Champion’s revolver misfired, but Christie Opara’s did not. She held her revolver steadily in her hand and squeezed the trigger. The shock of the explosion raced up her arm, wrenched at her shoulder. Champion disappeared beneath the sudden press of bodies. Christie felt a heavy arm locked around her throat and chest, pulling her backwards. Her gun was no longer in her hand. She saw a face—thought she saw a face—Stoner Martin’s; then her head was forced back and she could see only the black sky pierced by pinpoints of stars.
She thought of two things: her pocketbook containing her shield, and her missing gun. She dug her feet into the tar of the gutter and tried desperately to resist whoever was dragging her, but the hands and arms that held her were too powerful and her voice was held back inside her throat and she could scarcely breathe.
The sounds of gunfire and screaming howling terror came from all sides. Christie felt weightless as a doll as she was spun about and thrust against a police sergeant who shoved her into a squad car. She tried to rise from the floor of the car, to identify herself, but a man scrambled over her, stepping on her hand. Then another man got into the back of the car and held her down, but she lifted her head and through the window of the car Christie saw the sergeant. His face was chalk-white as he instructed the uniformed patrolman in the front seat.
“Make it quick, for Christ’s sake. Get her out of here!”
TWENTY-SEVEN:
LIEUTENANT GODFREY, THE SQUAD commander of the precinct detectives, was a thin man who looked too small to meet Police Department minimum requirements. He had a rise of wavy yellow-gray hair which gave his head a slightly lopsided appearance. His eyes were small beads, half covered by heavy lids. Everything about him seemed slightly out of kilter. His lips did not quite close over long yellow protruding front teeth; his ears were too large and stuck at right angles to his skull. The lobes were bright pink. He constantly hitched at his trousers with his elbows.
As he spoke to Christie Opara, he seemed fascinated by his own reflection in the mirror directly over her head. “Now, let’s get this story straight. You admit that the .38 detective special is yours?”
“Call my command, Lieutenant,” Christie said for the fourth time.
“Oh, well, I’m not disputing your assertion that you’re a member of the Department. But the fact remains that you are under my jurisdiction at the moment. And you have committed a homicide—justifiable or not remains to be seen. I want to get a few things straightened out before any DA people come into my command.” His fingers played for a moment with the neat knot in his dark tie; then his eyes met Christie’s. His mouth twitched at the hostility confronting him.
Christie was glad for this lieutenant. She could think straight because of him, because of what he was: an uncertain little martinet. That was all she had to think about and she could handle him. She touched the open cut near her mouth without looking at her fingers; they were warm with blood. She could taste the saltiness inside her mouth and wondered if any of her teeth were loose. Her hands trembled and she clenched them into fists and kept her voice as steady as she could. “Lieutenant, you had better call my office. You also better notify the communications bureau at Headquarters that my shield and pocketbook are missing. I notified you to that effect approximately thirty minutes ago. It was your responsibility to make the notification and you still haven’t.”
Lieutenant Godfrey swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed and his face was a dull, unhealthy red. His eyes signaled one of the two men who had brought her in. The detective needed a shave. His eyes were large and watery and his voice was a growl.
He placed his hand heavily on Christie’s shoulder. “Look, kid, don’t be telling the lieutenant here what to do. You know, you’re in some pretty hot water right now yourself and you ought to cooperate.”
Christie glared at the man and moved free of his touch. Her voice was as clear and cold as ice. “Take your hands off me.”
The detective scratched at a thick cluster of curly light hair that poked through the two opened buttons of his sports shirt. He looked at the lieutenant, who hitched up his trousers and told Christie not to get excited. The lieutenant glanced toward the Negro detective, who was speaking into the telephone, then back at Christie and leaned close to her.
“Detective Reilly here saved your life. Those niggers would have torn you apart. Now, you’re just upset and that’s understandable. You’ll see I’m right when you just calm down.” He dug in his back pocket, handed her a crisp linen handkerchief. “We have a sink over here, and some soap. Just wash up and you’ll feel better.”
Christie pushed his hand away, saw a box of tissues on a desk, took a wad and soaked them in cold water to make a compress. She rinsed her mouth and felt the soreness inside her cheek. Her face, looking back at her in the mirror, was a mess. Her right eye was bruised and beginning to close. The cut, extending about an inch from the left corner of her mouth, wasn’t too bad; not deep, but bleeding. She applied pressure for a moment.
“Let’s sit down and discuss this over some coffee. Here we go.” The lieutenant carefully placed a paper napkin under a mug of coffee, but Christie didn’t touch it. His voice changed, went higher. “Look, I want to know how you came to be up here in my precinct. What are you people from the DA’s office up to? What are you looking for? Why were you after this guy Champion? What’s going on anyway?”
Christie’s voice was sweet and innocent. “Why, Lieutenant, don’t you know what’s going on in your own precinct?”
A flush, like a flicker of flame, touched his cheeks. The lieutenant fingered his tie. Detective Reilly seemed to surround her, his stubby legs wide apart, his hairy chest close to her face. “Look, girlie, don’t go giving the lieutenant no hard time. He can be a dangerous enemy, know what I mean?”
Her cold contemptuous stare was not lost on the man and he seemed to press against her; the heavy smell of him reminded her of the ride to the precinct. She stood up, her voice strained but still controlled. “Listen, you, back off. Lieutenant, tell your trained ape here to back off. You’re talking to a first-grade detective, flunky, and don’t you forget it!”
Reilly intoned a long string of four-letter words, then stopped, snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Hell, that’s who you are. That little hotshot O-per-uh.” He exaggerated the correct pronunciation of Christie’s last name, then leaned forward as though accusing her. “Only seems to me O’Para is a good enough name. What are you, lace-curtain Irish?”
The lieutenant motioned Reilly away. He tried a smile. It looked more like a grimace. “Detective Opara, of course I know what’s going on in my own precinct. I’d just like to confirm certain information of my own so that—”
Christie smiled. “Lieutenant, you want confirmation of something? There’s the phone. Call my office. Ask Casey Reardon whatever you want to know.”
The lieutenant’s voice was shrill. “I’m asking you! What the hell are you people digging into? There’s nothing up here that concerns the DA. Why were you sent up here?”
Christie closed her eyes. There was a commotion in the hall, the sound of heavy feet running up the iron stairs, echoing through the dirty, dark corridor. Christie squinted; her right eye was almost closed. Casey Reardon, Stoner Martin and Tom Dell filled the room. Stoner crossed the office and came directly to Christie’s side.
“Come on, little one. Up and away.”
The lieutenant’s voice rose in protest. “Look here, Reardon, this is my command and you can’t—”
Reardon stood directly in front of the lieutenant, his solid body lithe and threatening, his eyes burning nearly red. “I’ll see you again, Godfrey. I surely will.”
“Don’t you dare remove her from this office. She is technically a prisoner. You tell your men to—”
Reardon stared at the rapidly blinking watery blue eyes, caught the nervous hitching gesture and smiled, then said simply, “Screw you.”
Tom Dell measured himself against Detective Reilly, who wat
ched his boss for some signal.
“Let’s move,” Reardon said.
Stoney pulled at Christie’s arm, leading her out the door. They were followed by Reardon and backed up by Tom Dell.
Christie felt giddy and slightly hysterical. It was crazy. It was all so absolutely crazy. She had been in police custody. And now Reardon and Stoney and Tom Dell were abducting her. She was one of five first-grade women detectives in the entire city of New York and ... She felt like laughing, but her mouth hurt now and she felt like crying, but her eyes seemed unable to produce tears. If she completely lost her grip on herself now ... She wouldn’t.
She leaned back against the seat of the Pontiac and Reardon turned from the front seat and called to her, then tossed something at her. Her hands went up reflexively; then her fingers closed around her pocketbook. Before asking any questions she checked for her shield. It was there. Reardon turned again from the front seat, but this time he carefully handed her something. Her gun.
“Put this back in your holster and hang onto it.”
“But—how?” Then she remembered something: some vague impression. “Stoney, were you there?”
He nodded. “I was there.”
“But—but my gun. The lieutenant had my gun. How?”
“I didn’t get your gun, just your pocketbook, and that was sheer dumb luck,” Stoney told her.
Reardon, still turned to her, said, “Dell copped your gun from the desk when we copped you.”
“Wow.”
Reardon was frowning, his eyes narrowed. “My God, how the hell did you get all messed up like that? Did those bastards—”
“It was wild out there. I really don’t know.” She stopped speaking, then her hand went to her mouth. “Champion? The lieutenant said he was dead. That I killed him.”
Reardon reached back and pressed a folded handkerchief against her mouth. “Hold this. Real tight. Don’t worry about Champion. You didn’t kill anybody. We’ll tell you all about it later. Just relax.”
Then Christie remembered something else. She leaned forward, touched Reardon’s arm. He studied her for a moment; then his face relaxed and he nodded. “It’s okay. Barbara’s home.”
TWENTY-EIGHT:
THE MINUTE REARDON PUSHED the door to the squad room open, Christie knew there was something wrong. There was an unnatural silence, a tenseness surrounding Art Treadwell and Bill Ferranti. Neither of the men looked up or seemed aware that anyone had come into the office. Christie turned to ask Stoner why the men were still here; they must have been on duty since early morning.
But Stoner Martin was standing against the closed door, his face close to Reardon’s. Reardon said something, reached out and pressed Stoner’s shoulder, then turned and looked at Christie. “Go into my office, Christie, and wait there,” he said.
Christie tried to catch some message from Ferranti, but he glanced from her to Reardon, then back to the paper work before him. Christie walked down the connecting corridor and caught her breath at the assault of air-conditioned coolness. She sat on the chair in front of Reardon’s desk, stretched her legs in front of her and waited, but Reardon didn’t come. She touched the swelling under her eye lightly and settled into the chair, her face upturned, and fell into a dead sleep.
Reardon glanced in, walked lightly behind the chair. Good. He closed the door carefully behind him and returned to the squad office where Marty Ginsburg was waiting for him.
“Well?” Reardon asked him.
Marty shrugged heavily. “Not a goddam word out of him.”
“Okay,” Reardon said, “forget it. Just forget it. You other men”—Treadwell and Ferranti looked up—“you saw nothing, you know nothing, right?”
“About what, Mr. Reardon?” Ferranti asked quietly.
“All I know is the telephone’s been ringing and I been taking messages, Mr. Reardon,” Treadwell said.
Reardon nodded briskly and the men continued with their work. He crossed the office and carefully fingered the edge of the chrome-bordered squad bulletin board. Silently, the bulletin board swung back on hidden hinges and Reardon pressed his face close to the rectangles cut into the wooden backing of the two-way mirror. Claude Davis sat stiffly in a chair in the middle of the room and Stoner Martin was speaking to him, but Reardon couldn’t hear anything. He watched for a moment, then pressed the panel back into place and said a short, fervent prayer.
Stoner Martin lit a new cigarette from the stub of his old one and his head was enveloped by the mist of smoke that curled from his mouth as he spoke.
“Champion’s dead. You know that, don’t you?”
“Who’s Champion?”
“How old are you, Claude?”
The boy pressed his lips together firmly. Any answer would be cooperation and he intended nothing of the sort.
Stoney straddled a chair, his long hands resting on the gray metal frame. He put his head down for a moment and rubbed the back of his hands against his eyes. Without looking up, he began to speak, softly, without expression. “Claude Davis, age twenty, born April 2, 1947. Second child of Audra Johnson, eighteen years old, and her common-law husband, Frank Davis, twenty years old. Lived two years in Liberty, North Carolina, with grandmother, Sarah Johnson, and grandfather, Farley Johnson. Returned to New York at age twelve, attended Junior High School 42 until age fourteen. Dropped out of high school in 1963 at age sixteen; in October of 1963, admitted to Harlem Hospital with a broken leg as a result of skylarking accident aboard southbound IRT local.”
The detective raised his face, held his hands palms up and shrugged. “Want me to continue? I got it all—every day of your life right up to and including the present.” In response to the silence before him, Stoney’s voice sounded almost gentle, as though he had some terrible information to reveal and was trying to be kind about it. “You are third lieutenant in command of the Young Men’s Karate Group and you hold training sessions every Tuesday and Thursday evening between eight and ten P.M. and Saturday mornings between nine and eleven A.M. Students are limited to those approved by the Royal Leader.”
Claude’s smile was stiff and mechanical and he wasn’t sure how it looked. He wasn’t sure if it hid the sudden waves of shock that were stinging his chest. “You’re just a bundle of information, aren’t you?” he asked, not sure if he should say anything.
Stoner Martin looked toward the tan drapes that covered the steel-meshed window, his eyes fixed as though on a landscape, then turned back to Claude. “Son, you are in a mess of trouble. I saw you give it to Eddie Champion.”
“Who’s Eddie Champion?”
Davis’s voice was taunting but he didn’t expect the explosive reaction from the detective. Stoner rose swiftly and grasped the chair he had been sitting on and flung it across the room. It hit the wall and bounced across the floor, but the detective stood with his back to Claude. Claude caught his breath but didn’t move.
“You know what’s happening out there, son? You know what’s happening on those streets? People are being killed and injured and maimed and worse. Something so much worse. They are being set back!” Stoner turned slowly and the softness with which he spoke contrasted with the burning anger in his eyes. “One night of letting loose, cutting up and smashing and shooting and yelling and looting. That’s all this whole goddam night adds up to and I want to know why. Why?”
Claude Davis hesitated, then underestimated the anger of the detective. “You want to know why? Hell, man, don’t you never look in a mirror? You’re blacker than me, so that’s pretty funny, coming from you, really pretty funny. They make you see yourself white when they give you that tin badge?”
Deliberately, almost dispassionately, Stoner Martin slashed the back of his hand across Davis’s mouth, then stepped back, legs apart, not breathing. His anger was soft-spoken. “Try, Davis. Come on, you’re a karate expert: try.”
Davis’s eyes lingered on the detective’s throat and his right hand stiffened, his fingers ready and strong as steel, aching, just achin
g, to slash at one vulnerable spot after the other, but he didn’t move. “You think I’m crazy?” he asked in a thick voice. “You not gonna shoot me through the head. What the hell you want anyway?”
Stoner Martin counted silently. When he reached ten, he blinked, inhaled, righted the chair, straddled it again. His voice was reasonable, friendly. “Here’s what I want, and here’s what you’re going to give me. Your confession, first that you killed Eddie Champion on direct orders from the Royal Leader; second, a statement relative to your role in the Secret Nation; third, a statement relative to the real purpose of the Secret Nation.”
“That’s all you want?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
Claude debated for a moment, then decided against the two-word answer. He could taste blood inside his mouth and he remained silent, waiting. He watched warily as the detective rose from the chair, carefully pushed it back and suddenly yanked Claude Davis to his feet. They were about the same height and their faces were inches apart. “Okay, kid. Listen real good. You see that door?” Stoney pointed to the metal door leading into the squad room. “You go through that door, through the squad room and right on out. I’m going to give you one minute to leave the building and five to leave the neighborhood. If I find you anywhere in the vicinity, I’m going to put a bullet right here.” Stoney dug a finger into Claude’s forehead, then shoved him across the room.
The boy stood, uncertain. Was this guy setting him up: prisoner shot while escaping? What the hell was he up to? Claude shook his head. “Hey, man, you nuts? I walk in there, you got a whole office of cops ready to blast me. I’m not moving.
The Witness Page 16