"Yeah, you look a little looser." Decker rummaged through another one of Whitman's files. "I think music's good for your soul, Chris."
"You want more coffee?"
The kid had turned cocky. Decker declined the coffee, wanting to go back and examine the cellos. But since he couldn't bust them open, he knew he'd only see the same lights and shadows. Silly to beat a dead horse.
Decker finished the second bedroom and moved on to the bathroom, then the living room. He went through the sofa, the chairs, patted down the carpeting, moved furniture, tapped ceilings and floors. He even looked behind the paintings.
Nothing unusual.
On to the kitchen. Here, once again, Decker noticed Whitman's compulsiveness. Knives, forks, and spoons neatly lay in divided cutlery drawers. All cutting knives accounted for and resting in a block. He checked the kitchen cupboards and cabinets. All the dishes had been stacked; even the towels were clean. Searched the broom closet, looked under the sinks, in the refrigerator, in the oven and broiler for signs of recent burning or charring.
Not a thing unusual.
Again he started knocking walls and ceilings, checked the floors for trap doors and squeaks.
Nothing but nothing. Or as Rina would say: Gornish met gornish.
Decker said, "Chris, I'm still very curious about your tuxedo. Any idea where it might be?"
Whitman held out his hands and shook his head.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions about it."
"Sorry, Sergeant," Whitman said. "My lawyers hate it when you ask me questions and they're not around."
"I could take you in again."
"You could."
"Maybe I'll do that."
"Up to you."
"Let me just go through your hall closet," Decker said. "Then we'll go down to the station house."
"I should call up my lawyers then?"
"It would be a good idea."
Whitman went over to his kitchen counter and picked up the phone. Decker opened the door to Whitman's hall closet. It was cedar paneled and held a row of jackets hanging from a high top bar as well as a blocky piece of furniture tucked underneath the coats. 182
"Ah-ha," Decker said.
Whitman hung up the phone and walked over. "What?"
Decker smiled. "Didn't mean to make you nervous. I found your flat file and easel, that's all."
Whitman looked at him. "You were looking for my flat file and easel?"
Decker ran his hand over the flat file. "Last time I was over here, we talked about art. Rather, I talked about art; you were rather quiet. But you did tell me you were an artist. I was wondering where you kept your supplies."
"So now you've found them."
Decker opened the top drawer. It was taken up by twenty to thirty tubes of paint. The second drawer contained brushes small, large, fan brushes but most of them unused. It also held a set of pastels, a box of charcoals, a set of pencils, rapidograph pens, and a stack of disposable palettes.
The third drawer contained his artworks. Sixteen-by-twenty drawings stacked into piles. Decker pulled one cluster and sorted through them. All of them pencil and charcoal Matisse-like figures. "Not too shabby, Chris. You're one hell of a creative person."
Whitman was quiet.
Decker took out another group of drawings. "You like Matisse?"
Whitman didn't answer.
Decker sorted and said, "Going quiet on me, Chris? I must have touched a sensitive spot."
"You're getting on my nerves."
Decker jerked his head up and looked at the kid. Whitman closed and opened his eyes, but said nothing.
"You call your lawyer yet, Chris?"
"I'll do it."
"Might be a good idea if you do it now," Decker said.
Whitman didn't move.
"I'd like to go through your work," Decker said. "You don't mind that, do you?"
"Actually I do."
Decker said, "See, I think it's even better than your music, Chris. Though you play masterfully... and I'm sure you have your own unique interpretation to everything you touch ... you're still playing someone else's compositions. But your drawings are your own. You learn a lot about a person by what he creates."
Decker peered into Chris's blues as murky as a muddy pond. "You don't like me looking at your stuff, do you?"
Whitman's eyes flashed fire, which instantly deadened into snuffed flames. "You know, your warrant gives you the right to look around for evidence against me. It doesn't give you the right to invade my privacy."
Decker stopped searching. "In fact, Chris, the warrant gives me exactly that right."
Whitman didn't speak. Decker kept his eyes on the boy's face. He knew he'd hit upon something, but he didn't know what. He went back to his hunting.
On to the fourth drawer. More sketches, this time crouching and hunching figures of despair with distorted faces la Francis Bacon. These were on heavy eleven-by-eight drawing paper. All of them undefined heads on nude, curled-up, damaged bodies. "You were depressed?"
Whitman was silent.
"You like drawing the human body, don't you?"
Again Whitman was quiet.
"Guess you're not one for talking about your art." Decker sorted through the sketches, slowly and deliberately, gauging Whitman's reaction.
It was the wrong thing to do. As the time passed, Whitman's posture grew more relaxed.
It wasn't the drawing, Decker told himself. It was something else. Something in that damn closet.
The last drawer.
Small bits of paper lots of sketches and all of them abstract. Decker looked through every single sheet of paper, then closed that last drawer. He pulled out the flat file and easel.
Rudimentary taps on the ceiling, another check on the floor for loose boards or a trap door. Then the walls, just to complete the picture. Decker started at the bottom on the baseboard and moved toward the ceiling, his fingers rapping against the back wall, looking for unusual hollow sounds. Repeated the procedure on the right wall and then the left.
And then he felt something. Too high to be felt by a man of average height.
But Decker, like Whitman, wasn't a man of average height.
A seam. Immediately, Decker took out a flashlight and shone the beam on the top left corner of the closet. Without turning around, he 184
said, "Did you know that there's a narrow little door up there cut into the paneling?"
Whitman didn't answer. Decker stretched onto his toes and examined the seam. "Skinny sucker. Any ideas what it could be used for?"
He turned and regarded Whitman's face expressionless, but his posture gave him away. If Chris was any stiffer, he would have been a bronze. Again Decker shone the light on the seam. "There's a lock way on top. Do you have the key?"
Whitman was quiet.
Decker said, "You know, Chris, it would be a lot easier for you to open it than for me to pry it loose."
Whitman said, "Your warrant prohibits any demolition that compromises the structural integrity of the building."
"We're talking about a closet, Chris."
"/'m talking about a closet walll"
Decker thought a moment. The secret compartment wouldn't compromise the structural integrity of the building. But with enough pictures, a clever lawyer could aim the camera in such a way as to convince a judge that this was a wall. Decker didn't want to take the chance of gathering evidence only to have it be thrown out.
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a pack of picks. "What I don't do for my job. You want to hold the light for me while I do this?"
Whitman's face was flat. "Fuck you."
"You're losing it, guy."
"I'm going to call my lawyer."
"A very good idea."
Decker tucked the flashlight under his chin. It was a hard lock to pick, taking him over a half hour. But eventually the lock gave way with a pop and the door opened. Decker reached inside and felt around.
More papers. He st
uck his hand inside and emptied the compartment of its contents. Five drawing tablets. He brought them into the light and flipped off the top cover. He began to leaf through them.
They say every artist has a favorite model and Whitman was no exception. Dozens of pictures all representational and all of the same girl. As the Bible stated, she was beautiful of face and form. She'd been posed clothed, in scant dress, partially nude, then completely nude, sitting on his bed, hunched over, arms around her knees.
Decker faced Whitman. The kid looked stunned, and for a moment Decker almost felt sorry for him. Because there were feelings here. 185
But then he thought about Cheryl Diggs. She deserved some feelings, too.
"Who is she?"
"Nobody," he whispered.
"Chris, you're going to have to do better than that."
Whitman was silent.
"Chris?"
"Nobody," he said again. "Someone from my imagination."
"So ..." Decker held up the picture of the girl. "So if I showed these drawings to some of your friends, they'd have no idea who she was."
Whitman swallowed hard, ran his hands through his hair, and said nothing.
Decker flipped through a second tablet. More of the same. He picked up a third one. Midway through, he stopped abruptly, staring at the drawing in front of him.
Same girl in very different pose, but not an unfamiliar one to Decker. The girl was lying on Whitman's bed, wrists bound to the headboard, ankles tied together and bound to the footboard. He went on to the next drawing, then the next. Variation on the face, but not on the pose. The poor girl seemed very worn, but was showing a brave face. She looked anxious to please.
Or maybe she just looked anxious. He showed the bound girl to Whitman. "Maybe I should pass this one around, starting with the morgue."
"She isn't in the morgue."
"The pose looks very familiar and that's too bad for you." Decker pulled out the cuffs. "Turn around, Chris."
"Wait "
"Turn around and hit the wall, now!"
Whitman did as told and Decker snapped on the cuffs. He then went to his briefcase and took out a portable tape recorder. He tested it, then, satisfied, turned it back to the beginning. "Christopher Sean Whitman, you are under arrest for the murder of Cheryl Diggs. You have the right to remain silent "
"Can I talk to "
"Anything you say can and may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney during questioning. If you can't "
"Ser "
"If you can't afford an attorney, the state will appoint you representation free of charge. Do you understand " 186
"Yes, I understand."
"Do you understand the charges read to you clearly and freely?"
Whitman said, "Yes. Let me just say something "
"Do you wish to waive your right to an attorney?"
Whitman paused, then said yes.
"Do you understand that at any time, you may ask for your lawyer and I will stop questioning you?"
"Can you cut the crap for just "
"Do you understand "
"Yes, I understand," Whitman snapped. "Can I talk to you off the record for a moment?"
"No."
Whitman paused. "Then I'll just talk to you."
"Shoot," Decker said.
"Can you take off the cuffs?"
"You bench-press two hundred pounds, Chris. I think I'll leave the cuffs on."
Whitman wiped his face on his shoulder. He was showered in sweat. "I know ..." He swallowed hard. "I know you're just doing your job. And I can appreciate that. There's nothing personal here." The kid looked at the ceiling, then back at Decker. "These are just pictures ... made up in my head, you know?"
"Are you saying this girl is made up?"
"Just hear me out, okay?"
"Go."
Whitman took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "No, the girl isn't made up. But the poses are ... were. She was my tutor for about... three months." He swallowed again. "That's all. We ran in completely different circles. I haven't talked to her in months. But she was lovely. Her face stayed with me. We had a nice working relationship. I don't want her to think of me as a sleaze."
"Well, that's up to her, Chris "
"I realize ..." Whitman interrupted loudly, then he stopped talking. He closed and opened his eyes. "I realize what you're trying to do, why these pictures are ..."
Decker waited.
Whitman shook his head. "I know why the pictures are incriminating. Cheryl was found bound; you find pictures by me of girls all tied up. But that isn't proof of anything. Other than the fact that once I drew one girl tied up. You get my point?"
"There's more than one picture here."
"It was the same fantasy. That's all it was. A fantasy." 187
Decker said, "Well, your lawyer can argue that point to a grand jury. I'm going to call up my station house now and arrange for transport "
"Wait!" Whitman hesitated, then said, "Suppose ... I can get you better evidence."
Decker waited, hoping his astonishment wasn't showing.
"I'll get you better evidence against me," Whitman said. "Better evidence in exchange for these pictures."
Decker stared at the kid. What was the catch?
Whitman said, "Sergeant, I never did anything with this girl. You question her, she won't know what the hell you're talking about. If you parade these drawings before a grand jury, all you'll be doing is... ruining someone nice. She's a straight A student, and last I heard, she was still a virgin. Why bring her down just because I have a wild imagination?"
"Chris, that's not up to me "
"I'll get you names, Decker," Whitman said, desperately. "Names of hookers I've actually tied up."
"You've tied up hookers?"
"Yes."
"Live hookers, Chris?"
"Yes, of course they're alive. I'll get you names of women I've tied up. I'll get you names and you can go down and talk to them in person. I'm talking live witnesses, Decker. Hell of a lot better than a bunch of dead drawings. You understand what I'm saying?"
Decker said, "You must really like this girl."
"Yes, I do. Now I understand that you're not going to fork over the drawings just based on my word. But if I deliver you witnesses, do we have a deal?"
"No, Chris, we do not have a deal. Unless you want to confess right now. That'd sure save your lady a lot of embarrassment."
"Christ!" Whitman exploded. "Don't you goddamn understand what I'm offering you? I'm frying myself in exchange for the drawings."
"If you want to confess, I'm listening."
"I'm not going to confess, goddamn it! I didn't do anything!"
Decker said, "I'm going to call transport to take you down to the station house. You can call your law "
"Aren't you goddamn listening?" Whitman kicked a chair across his living room. It smashed against the wall and splintered into several pieces. "I'm giving you something better! Open your fucking ewes, for godsakes!"
It was at this moment that Decker realized Whitman was a powder keg inching toward a lighted match. He was a big, strapping boy on the verge of a violent eruption. Decker spoke soothingly. "I'm listening to you, Christopher. I hear every word you're saying. You deliver ... and then we can talk. I'm not shutting you out. But I can't promise you anything. Do you understand that?"
Whitman was breathing hard. He suddenly looked very young. Decker said, "You deliver first, and then I'll talk to you. We'll all talk to you. But absolutely no promises. Understand?"
The boy bit his lower lip, then nodded.
"Chris, answer the question verbally. My tape recorder doesn't pick up nods."
"Yes, I understand."
"No promises, right?"
"Right."
"But first you've got to cooperate, Chris. Who's the girl?"
Whitman was silent.
Decker said softly. "We both want to keep this as quiet as possible. If you tell me the na
me, I can be discreet. If not, I'll start showing the pictures around "
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