Big Silence

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “I think you’re out of business, Mike. If these people are crazy enough to come to your house while a crowd is gathering and beat you to a pulp, I wonder what they would do if you didn’t heed their advice.”

  “Find them,” said Piniescu, his fists tightening.

  “You sure you want them found?”

  “You’re a policeman. It’s your job. This is America.”

  “You’ve given me that valuable information twice. When you can move, we’ll show you some pictures. Maybe you’ll be able to identify your assailants. Maybe they’ll have interesting criminal records that will help in your admirable determination to seek revenge and justice.”

  Mike looked puzzled.

  “I —” he began.

  “Take care of yourself, Mike,” said Lieberman. “I’ll get back to you.”

  Lieberman headed back to the station where Hanrahan was waiting at his desk.

  “What’d he give you?” asked Lieberman.

  “Got him in the captain’s office. He’s downing a Wendy’s double cheese. He’s talking fast and hard.”

  “Wanna make the call to Carbin?”

  “My pleasure,” said Hanrahan. “Piniescu?”

  “Wants us to find the villains so the law can take its course.”

  “You gonna find them?”

  “Who knows, Father Murphy? This is a big city. Even with a decent description it won’t be easy. And I think our Mike might have second thoughts about identifying his attackers if they have a violent past that suggests they might be upset if he identified them.”

  While Hanrahan made his call to the assistant state attorney, Lieberman went to his desk and dialed a number. Someone answered and Lieberman asked for the person he was trying to reach.

  “Viejo, what do you know? What do you say? I’m still in bed. Up late la noche pasada.”

  “So I hear,” said Lieberman. “You and your friends displayed more enthusiasm for your task than I asked.”

  “Viejo, we got carried away with our duty to the public,” said El Perro.

  “Our victim wants the perpetrators caught. He says he can identify them.”

  “No shit,” exclaimed El Perro. “I thought he’d pack up and find some other part of the country. This is a big country.”

  “He may,” said Lieberman. “Didn’t you tell me you were planning to visit your relatives in Guatemala?”

  “I got no relatives, Viejo,” he said, “an’ I’m too busy here, you know?”

  “Suit yourself,” said Lieberman.

  “I have faith in you, Viejo.” said El Perro. “You know I got two girls here. One of them is very young. The other is her mother, who ain’ all that old either. You ever have two women, Viejo?”

  “I can’t say that I’ve experienced that pleasure,” said Lieberman watching Hanrahan get up from his desk and head toward his partner’s.

  “I can set it up,” said El Perro. “Dija la palabra y —”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

  “I was kiddin’ anyway,” said El Perro. “Truth is I got the grandmother here too and she ain’ so fuckin’ old.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” said Lieberman.

  “You wanna talk to them?”

  “No, but thanks for the offer. Hasta luego.”

  “Hasta luego,” said El Perro.

  Lieberman hung up. He had been careful in his conversation as had Emiliano, just in case the call was being tarred. It wasn’t likely, but you never knew. If he were asked about the call, Lieberman would have a perfectly acceptable tale to spin.

  Lieberman looked up at his partner.

  “On the way,” said Hanrahan.

  “Let’s work.” Lieberman got up.

  There weren’t many detectives and citizens in the squad room now, but there were a few. Business would pick up on the night shift. Hanrahan and Lieberman were not scheduled for the night shift for a month or so though they often worked overtime at night. Neither dreaded the night duty. On a good night, little or nothing happened, and besides, Lieberman slept better during the day. On a bad weekday night, both men wondered why they had become cops.

  “Lieberman, Hanrahan,” Tony Munoz called from his desk where he was taking a statement from a reasonably attractive woman old enough to be his mother. A single glance at his smile left no doubt that he was hitting on the woman.

  “Blitzstein agreed to walk-through on the site,” he said. “Got a call from the state attorney’s office. I think they’re making a deal with him. Who knows? They’ll be here in an hour.”

  “Thanks,” said Hanrahan. “If we’re in the captain’s office, ask them … no, tell them to wait.”

  “They made a deal,” Lieberman said.

  “TV, papers’ll be all over it,” Hanrahan said as they walked across the room. “White Jew kills poor homeless black man, a once sort of famous black man. Was it ever thus, Rabbi?”

  “Ever,” said Lieberman.

  The boy sat at Kearney’s table. There was an open box that had once contained a double burger and there was a bag of fries that was almost gone. The boy, his glasses in the pocket of his white T-shirt, looked up solemnly.

  “This is my partner, Detective Lieberman,” Hanrahan said, taking a seat across from the boy while Lieberman sat next to him. “Can you go over everything that happened? Your own words. Then we’ll ask questions. ’Fraid you might have to go through this three or four times. You know, people forget details.”

  “They killed my father,” said Matthew, eyes moist, a deep scratch on his cheek. “And my mother. I’m going to kill them. Torture them.”

  “Let’s find them first,” said Lieberman. “Mind if we tape?”

  The thin young man nodded in agreement.

  “In Ohio,” he began when Hanrahan had produced a small cassette recorder and turned it on, “at the motel. They came through the window, two of them, fast, with guns. We were asleep. The breaking glass woke me up. I heard a loud noise, the shot, and they dragged me through the broken window, two of them. They were big, strong. Not too old. Italian or Greek maybe. I could identify them if I saw them. I’ll never forget the bastards —”

  Matthew paused, choked with emotion.

  “Take your time,” said Lieberman.

  “I’m okay,” the young man said. “They put me in the backseat of the car, covered my eyes. I asked them what they were doing. They told me to shut up. When I asked again, one of them hit me hard. They kept me in a basement. I was scared. They said they were going to kill me if my father didn’t do what they wanted. They wanted … they wanted him …”

  Again the young man couldn’t speak. He put his head down and closed his eyes.

  “To kill himself,” Lieberman supplied.

  Matthew pulled himself together, his narrow shoulders quivering for an instant. He rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his soiled shirt and went on. “They said they were going to send my fingers to my father till he did what they wanted. They asked me if I had ever seen anyone with no fingers. They showed me pictures. God, I was so scared.”

  “So,” said Hanrahan, “they never took the blindfold off?”

  “No, except to look at the pictures. They even led me to the toilet and fed me with the blindfold on. I did get a look when they showed me the pictures but I was too scared to pay attention. Later I did get a peek under the wrapping once. I could see I was in a small room with concrete walls and some wooden steps leading up. There was a dirty little window. I didn’t get a look at anyone’s face that time, but several of them had really bad grammar. One, the one who was on the phone to my father, spoke much better. They pushed me around a lot. I think they wanted to be sure I was frightened when I talked to my father. I was. Very frightened.”

  “Seems reasonable,” said Lieberman. “Go on.”

  “Not much more,” Matthew said. “This morning they led me out. It was cold. They drove me where I guess was downtown. They didn’t talk. Someone reached over me to push the door open and
then shove me out. I tripped over a curb, stood up, and heard the car pulling away. I tore off the blindfold.”

  “You see the car pulling away?” asked Hanrahan.

  “I think so. It was big and black. The sun was almost blinding me after those days in the dark, but it was big and black.”

  “What did you do with the blindfold?”

  “Do? There was a garbage can. I threw it away and began looking for a policeman. My legs were a little weak. They still are.”

  “Where exactly were you?” Lieberman asked gently.

  “In front of the Picasso,” the boy said. “May I have some water?”

  Hanrahan turned off the tape recorder. Lieberman went to the door to open it and call, “Tony, can we have a cup of water in here?”

  Lieberman returned to the table and folded his hands in front of him. Hanrahan turned the tape recorder back on.

  “Did you talk to your father very much over the past few years?” Abe asked.

  “On the phone, maybe once a month,” he said. “We talked about my coming to visit him when I went to college. You know, spend spring break, maybe Christmas.”

  “He write to you?”

  “Yes,” said Matthew. “Maybe three or four times a year. We were getting closer. I wanted to see him. Now —”

  Munoz came with the water in a paper cup. He looked at the boy and then at Hanrahan, who gave no clue to how things were going or what they were learning if anything. Lieberman said something to Munoz, who nodded and departed. Matthew drank the entire cup.

  “We’ll go over all this again later, Matt,” said Lieberman. “Just a few more questions.”

  “Sure.”

  “You sure the car pulling away was black, not white?” asked Hanrahan.

  “White? No, it was black.”

  “You know someone named David Donald Wilhite?” Lieberman said immediately, but gently.

  “David — he’s my roommate at school. But —”

  “Good friend?”

  “Friend,” Matthew said, looking puzzled.

  “He has a white car, hasn’t he?” asked Hanrahan.

  “Yes,” said Matt slowly.

  “He’s missing,” said Lieberman. “Think that might have something to do with what happened to you? You think he could have been working with the people who kidnapped you, killed your mother?”

  “David? No. Never.”

  There was a knock at the door and Hanrahan stopped the tape recorder again. Munoz came in before anyone could tell him to enter. He had a sheet of paper in his hand. He gave it to Lieberman and went out again.

  Lieberman read the sheet and handed it to Hanrahan.

  “This note is a piece of serendipity,” said Lieberman. “David Donald Wilhite has been picked up on the turnpike in Michigan heading east. He was just outside of Detroit.”

  “Picked up?” Matthew asked, looking at both detectives.

  “We sent out a bulletin with a description of his car and his plate number,” said Hanrahan. “They’re bringing him back here now. Should be here this afternoon some time.”

  “Why?”

  “Suspicion of murder,” said Lieberman.

  “David? He didn’t kill my mother. That’s crazy. I told you it was two men who —”

  “My partner thinks he killed your mother. I think you did. What color was the car they took you away from that motel in?” asked Lieberman.

  “I don’t remember. It was blue, black. I don’t know. I didn’t kill my mother. Are you crazy?”

  “Not white?” asked Lieberman. “The car wasn’t white?”

  “No,” said Matthew.

  “It was white,” said Hanrahan. “I watched it drive away.”

  “You were there?” asked Matthew.

  “Room across from yours,” said Hanrahan.

  “No,” the boy said, looking from detective to detective.

  “Yes,” said Hanrahan.

  “We can wait till we talk to your friend David,” said Lieberman. “We’ve got time.”

  “Garbage pickup downtown is midnight,” said Hanrahan having no idea when the garbage pickup was. “We’re sending a couple of men down to the Picasso to look through the trash cans for your blindfold. Dirty job, but it looks like it has to be done.”

  “Why?” asked Matthew.

  “Because we don’t think you’re telling the truth,” Lieberman said sympathetically. “You’re smart, but we don’t think you’re smart enough to actually put a blindfold in the garbage. You expected us to believe you.”

  “So wait a minute. You really think I had something to do with killing my own mother and father?” Matthew asked, standing up.

  “Please sit,” said Lieberman.

  The young man stood for a few seconds more and then sat.

  “We know you didn’t kill your father,” said Hanrahan. “We know your friend David didn’t kill him. We know Jimmy Stashall didn’t kill him. Want to know why?”

  “I … yes.”

  “Because your father’s not dead,” said Lieberman. “We staged the whole thing over the phone.”

  “No, he’s dead,” Matthew said with a smile of suspicion. “You think I had something to do with killing my parents. This is crazy. I want to see a lawyer.”

  “You’ve got it,” said Hanrahan. “We’ll stop the tape now and read you your rights. You don’t have to say anything more till you get a lawyer.”

  Lieberman rattled off the Miranda in a monotone and closed with asking Matthew if he wanted a court-appointed lawyer.

  “This is crazy,” he repeated.

  “We’ll talk to your friend David,” said Hanrahan.

  “Want to see your father?” asked Lieberman.

  “He’s dead,” the boy shouted.

  Lieberman shook his head no.

  “I think he’s right outside the door by now,” Lieberman said, standing. “We’ll play the tape for him and see if he confirms the story of reconciliation between father and son, the phone calls, the letters. We don’t know how tough your pal David is, but we’ll see if he can be persuaded to tell his part.”

  “We think you planned the whole thing, got your buddy to help you with the promise of money you would be getting from your mother’s life insurance and other holdings and the insurance policy and assets of your father.”

  “You killed your mother for money,” Lieberman said, shaking his head.

  “No,” Matthew said emphatically.

  “Then hate,” said Hanrahan.

  This time the young man did not respond.

  “I’ll check on your father,” Lieberman said, moving to the door, opening it, and motioning to someone. He held the door open wide and Assistant State Attorney Eugene Carbin entered with Mickey Gornitz right behind.

  “No!” Matthew shouted, backing against the wall. “You’re dead.”

  “Matt,” Mickey said softly, stepping toward his son.

  “This isn’t fair,” Matthew cried. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “I’m okay,” said Mickey. “And you’re not hurt. That’s all that counts.”

  “You’re supposed to be dead,” Matthew screamed.

  “You read his rights?” asked Carbin.

  “All on the tape,” said Lieberman. “He wants a lawyer.”

  “Needs one,” said Carbin. “I understand they picked up the other kid.”

  Lieberman nodded.

  “Matt,” Mickey said. “It’ll be okay.”

  “I don’t want it to be okay,” the boy shouted. “I want you dead. You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “I love you, son,” said Mickey.

  “I hate you, Dad,” the boy said, his back to the wall. “I hated her and I hate you. You weren’t parents. She was a demanding, critical monster, a Medusa in tight dresses, a manipulating bitch. And you, you’re a cringing piece of shit who never made any real effort to see me, talk to me, find out about how I was or wasn’t. You love me? You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

  With that
, Matthew broke from the wall and threw himself against the window. The window didn’t give. Hanrahan ran to the boy and threw his arms around him, lifting Matthew from the floor and turning him back into the room to face Lieberman and Carbin. Matthew went limp in defeat.

  “Even if you went through it,” Hanrahan said, “it’s only one flight down. Most you’d probably do unless you took a dive is break a leg. Only know of one who had the nerve to take a head-first dive out of a low window.”

  “Matt,” said Mickey. “Matt. Did you kill your mother?”

  “He doesn’t have to answer that,” said Carbin. “He has a right to an attorney.”

  Matthew looked at his father with ugly hatred and nodded.

  Hanrahan sat the boy back at the captain’s small conference table and put the cuffs on him as gently as he could.

  “Matt,” Mickey tried.

  “Go away,” the boy shouted. “Go away. I have nothing more to say to you ever except I hope Stashall finds you and kills you, tears your head off.”

  Mickey was going to speak again but Carbin, to whom Lieberman had handed the cassette of the interview with Matthew, took Gornitz by the arm and led him out of the office.

  “We’ll get you a lawyer,” Lieberman said.

  Matthew’s head and shoulders were down in defeat. A lawyer might restore some confidence to him. Hell, a good lawyer might even get the boy off depending on what David Donald Wilhite had to say under pressure.

  “I’ll take him, Abe,” Hanrahan said, helping Matthew to his feet. “You call Kearney.”

  Matthew didn’t resist as Hanrahan led him out of the office.

  Lieberman walked to the phone and dialed the central police headquarters downtown. He asked for the assistant chief’s office and got a secretary, female.

  “My name’s Lieberman. Is Captain Kearney still in a meeting?”

  “Yes,” she said abruptly.

  “He wants to talk to me,” Lieberman said.

  “I’ve been ordered not to interrupt.”

  “The assistant chief will want this information immediately,” said Lieberman. “Believe me. Tell them I said it was urgent. I’ll take the blame if there is any. I’m getting old. I’m getting tired. I can handle the irritation of the mayor if I have to.”