05-Client

by Parnell Hall

  “Now. I was being nice and giving you another chance. Perhaps I should say your last chance. So tell me. Have you ever seen that gun before?”

  “No.”

  Creely nodded. “Fine. Glad to hear it. Now about your question. The one you thought was more important than mine. Was it the murder gun? Well now, that’s what it’s going to the lab to see. They’ll fire some test bullets through it, and then they’ll send over to the morgue, and if the cocksuckers over there haven’t made a mess of the fatal bullet, they’ll be able to tell.”

  “Fatal bullet?”

  “Oh yeah. Best we can tell, she was shot once in the heart. There’s no exit wound, so the bullet’s still in the body. So if the medics don’t fuck it up, we can get a match.”

  Creely cocked his head at me and chewed his gum. “I don’t know why I’m the one giving out all the information here, but I’m just a nice guy so I’ll tell you.

  “Odds are it’s the fatal gun. It’s been recently fired. There’s one bullet shy of a full load in the magazine. Plus we found a shell casing from an automatic on the motel room floor. We ought to be able to match up the mark from the firing pin on the shell casing, as well as matching the fatal bullet. Now that has yet to be done, but I would say it’s safe to assume this was the murder weapon.”

  “Where’d you find it?”

  Creely smiled. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For asking. See, I knew with a guy as inquisitive as you, if we just talked long enough eventually you’d ask the right question. The one I’ve been waiting to answer.”

  Creely unwrapped a fresh stick of gum and popped it into his mouth. I figured he was doing it just to prolong the suspense. To make me ask him again.

  I couldn’t help myself. I did.

  “Where did you find it?”

  He chewed his gum. Shrugged. “State cops found it. Weren’t going to let me have it, either. Sons of bitches. Gonna take the gun and you too. Cocksuckers.”

  Creely shook his head. Frowned. Then his face brightened. “Oh, but you asked me where. Funny you should ask.” He cocked his head at me and his smile was rather smug. “It was in the glove compartment of your car.”

  17.

  STANLEY HASTINGS’S Interpretation of Dreams.

  Despite the code alarm, my car has been broken into many times. It’s not that hard to do. The lock itself is simple. You stick in a screwdriver, turn, and the door pops open.

  Of course when that happens the code alarm goes off and the ignition cutoff switch kicks in, leaving the car thief with a loud wailing car that won’t start. No car thief wants to hassle with that when he can walk a few blocks and find another car that doesn’t have a code alarm. So though my car’s been broken into many times, it’s never been stolen.

  But the lock is vulnerable. And after each successive break in it becomes more so—the casing a little looser, the hole slightly more enlarged. (I never repair it of course— it would be a waste of money, and what would be the point?) So by now it was so bad that, if even I, the most inept of detectives, whom a locked door usually stymies, should happen to lose my keys, I could probably get in.

  And someone had. They’d picked the lock and popped the door open. The alarm had gone off. They’d taken the murder gun and put it in the glove compartment. Then they’d locked and closed the door and walked off.

  The alarm had woken me, slowly, groggily. And as I said, my alarm is the kind that goes for a minute and shuts off. I’d woken up, baffled, confused, with no conscious recollection of having heard an alarm.

  But having dreamed someone stole my car.

  All of that came to me in a flash, of course, the moment Creely told me about the gun in the glove compartment. The murderer had put it there after the crime. I also realized of all the spots the murderer could have chosen, that was probably the one I liked least. No wonder the state cops were so hot for my bod. The only wonder was how Creely had talked them out of it. The only explanation must have been that it really was his jurisdiction, and if he wanted to tell them to go roll a hoop, he could.

  And he had. And on reflection, I couldn’t blame him. After all, here it was, probably his first murder case. And with the gun in the glove compartment, he had to figure he had it all wrapped up. Under those circumstances, why the hell should he let someone else take the credit for it?

  He stood there looking at me. He was grinning sardonically like a Cheshire cat, and chewing his gum like a contented cow.

  I knew what he was doing. He had dropped his bombshell, and now he was watching me to see if I’d break.

  In a way, he was getting his wish. I wasn’t quite at the point where I was gonna confess to this murder, but on the other hand, my poker face isn’t that good, and if that’s what we’d been playing, I bet Creely would not have been reading me for a full house. More likely for someone not playing with a full deck.

  I wanted to say something brave, jaunty, cocky—toss off a flippant zinger like a TV detective would do. Or perhaps raise one eyebrow, cock my head at him, and drawl out something caustically ironic, like Jack Nicholson in Chinatown.

  Only I didn’t feel like Jack Nicholson in Chinatown. If the truth be known, I didn’t feel like Sidney Poitier in In the Heat of the Night, either.

  If anything, I felt like the title toon in Who Framed Roger Rabbit?

  18.

  “THE DOOR WAS LOCKED and the code alarm was on?”

  “I explained that.”

  “Explain it again.”

  I sighed and rubbed my head. “The murderer broke into my car. That set off the code alarm. Then the murderer stuck the gun in the glove compartment, locked the car and got out of there.”

  “How’d he lock the door without a key?”

  “Come on, Chief. You drive a car. You push the button down and hold the door handle up when you slam the door.”

  “Then how’d he reset the code alarm.”

  “It resets itself. Actually, it never turns off unless you punch the computer numbers in. The siren shuts off after one minute. But the alarm is still set, and if someone tries to get into the car it will go off again.”

  “It did go off again.”

  “Oh?”

  “When the state police searched your car. That’s how we know the door was locked and the alarm was on.” Greely chewed his gum. “Now, in the middle of the night, when you allege someone broke into your car.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The alarm went off?”

  “Right.”

  “But you didn’t hear it?”

  “No, I didn’t actually hear it.”

  “Then how do you know it went off?”

  “I told you. I had a dream someone stole my car.”

  Creely shook his head. “Great. Wonderful. You had a dream. What a wonderful defense. ‘Gee, officer, I dreamed it.’”

  “I had the dream. It must have been because the siren went off and I heard it in my sleep. But it only lasts a minute. So by the time I woke up it had shut off. So I had no recollection of having heard a siren. I just thought someone had stolen my car.”

  “And what time was this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have a watch.”

  “What the hell kind of a private detective are you, you don’t have a watch?”

  I didn’t want to answer that question. It was embarrassing. But then, that was only one of a number of embarrassing questions I didn’t want to answer. And damned if Chief Creely didn’t keep shooting them at me.

  Creely and I were having a little chat. It was only natural, I suppose. Since Chuck had left to take the gun to the police lab, and Davis and the other officer hadn’t got back from the morgue with Monica Dorlander and Marvin Nickleson yet, we were the only ones in the station. So Creely and I were just hanging out, shooting the shit, and killing time.

  Waiting for my lawyer.

  I’d called Richard right after the gun in t
he glove compartment bit. I hated to do it, but I figured that little touch had bumped the case up into his league. Not that I was worried about bothering him—I knew he’d actually be thrilled. But Richard is Richard. Involving him in a murder case is kind of like unleashing a pit bull— on the one hand you know it’s going to protect you, but on the other hand, are you up to dealing with the resultant chaos?

  In this case I had no choice. I was at the stage where it was either call Richard or some local lawyer, and if I did the latter, Richard never would have forgiven me. So I made the call.

  I also made Richard’s day. When he answered the phone, I could tell he was still in his blue funk, but when he heard why I was calling he perked right up. He told me to sit tight and he’d be right there.

  He also told me to keep my mouth shut and not say a word. I had chosen to disregard that advice, for two reasons. For one thing, I figured if I clammed up and refused to answer questions, Creely would chain me to the pipe again. Frankly, I’d had enough of that storeroom. As far as I was concerned, sitting in a chair chatting with Creely sure beat sitting on the floor with my arm in the air.

  For another thing—and this was something I couldn’t tell Richard on the phone with Creely standing right there at my elbow—despite everything, despite the murder weapon having been found in my glove compartment and all that, Creely still hadn’t read me my rights.

  Which meant that nothing I told him could be used against me in a court of law. And seeing as how a court of law was where we were apt to be heading, I figured as long as Creely was giving me the opportunity, I might as well get everything in.

  And that we did. We went over the code alarm thing again and again. And Marvin Nickleson and Monica Dorlander. And Monica Dorlander’s (or Julie Steinmetz’s or Judy Felson’s or whomever’s) evening caller, the man I knew only as Check-hat. Mr. Speedy Gonzales. The in-again-out-again man with no name. Here again the questions proved embarrassing, and Chief Creely’s sarcasm withering. But we went over it all.

  All except POP. I was holding out about POP. I figured if the cops hadn’t tipped to him yet, and it appeared that they hadn’t, I ought to have an ace in the hole. If POP was indeed an ace. Though with my luck he was more apt to be a two or a three. But aside from POP, we did the whole schmear.

  We were still into it when Davis got back with Monica Dorlander. The real Monica Dorlander, that is, not the phony dead one.

  “Well?” Chief Creely demanded.

  Monica Dorlander looked a little green around the gills. Apparently she’d never seen a murder victim before.

  “Well,” she said. “It’s just as I told the officer. I’ve seen her before. She lives in my building. I just don’t know her name.”

  “You got the picture?” Davis asked.

  “What?” Creely said.

  “Marvin Nickleson had never seen the dead woman before, but he said she looked like the woman in the picture.”

  Creely jerked his thumb at Monica Dorlander. “What about her?”

  “Sir?”

  “Had Marvin Nickleson ever seen her before?”

  “He said no.”

  “Is that right, ma’am? You ever seen him before?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  Creely grunted. “Here. Take a look at this.”

  He passed over the picture.

  She took a look. Her lip quivered. She looked as if she were going to be sick. “Yes,” she said. “That’s her.”

  “How about it, Davis?” Creely said. “Is it her?”

  Davis looked at the picture. He nodded. “Yeah. It’s her, all right.”

  All right. Confirmations all around. The woman I was following was dead. I was sorry to hear it, but glad to have it confirmed. The way the case had been breaking, I wouldn’t have been that surprised if the dead woman had turned out to be someone I’d never seen or heard of.

  At that point, the other officer and Marvin Nickleson arrived, and the whole merry-go-round began again. Monica Dorlander and Marvin Nickleson were given every opportunity in the world to admit that they knew each other. When they failed to take advantage of it, Marvin Nickleson was given every opportunity to admit that he knew the dead woman. He denied that until it became boring, and then he started getting cranky, and demanding to know when he could go home. Which cued Monica Dorlander to start getting cranky and demand to know when she could go home. I could tell Chief Creely was getting sick of them, and probably would have sent them both home if he could have only got a word in edgewise.

  No one was paying the least attention to me, and I wasn’t handcuffed or anything, so if I’d had the guts to do it, I probably could have just walked out the door. I thought better of it, however. For one thing, flight is an indication of guilt. For another thing, if Richard drove up all that distance to get me out of jail, and then found out I’d stood him up, I’d be in a lot more trouble than just facing a murder rap.

  It was right about then that Richard arrived. He banged open the front door and came striding into a scene of chaos that must have looked like something out of a “Barney Miller” rerun—two character types bitching and moaning and carrying on, and the cops standing around watching them and scratching their heads.

  Richard has tremendous stage presence and an amazing ability to take charge. He did so now. He strode into the center of the confusion, struck a theatrical pose and said, “That will do.”

  It did. Amazingly, everyone shut up.

  “Thank you,” Richard said. He snapped his fingers. “First of all, my client’s rights are being violated here. One, he’s being interrogated outside my presence. Two, he’s being interrogated in the presence of other witnesses. Not only does this violate his rights, but it also renders any identification inadmissable in the event the witnesses should subsequently pick him out of a lineup.

  “Second of all, what we have here is a case of harassment and false arrest. I hereby serve notice that when I file charges in that case, the manner in which my client and I are treated from this point on shall be relevant to the charge, and shall have an impact on the amount of damages we intend to seek.

  “Now. I need to confer with my client alone and at once. Any attempt to prevent me from doing so shall be considered a further violation of his rights, and will substantially increase damages in the civil suit on the one hand, and render him blameless from any criminal charge on the other.

  “Is that clear?”

  I doubt it, but who would disagree with him? My god, what a performance. He stood there, eyes flashing, challenging the room.

  We stood there, gawking at him.

  Chief Creely blinked twice. His face wrinkled up, as if he’d just smelled something distasteful.

  He cocked his head at me, jerked his thumb in Richard’s direction, and demanded, “Who’s this cocksucker?”

  19.

  EVENTUALLY IT ALL GOT straightened out, but not before Richard had delivered an impromptu lecture on the laws of libel, by the end of which Chief Creely looked as if he were about to swallow his gum. Richard could get going on any subject if provoked, and before he was done we had all learned more about libel, slander, and defamation of character than any human being could ever wish to know. I must say, distracted as I was, most of it went over my head. I did learn, however, that irresponsible statements are far more damaging when made in the presence of witnesses, and more damaging still if those witnesses happen to be unbiased private citizens rather than public officials. To this end, Richard duly obtained and copied down the names and addresses of Marvin Nickleson and Monica Dorlander.

  That’s not to say Richard had it all his way. Chief Creely did not take kindly to being used as a punching bag, and managed to get his two cents in. It was a tribute to Richard’s powers of intimidation that even in the heat of the argument Chief Creely refrained from using any phrases that could be considered actionable.

  When the smoke finally cleared away, Richard got what he wanted—a private conference with his client. The
private conference room was—you guessed it—the storage closet. Not my favorite place in the world, but at least this time I wasn’t chained to the wall.

  I told Richard everything. From Marvin Nickleson to Monica Dorlander, to Monica Dorlander’s midnight caller, to my interpretation of dreams, to the subsequent discovery of the murder weapon in my car, to the arrival of the real Monica Dorlander and Marvin Nickleson, to the tentative identification of the body as Julie Steinmetz.

  “What a crock of shit,” Richard said.

  “It happens to be true.”

  “So what? I’m not interested in true. I’m interested in what I can sell to a jury.”

  I felt a chill. “You think this will go to trial?”

  Richard shrugged. “How the hell should I know. But I’m a lawyer. I have to say, what would happen if this goes to trial.”

  “All right. What would happen?”

  “You’d be convicted.”

  “What?!”

  “Don’t get upset. I wouldn’t let that happen.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “I’m just telling you where your story stands.”

  “It’s not a story.”

  “That’s not the point. I’m saying to myself, if this came to trial, what would I have to do to get this guy off?”

  “And?”

  “A lot depends on the makeup of the jury. Larry Davis got acquitted by ten blacks and two Hispanics.”

  “So?”

  “With your story, I’d have to pack the jury with ten Martians and two Hollywood producers strung out on coke.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “No, it isn’t. We have a serious credibility problem here. You shadow the woman for days. You register at a motel under an assumed name. The murder weapon’s found in your car. Then you claim the woman you were following wasn’t the woman you thought you were following. But you happen to have a picture of her in your wallet, and it happens that the dead woman is the woman you were following.”