Whitman took another drag on his cigarette.
"One of my suicide attempts? I woke up in my bed, blood leaking out of a hole in my stomach, a twenty-two in my hand. I don't know what happened. Only thing I remembered was I'd been drinking. It 238
could have just been an accident. But because of my history, they labeled it suicide."
"Was that the first or second attempt you were talking about?"
"Second."
"What'd you do the first time?"
"Pills. I tried to OD on my mother's Demerol. Her death was an ugly one... painful to watch. Suddenly, I didn't want to live anymore."
Decker waited a beat, then said, "Let's talk about you waking up in strange places."
"There's a psychological term for it fugue states. I know it happened at least twice it's on my record at County. And there was my second suicide attempt. That was like a fugue. I'd use that as my defense if this mess about Cheryl went to trial."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I have no idea how Cheryl happened."
Decker took in the kid's eyes flat and dimensionless. "You don't remember anything?' '
"I remember some things. But I don't remember killing her."
"You remember tying her up?"
"Sort of. I'm sure I did it. Because whenever we had sex in the past, I'd tie her up. Originally, I used to just pin her down with my hands. But she didn't like it. Said it hurt her too much because of my weight, and it was too much like rape. She'd been raped several times by one of her mother's ex-boyfriends."
Whitman sucked his smoke.
"I told Cheryl I wouldn't do her unless she was pinned. So she agreed to the binds. After a while, I think she liked it. Because she trusted me. On the rare times the sex wasn't working, I never forced her. Never forced a girl in my life."
Decker scratched his temple. "Why wouldn't you do her unless she was tied up, Chris?"
"I like being in control. Trouble is with sex..." Whitman took a drink of water. "When you're into it, you're not in control."
Decker waited for more.
Whitman took another hit of his smoke. "If the girl's tied up and I lose control, I know she can't hurt me."
"You thought Cheryl might hurt you?"
"Once you've been a pinata, Sergeant, you never trust again."
"Not even your friend Ms. McLaughlin? Is that why you tied her up?"
"No, that was different. That was art. I never had sex with her." 239
"Art?"
"My rendition of Jesus on the cross."
"You tied her up for art?"
"I couldn't exactly peg her to the cross."
"Why'd you tie up Cheryl?"
Whitman said, "I told you. I didn't trust her. I don't trust anyone. You're in ecstasy, coming inside a woman... next thing you know she has a knife in your back."
"You thought Cheryl was going to kill you?"
"Call the binds insurance." Whitman stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. "I need to be in control. When I'm not, there's always a chance that I'll freak. You want an ogre for my weird behavior, blame my father."
"How old were you when your father died?"
"Nine."
"How'd it happen?"
"He was murdered. Gangland hit."
Decker studied the kid's eyes. Again, they were unreadable. Even though everything was on tape, Decker still took out his notebook. His own scribblings reminded him of the salient points of the case. "What happened after your dad died?"
"My mother and I went to live with Joey Donatti."
"Did Joey ever beat you, Chris?"
Whitman's eyes went to the camera. "No."
"At least not when you're on film."
"Joey never beat me."
"Donatti adopted you."
"After my mom died, yes."
"Is Joey Donatti a blood relative of yours?"
Whitman shook his head.
"Why'd he adopt you?"
"Deathbed promise to my mom."
"What was their relationship?"
"My mother was his mistress."
"Ah." Decker took a sip of water. "You remember tying up Cheryl the night of the prom, Chris?"
"Like I told you, I was real drunk. But I'm sure I could have."
"You weren't too drunk to put on condoms."
"Habit. I always use rubbers."
"In the heat of passion, you can stop, evaluate the situation, then calmly put on a rubber. That takes a lot of discipline." 240
Whitman shrugged. "I never allow myself to be in the throes of passion unless she's incapacitated and I'm wearing a rubber."
"Even when you're drunk, and you don't remember doing too much, you remember to put on protection?"
"For me, putting on a condom is like zipping yourself up after you take a piss. No matter how drunk you are, you just do it."
Decker said, "How about with your friend Terry? Did you wear a condom with her?"
"I told you, I never had sex with her."
"Never did anything physical with her?"
"Nope."
"She tells it differently," Decker said. "She tells me the two of you were quite physical. You know what, Chris? I believe her."
"We kissed," Whitman said. "Maybe to her that's physical."
"So what's kissing her to you, Whitman?"
"A heartbreak."
"She said you did more."
"I didn't have sex with her."
"You climaxed."
Whitman looked at Decker. "She told you that?"
"She also told me you weren't wearing a rubber."
"We didn't have intercourse, okay?"
"Don't get peeved. I'm just trying to sort fact from fiction. You say you don't remember things. You say you always wear a rubber. And you didn't with Terry, that's all."
"Because we didn't make love ... we didn't..." He sat back in his chair. "You and Terry must have had quite a little talk. What else did she tell you?"
"I'm running an investigation, Whitman. I ask lots of questions, and nothing's too personal when it comes to murder; You tell me you don't remember anything. But I tell you that you were aware enough to put on protection."
"I told you that's habit."
"Except with Terry."
"Decker, I don't use rubbers when I don't screw. Hookers give me head, I don't use rubbers. Why would I bother? Give me an effing break!"
"Tell me what you do remember about that night in the hotel room."
"Not much. I remember waking up the next morning in my bed with a thrashing headache. Of course, I was out of Advil. I went to a 241
twenty-four-hour drugstore and bought a bottle. When I came home, I found your card on my doorstep. I called. You came over with your pictures." He looked pained. "I knew I was in deep shit. Because the whole scene at the hotel was pretty sketchy in my mind."
"When I showed you the postmortem pictures of Cheryl, you were sober?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"Then you saw Cheryl had her hands bound with a bow tie."
Whitman didn't answer.
Decker said, "What happened to your tux, Chris?"
Whitman paused. "Everything's off the record?"
"Not exactly. But what you're telling me now can't be used against you if we go to trial."
"Whatever that means."
"What happened to your tux?"
"Yeah, I saw the bow tie. I knew it was evidence against me. I stuffed my monkey suit in my cello ... cellos. You looked carefully, but I hid it really well. Since I knew you couldn't take them apart, I knew I was safe."
"How'd you get them apart?"
"Cellos are held together by glue joints. Loosen the glue, the top pops off." He poured himself a glass of water and drank it up in a few gulps. "I forgot about the sketches of Terry. She wanted them back after she stopped tutoring me. I'm sorry I didn't listen to her."
"Why'd she stop tutoring you?"
"I guess I scared her. But even so, I knew she still liked me. She would
have taken me back as her student or something more intimate. Chemistry is chemistry. It was hell holding back from her."
"Why'd you do it?"
"Because I was engaged to someone else. Believe it or not, I didn't want to hurt her."
"What about Cheryl? You didn't mind hurting her?"
"I meant I didn't want to hurt Terry psychologically. As far as Cheryl was concerned, I would never hurt her physically on purpose."
"How about by accident?"
"Look, maybe I did something nasty to her. But if I did, I don't remember it! I was blitzed, don't you understand?"
"Chris, you remembered seeing the night clerk watching TV in the back room when you left. How can you remember seeing a night clerk... remember what he was doing ... but not remember murdering someone?"
"When you're drunk, it's weird how the mind works." 242
"You're selling, I'm not buying." Decker kept his face flat. "What's the last thing you recall about the hotel?"
Whitman ran his hand over his face. "Can I have another smoke?"
Decker gave him another lit cigarette.
"Thanks." Whitman took a deep drag. "What do I remember about the hotel? I remember watching fuck films in the room. I remember Bull Anderson loading me up with shots of Jack Daniel's. I recall feeling horny, vaguely recall having sex. And now that you mention it, I do remember leaving and seeing Henry Trupp in the back room watching TV. The desk was unattended when I left."
"Do you remember Cheryl telling you she was pregnant?"
"Yeah, but that happened way earlier in the evening."
"How'd you feel about that?"
"I told you it wasn't mine."
"And you were positive?"
"Yes. I'm still positive. Enough to give you blood and semen."
"Go on. What else do you remember about your night in the hotel?"
"That's really it. Next thing I can actually recall is getting up with a headache the next morning "
"What?"
"Nothing."
Decker ran his hands through his hair. "Chris, I'm tired. Don't give me shit. What do you suddenly remember?"
"I think..." Whitman flicked ashes from his cigarette. "I think Terry might have called me. I'm not sure because it was a hang-up. But I seem to remember a phone call waking me up. It might have been her."
Decker said, "What time?"
Whitman shrugged. "Three, four, five in the morning. She'd know better if she made the call. She wasn't pickled."
"You tied Cheryl up that night, Chris?"
"Probably... because tying and fucking are routine things for me."
Decker said, "It's the killing that sticks in my craw. Unless killings are routine for you, too."
"I was shit-faced drunk. I don't remember killing Cheryl. Just like I didn't remember blowing a hole in my stomach. And yet here it is." Whitman stood, lifted up his shirt, pulled down his waistband, and pointed to a small circle of glistening white flesh above his pubic bone. "While I'm stripping, want to see my scar from my spleenectomy? Or the cigarette burn " 243
"Sit down, Chris."
Whitman sat. "Can we stop now? I've got a hell of an ordeal facing me. Namely, my uncle's in town. He's going to nail me as soon as he finds out I dealt with the police without my lawyer and behind his back."
"Why'd you do it, then?"
"Because I had to." He pointed to the camera. "Turn the fucking thing off. I'm tired of my ten minutes of fame."
Decker went over to the video camera and turned it off. He sat down next to Whitman. "Okay, Chris. Now we're really off the record. Tell me what happened."
"You don't believe me." Whitman's eyes went flat. "You're going to recommend against a deal, aren't you?"
"I'm going to play the video and leave it up to the State."
"And if they ask your opinion?"
"They won't."
"But if they did?"
Decker studied the boy. "With your mental history, Man One is about as good as we could get if it went to trial. Why waste time and money?"
Whitman closed and opened his eyes. "Thank you, Jesus, for sending me someone with a brain."
"But that doesn't mean I believe a word you're saying."
"I'm crushed."
Decker glared at him. "Shut your friggin mouth, kid. I'm tired of this case and I'm really tired of you!"
Whitman licked his lips. "Sorry."
Decker ran his hands over his face. "We both know you're doing more time than if the case went to trial. I can't figure out if you're being noble or if you want to settle this quickly because there's some major shit I've overlooked."
Whitman took another drag on his cigarette. He spoke softly. "Unless you're Catholic, you couldn't understand. All the shit they brainwash you with. But she can't escape it. Truth is, neither can I. To pose like she did for me ... flaunting her body ... her nakedness. Decker, I let those sketches go public, I screw up her head for life."
He shook his head.
"Man, I swore that no one but me would ever see the drawings. I owe it to her to keep my promise as best I can."
"It's worth being shit-canned for?"
Whitman gave a careless wave in the air. "In my family, doing 244
time is a badge of honor. After a five-year stint, I come out, I got
notches on my belt. Believe me, there are worse things than the hole." The kid turned slightly pale. Decker said, "Like your uncle's temper?" Whitman shook his head. "God... what a fucking mess!"
"I'll give you one thing, Chris. You must really care for her to go against Donatti."
"Sergeant, for that little girl, I'd take a bullet between my eyes
with a smile on my face."
Decker regarded the kid. For once, he knew that Whitman was telling the truth. 245
Seeing his uncle, Whitman suddenly realized how short the man was. Short but muscular with hands like leather paddles. His face had grown fleshier... jowlier. Once a lean pit bull, Joey was now more like a bulldog. But his eyes ... man, they never wavered once they hit their target. And today the poisoned darts were aimed straight at his face. Whitman forced himself not to look away.
Joey didn't dress like the rest of them. He went for flair, not flash designer from tip to toe. Even with his squat size, he somehow pulled it off. Today he had on a slate-colored double-breasted suit, white shirt, and a muted, rust-patterned tie. His breast handkerchief was a pleated flower and exactly matched the hue of the dominant color of the tie. His shoes were burnt-almond loafers, polished to a mirror surface.
The jailer opened the cell and told Donatti a half hour. Joey nodded. As soon as the door slammed shut, Whitman felt his heart in his chest. He stood up from his bunk, but his uncle motioned him back down with a flick of the finger.
Whitman sat.
Slowly Donatti walked over to him. As Joey stood above him, Whitman knew that he could take his uncle down with a single well-placed punch. It was all a psych game. Because he knew better than to ever lay a finger on his uncle. He was a well-trained machine, just like Joey's Neapolitan mastiffs all three of them over two hundred pounds of vicious fighting dog. Yet a look from Joey sent them whimpering in the corner. 246
The smack across his face was so hard, Whitman felt it in his toes. Instantly, blood gushed from his nose, but he kept his hands in his lap and maintained eye contact.
Softly, Joey said, "That's for disobeying me and moving without my permission."
Another slam of dried beef against his jaw.
"That's for wasting my money!"
A wood-hard backhand across his cheek.
"That's for disobeying your lawyer and acting stupid."
Another thwack.
"For getting yourself into this fucking mess and wasting my time and energy!"
A final crash over his face. Whitman felt something crack, felt pebbles in his mouth. Blood was pouring over his lips, down his face, dripping onto his chest and lap.
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