talked more to himself than to me. “You can’t very well walk home now, can you?”
“This is also true.”
He blinked several times, his eyes lifting to the ceiling. I could almost hear him counting to himself. If he didn’t see me, I didn’t exist.
He spoke quietly and deliberately. “I can’t take you home, Terry. After I leave, you’re going to have to walk to the corner and call a cab.”
“My parents think I’m spending the night at Heidi’s house…we’ve been studying for finals together. They’d be pretty suspicious if I suddenly popped back up at one in the morning.”
Chris closed his eyes and opened them. He whispered, “Remember when I told you my uncle wouldn’t care if I loved you or not? I was wrong. He would care very much.” He paused, then said, “I’m in serious trouble with my uncle. If he finds out about you…” He blinked several times. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
I said, “Your engagement was called off?”
“Unfortunately, no. The marriage may have to be postponed if I do time. But for better or worse, she’ll wait for me. I’m trapped in prison or trapped in marriage…which a lot of people say is a similar experience.” He sighed. “How long have you been waiting for me?”
“Around seven hours. It’s all right. I made good use of the time by studying. Not that these finals mean much. I’m already accepted into UCLA. Good grades would just round out my transcript nicely.” I stopped talking. “I’m sure that’s a major concern of yours right now.”
“I enjoy hearing you talk. Your voice is beautiful music. Are you hungry, Terry?”
I shook my head no. “I packed a sandwich. I figured it would take you a while. Not exactly seven hours but…”
He was about to speak but changed his mind.
“What?”
He shook his head. I took his hands.
“Talk to me, Chrissie. I want to help you.”
His smile was wistful. “My mom used to call me Chrissie.”
“So we have something in common. What happened at the police station? What’d your lawyers say?”
“It doesn’t matter. You take my bed. I’ll bunk out on the couch.” He turned and walked into his bedroom. I followed. He was in his closet, gathering up linens. I came over and touched his shoulder. He didn’t stiffen, but he didn’t turn around.
I said, “The questioning went bad?”
He didn’t answer me.
“Christopher, please?”
He straightened and faced me, arms filled with bedding. “Just go to sleep, Terry.”
“Didn’t you pass the test?”
His face held no expression other than fatigue. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you in the morning. I’ll go out first, get my tail away from you. Then you leave for school.”
He shut the door behind me. I waited a moment, then followed him into the living room. He was setting up his makeshift bed on his sofa.
“You didn’t pass the lie-detector test, did you?”
“I passed.” He continued to spread out the sheets. “But that doesn’t mean my troubles are over. Because the fat lady sure ain’t singing.”
I was quiet.
He tucked his sheet in between the pillows and the frame of the couch. “That’s an expression—”
“I know that. Why are you still in trouble?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Go to sleep.”
I didn’t move.
He softened his voice. “Please, Terry.”
I said, “You can sleep with me in the bed if you want.”
“I don’t want.”
“I mean just sleep. Why should I displace you?…Or I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Terry, just get the fuck out of here.”
Although I was hurt, I shrugged and walked back to his bed. Since I was dressed in the Seattle grunge layered look, I had no trouble finding something to sleep in. I disrobed, stripping down to my underpants and T-shirt, then slipped between his sheets. They smelled wonderful…smelled like him. I curled into a ball, closed my eyes, and listened to the muffled thud of his footsteps. I was just about asleep when his clops grew rhythmic and louder. The door opened, a sliver of light quickly turned into a wedge. The door shut and once again I was encased in darkness. He came to the bed and sat on the edge, feeling for my hand. When he found it, he gave me a gentle squeeze.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I said, “You break into my house less than twelve hours ago…beaten down…desperate for understanding. You tell me your innermost secrets, telling me you love me…goading me to care for you. Then when I show concern, you reject me.”
Silence.
I said, “Christopher, why did you come
to my house?”
“To tell you I couldn’t see you anymore.”
“If you wanted me to stay away from you, you shouldn’t have come at all. I was scared of you. I wouldn’t have gone near you. But after we talked, I felt for you. Now I feel foolish.”
Again, the room was quiet.
“You’re right,” Chris said. “I shouldn’t have come to see you. I told you I was selfish. I just wanted to see you one last time.” He paused. “I can’t believe you actually feel something toward me. I don’t deserve…”
His words faded in the air. I opened the covers. He hesitated, then slid inside. His shoes were off, but he was still fully clothed. He embraced me, seemingly oblivious to my scant dress except there was a bulge in his pants.
“Tell me what happened with the police,” I said.
He spoke softly. “The cop’s clever. He…twisted some of my words, threw me off balance. I said some things I shouldn’t have.”
“Like what?”
“The specifics aren’t important. What is important is the distortions. My own words can make me look bad.”
“But they didn’t arrest you, did they?”
He shook his head.
“Obviously they don’t have any evidence against you.”
“No, not yet.” Chris paused. “Maybe it would be better if they did. Get me away from my uncle. He’s livid. Pissed beyond belief. I’m fucked!”
He laughed but it was born from despair.
“I just got a sudden insight. When I shot my father, I pulled the right trigger but aimed it at the wrong head—”
“Don’t talk that way!”
He blew out air, but said nothing. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could discern the outlines of Chris’s face. We locked eyes for a moment. Then he closed his lids and we kissed. Soft and magical. His hands went under my T-shirt, which he eventually slipped over my head. He caressed me, his breathing slow and steady. He took off his own T-shirt, leaving his crucifix around his neck. He undid his pants, removed them in one swift motion, then wrapped his legs around my hips. When I went for the last article of encumbrance, he jerked away and sat up.
“What the fuck am I doing?” He was panting. “I can’t sleep with you, Terry. God knows I want to, but I can’t. I can lie to anyone—you, Lorraine, Cheryl, the police…I can even lie to my own body well enough to pass a test. But I can’t lie to Joey. He reads me too well.”