by Scott Turow
But he finally laid himself down.
And she told him not to scream.
Wendell swung his feet as he talked. He gripped his doll. And as Carolyn and Mattingly had instructed him, he never looked over at his mother. On cross Stern did what little he could, asked Wendell how many times he'd met with Carolyn and whether he loved his mother, which caused Wendell to ask for more water. There was no disputing, really. Every person there knew the child was telling the truth, not because he was practiced or particularly emotional, but because somehow in every syllable Wendell spoke there was a tone, a knowledge, a bone-hard instinct that what he was describing was wrong. Wendell convinced with his moral courage.
I delivered the closing argument for the county. My state of personal disturbance was such that when I approached the podium I had no idea of what I was going to say, and for one moment I was full of panic, convinced that I would be speechless. Instead, I found the well of all my passionate turmoil and, I spoke fervently for this boy, who must have lived, I said, desperate and uncertain every moment, wanting, as we all wanted, love, and receiving instead, not just indifference or harshness, but torture.
Then we waited. Having a jury out is the closest thing in life to suspended animation. Even the simplest tasks, cleaning my desk, returning phone calls, reading prosecution reports, are beyond my attention, and I end up walking the halls, talking over the evidence and the arguments with anyone unlucky enough to ask me how the case went. About 4:00, Carolyn came by to say she was going to return something to Morton's and I volunteered to walk along. As we left the building, it began raining hard, a cold downpour driven almost sideways by the wind, which was full of winter. People dashed down the street, covering their heads. Carolyn returned her merchandise, a glass bowl whose source she did not identify, and then we headed back into the rain. She more or less shouted out as the wind came up, and I put an arm around her protectively, and she leaned against me beneath my umbrella. It was like something coming loose, and we went on that way for a few blocks, saying nothing, until I finally followed my impulse to speak.
Listen, I said. I started again. Listen.
In her heels, Carolyn was about six feet, an inch or so taller than me, so it was almost an embrace when she turned her face in my direction. In the natural light, you could see what Carolyn, with her devotion to lotions and gyms and spectacular fashions, tried to obscure-that it was an older face, past forty, the makeup clinging to the lines radiating from her eyes, a haggard roughness now part of the skin. But somehow that made her more real to me. This was my life and this was happening.
I've been wondering, I told her, about something you said. What you meant the other night when you told me, Not now.
She looked at me. She shook her head as if she did not know, but her face was full of caprice, her lips sealed to hold back her laughter.
The wind came up again then, and I drew her into the shelter of a recessed storefront. We were on Grayson Boulevard, where the shops face the stately elms of the Midway. I mean, I said, hopeless and pitiable and small, there seems to be something going on between us. I mean, am I crazy? To think that?
I don't think so.
You don't?
No.
Ah, I said.
Still smiling wonderfully, she put her arm through mine and moved me back down the street.
The jury returned a little before 7:00. Guilty on all counts. Raymond had remained in the office awaiting the verdict, and he came downstairs with us to meet the press, cameras not being allowed above the lobby of the County Building. Then he took us out for a drink. He had a date, and so around 8:30 he left us in a back booth at Caballero's, where Carolyn and I talked and became drunk and moony. I told her that she had been magnificent. Magnificent. I don't know how many times I said that.
TV and the movies have spoiled the most intimate moments of our lives. They have given us conventions which dominate our expectations in instants whose intensity would ordinarily make them spontaneous and unique. We have conventions of grief, which we learned from the Kennedys, and ordained gestures for victory by which we imitate the athletes we see on the tube, who in turn have learned the same things from other jocks they saw on TV. Seduction, too, has got its standards now, its slow-eyed moments, its breathless repartee.
And so we both ended up coming on smooth and wry and bravely composed, like all those gorgeous, poised movie-time couples, probably because we had no other idea of how to behave. And even so, there was a gathering in the air, a racing current that made it difficult to sit in place, to move my mouth or lift my glass to drink. I don't believe we ordered dinner, but we had the menus, something to stare at, like coquettes with their silk fans. Beneath the table Carolyn's hand was laid out casually, very close to my hip.
I didn't know you when this started.
What? she asks. We are close on the plush bench, but she must lean a bit nearer because I am speaking so softly. I can smell the liquor on her breath.
I didn't know you before this case, before this started. That amazes me.
Because?
Because it just doesn't seem that way now that I didn't know you. Do you know me now?
Better. I think so. Don't you?
Maybe, she says. Maybe what it is, is that now you know you want to get to know me.
That's possible, I say, and she repeats it:
That's possible.
And will I get to know you?
That's possible, too, she says. If that's what you want. I think that is, I say.
I think that's one thing, she says, that you want.
One thing?
One thing, she says. She brings her glass up to drink without looking away from me. Our faces are not very far apart at all. When she puts her glass down, the large bow on her blouse almost brushes my chin. Her face seems coarse with too much makeup, but her eyes are deep and spectacularly bright, and the air is wild with cosmetic scents, perfume, and body emanations from our closeness. It seems as if our talk has been drifting like this, circling languorously, like a hawk over the hills, for hours.
What else do I want? I ask.
I think you know, she says.
I do?
I think you do.
I think I do, I say. But there's one thing I still don't know.
There is?
I don't quite know how to get it-what I want.
You don't? Not quite. Not quite?
I really don't.
Her smile, so arch and delicately contained, now broadens, and she says, Just reach.
Reach?
Just reach, she says.
Right now?
Just reach.
The air between us seems so full of feeling that it is almost like a haze. Slowly I extend my hand and find the smooth edge of her bright satin bow. I do not quite touch her breast in doing that. And then, without turning my eyes away from hers, I gradually tug on that wide ribbon. It slides perfectly, and the knot breaks open so that the button at her blouse collar is exposed, and at just that moment, I feel Carolyn's hand fluttering up beneath the table like some bird and one long fingernail skates for an instant down my aching bulge. I almost scream, but instead, it all comes down to a shudder, and Carolyn says quietly that we should get a cab. "So," I said to Robinson, "that was how my affair began. I took her back to her fashionable loft and made love to her on the soft Greek rugs. I just grabbed her the minute she set the bolt in her front door, hiked her skirt up with one hand, and put the other down her blouse. Very suave. I came like lightning. And afterward, I lay on top of her, surveying the room, the teak and walnut and the crystal figurines, thinking how much it looked like the show window of some tony shop downtown and wondering in this idle way what in the fuck I was doing with my life, or even in a life where the culmination of a long-cultivated passion passed so quickly that I could hardly believe it had happened at all. But there was not a lot of time to think about that, because we had a drink, and then went to her bedroom to watch the story a
bout our case on the late news and by then I was capable again, and then, that time, when I reared up over her, I knew I was lost."
Chapter 10
"Whatever I can do for you, Rusty. Anything you need."
So says Lou Balistrieri, the police department's Commander of Special Services. I am sitting in his office in McGrath Hall, where the P.D.'s central operating sections are housed. I can't tell you how many Lous there are over here, fifty-five year-old guys with gray hair and guts that hang on them like saddlebags, phlegmy voices from smoking. A gifted bureaucrat, ruthless with any person in his employ and a shameless toady to anyone, like me, who has sufficient power to harm him. He is on the phone now, calling down to the crime lab, which is under his control.
"Morris, this is Balistrieri. Get me Dickerman. Yeah, now. If he's in the can, go in there and get him off. Yeah." Balistrieri winks at me. He was a street cop for twenty years, but he works now without a uniform. His rayon shirt is sweated through under the arms. "Dickerman, yeah. On this Polhemus thing. Rusty Sabich is over here with me. Yeah, Sabich. Sabich, for Chrissake. Right, Horgan's guy. Chief deputy. We got a glass or something. Yeah, I know there latents, I know, that's why I'm calling you. Whatta you think? Right, I'm a big dumb gumba. Right, and don't fuckin forget it. This big dumb gumba can send you home with your nuts in a paper bag. Right. Right. But why I'm calling is this. Can't we do a computer scan with that laser thing against our knowns? Yeah, you got three good prints there, right? So get what you need and run them through the computer and let's figure out if they're anyone we know. I hear the cop on the case has been asking for ten days now you should do this. Murphy? Yeah, which one?
Leo or Henry? Because Henry is a horse's ass. Good. Well, tell him to un-onload it. Don't give me the computer crap, I don't understand that shit anyway. No. No. Not good enough. All right. Call me back. Ten minutes. Ten. Let's figure this thing out."
The problem, as it gradually emerges, is not equipment but the fact that the computer is under another section's jurisdiction. The department owns only one machine, and the people who do things like payroll believe it should be regarded as theirs alone.
"Right. I'll ask. I'll ask," says Balistrieri when he gets the return call. He covers the receiver. "They want to know how big a field you want to run against. We can do all felons or all knowns in the county. You know, everybody who's ever been printed. County employees. Shit like that."
I pause. "Felons is probably enough. I can do the rest later if we ever need it."
Balistrieri makes a face. "Do it all. God knows if I can get back on." He takes his hand away before I get a chance to answer. "Do all of it. Yeah. How soon? What the fuck is gonna take a week? This man's runnin the biggest murder case in the city and he's got to kiss your ring? Well, fuck Murphy's statistical analysis. Yeah. Tell him I said so. Right." He puts the phone down. "A week, probably ten days. They gotta get the payroll out, then the chief needs some statistics for the LEAK'-Law Enforcement Assistance Administration. "I'll push, but I doubt you'll see it any sooner. And have your copper get the glass back out of evidence and bring it to the lab, case they need it for anything."
I thank Lou for his help and head down to the Pathology Lab. This building looks more or less like an old high school, with varnished oak trim and worn hallways. It is coppers wall to wall, men-and more than a few women these days-in deep blue shirts and black ties, bustling around and making jokes with one another. People of my generation and social stratum do not like cops. They were always beating our heads and sniffing for dope. They were unenlightened. So when I became a prosecutor I started from some distance behind which, in truth, I have never made up. I've worked with policemen for years. Some I like; more I don't. Most of them have two failings. They're hard. And they're crazy. They see too much; they live with their nose in the gutter.
Three or four weeks ago, I stayed longer than I should have on a Friday night at Gil's and began buying rounds with a street copper named Palucci. He did a beer and a shot a couple of times, and started talking about a heart he had found that morning in a Ziploc bag. That was all. Just the organ, and the major vessels, lying right next to a garbage can at the end of an alley. He picked it up; he looked at it; he drove away. But then he made himself come back. He lifted the lid of the can and stirred the rubbish. No body parts. 'That was it. I done my duty. I dropped it off downtown and told them to mark it goat.'
Crazy. They are our paid paranoids. A copper sees a conspiracy in a cloudy day; he suspects treachery when you say good morning. A grim fellowship, nurtured in our midst, thinking ill about us all.
The elevator takes me to the basement.
"Dr. Kumagai." I greet him. His office is right outside the morgue, which lies beyond, with its stainless-steel tables and the ghastly odors of open peritoneal cavities. Through the walls, I can hear a surgical saw screaming. Painless's desk is a mess, papers and journals in ramparts, overflowing wooden trays. Set at one corner, a small TV is on, the volume low, with an afternoon baseball game.
"Mr. Savage. Real important stuff, huh? We got chief deputy with us." Painless is every kind of weird, a five-foot, five-inch Japanese, with heavy brows and a small mustache divided over the middle of his lip. A kinetic type, always dodging and twisting, talking with his hands in the air. The mad scientist, except there is nothing benevolent about him. Whoever got the idea that Painless would be best off working with stiffs pushed him in the right direction. I can't imagine his bedside manner. He is the kind to throw things at you, cuss you out. Whatever bitter little notion is in his brain will find expression. He is one of those people of whom the globe at moments seems so full. I do not understand him. If I try very hard, in that sort of instinctive effort we all make at pseudo-telepathy, my screen comes up full of fuzz. I cannot imagine what is passing through his mind when he does his job, or watches TV, or turns after a woman. I know I could lose a bet even if I had ten chances to guess what he did last Saturday night.
"Actually, I just came in to pick up a report. You called Lipranzer."
"Oh yeah, oh yeah," says Painless. "Right here somewhere. That fuckin Lipranzer. He wants you call right away with everything." Painless works two-handed, transporting the stacks of paper across his desk as he seeks the new report. "So you won't be chief deputy too much longer, huh? Della Guardia, I think, gonna kick Raymond Horgan in the ass. Huh?" He looks to me to respond. Painless is smiling, as is his custom when dealing with something that others find unpleasant.
"We'll see," I say: then I decide to be a bit more aggressive. "Delay a pal of yours, Doctor?"
"Nico's hell of a guy, hell of a guy. Oh yeah. We work on all kinds big murder case together. He's good, too, real good. Yeah, he get up there, he really kick those defense lawyers in the ass. This is this thing." He tosses a file folder in my direction and bends toward the TV. "That fuckin Dave Parker. Now he only got dope in one nostril, really hittin the goddamn ball."
The association between Nico and Painless had eluded me before, but it's a natural, the big-time homicide prosecutor and the police pathologist. They would need each other badly from time to time. I ask Painless if I can sit down for a minute.
"Sure sit, sit." He moves a stack of files and looks back to the television.
"Lipranzer and I have been kicking over this theory lately. Well, let's say idea. Maybe this was some weird bondage thing that got out of hand. Maybe Carolyn was living dangerously, and when her beau thought she had expired, he gave her a whack in the head to make it look like something else. Does that sound possible?"
Painless in his white lab coat rests his elbows on the turrets of papers.
"No fuckin way."
"No fuckin way. Coppers dumb," says Painless the police department pathologist. "Somethin hard, they make easy. Somethin easy, they make hard. Read the fuckin report. I write a report, fuckin read it. Lipranzer wants me hurry up, hurry up. Then he don't read the fuckin report."
"This report?"
"Not that report." He swi
pes at the new report when I hold it up. "My report. Autopsy. You see anything with bruises on wrists? Bruises on ankles? Bruises on knees? This lady is dead from gettin hit, not strangled. Read the fuckin report."
"She was tied up pretty good. You can see the rope burn on the neck in the pictures."
"Oh sure, oh sure. She was tied up real tight, real good. Looked like a fuckin bow and arrow when they brought her in. But you got one mark on the neck. Somebody jerkin that rope tighter and tighter, rope's gonna move. Get a wide bruise. She got one skinny little mark on her neck."
"Meaning?" I ask.
Painless smiles. He loves to hold the cards. He pushes his face close enough to the TV that the gray gleam of the screen is reflected on his brow. "First and third," he says.
"What does it mean that there's a narrow mark?" I ask again.
I wait. The TV announcer declaims over a line drive.
"Do I need a subpoena?" I ask quietly. I try to smile, but my voice has some edge.
"What?" asks Painless.
"What do you make of the bruises on her neck?"
"I make that rope was tightened there first. Okay?"
I take a moment to gather this in. As Painless knows, I'm lost.
"Time out," I say. "I thought the working theory was that somebody hit her to subdue her. The blow was lethal, but our guy doesn't realize that or care. He ties her up, and rapes her, with this bizarre slip-knotting, so he's strangling her at the same time. Have I got it right or have you changed your mind?"
"Me change? Look at fuckin report. Don't say nothin like that. I'm not saying that. Looks like that, maybe. Maybe that's what coppers think. Not me."
"Well, what do you think?"
Painless smiles. Painless shrugs.
I close my eyes an instant.
"Look," I say, "we're ten days into a big-deal murder investigation and I hear right now for the fast time that you think the rope went around her neck first. I would have appreciated knowing that a while ago."