Out of the Blues

by Trudy Nan Boyce

  After giving them time to get Spangler settled, she went on back, passing Huff, Wills, Gardner, and the district attorney as they stood in the hall outside the interview room. She entered the observation room adjacent to the room where Spangler now sat facing the two-way mirror. His arms were extended on the small office table in front of him, relaxed, legs stretched beneath the table. He bent his elbows and waggled his fingers at the mirror. Huff, the DA, and Gardner joined her in the small room.

  Spangler remained in his unconcerned posture, chin jutting, literally looking down his nose at Wills as he came in the room. Wills plopped a fat file on top of the table. “Your lawyer is on the way. He called to say he’ll be here shortly and not to question you before he gets here. I wouldn’t do that anyway.”

  Spangler nodded at Wills, then at the mirror. “Bit of a cliché this room, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, you mean the mirror?” Wills said. “Well, yeah. Some folks don’t notice or think about it at all. You’d be surprised. It’s not like we try to hide it. But just so you know and all our cards are on the table, on the other side of that mirror today are some of my colleagues, my boss, and the district attorney. Oh, and there are speakers in there. This room is wired.” Wills pointed up at the ceiling. “And now that you ask, I’ll tell you—not asking questions, mind you, just telling you, Mr. John Spangler—that today—” Wills leaned halfway across the table. “Today and today only, we, my colleagues and I, will be offering you a onetime, once-in-a-lifetime deal.”

  Spangler turned and lifted his head toward the blank wall.

  “I see you’re not interested, Mr. Spangler. And perhaps your lawyer will advise you otherwise, but between just us—” Wills smiled and swept his arm toward the mirror. “Between us, today we’re going to give you this one opportunity to avoid having to deal with that pesky death penalty thing. Your lawyer may or may not concur.”

  “I’ll wait to speak to you when he gets here,” Spangler said.

  “Don’t blame you one bit. That’s the smartest way to go,” said Wills. “But here’s our offer, and don’t worry, I’ll repeat this for your esteemed attorney. I’m sure he’ll be here soon, and I’ll repeat the offer, but here’s the deal.” Wills removed a series of photos from the file and laid them out in rows covering the desktop. “Here’s what we have.” Wills walked behind Spangler, looking over and reaching across his shoulder, spreading the display of photos with his fingers. He cleared his throat and continued. “Now, I’m a hardened homicide detective, Mr. Spangler, but you being a psychopath and all are able to detect and mimic emotions even if you don’t experience them. So you know that these photos of these little dead girls and their mother cause me to anguish and want justice for them. These photos make me want you dead.” His voice had changed. It came through the speakers of the observation room tight and straining, pinching his words. The men standing in the room with Salt looked down from the window and away from each other. Wills slapped the wall behind him, loud enough to rattle the window.

  “I want my lawyer,” said Spangler, sitting up.

  “And have him you will,” said Wills. “But I’m going to continue just a bit, not questioning, mind you. Have I asked you even one question, Mr. Spangler? No, I haven’t. That was rhetorical, by the way.

  “So to continue with this once-in-a-lifetime deal, we also have what’s called the ‘dying declaration.’ Dying declaration. Isn’t that a powerful phrase, ‘dying declaration’? The alliteration is wonderful, don’t you think? I love saying it in court—‘dying declaration,’ ‘dying declaration.’” Wills bowed to an imaginary jury. “Anyway, we have the dying declaration of one Mr. DeWare Lovelace, and he says in his dying declaration that you were responsible for these little girls’ deaths.” Once again Wills waved his hand toward the photos. “He said that you were responsible for their deaths by arranging for him to kill these children and their mother. We believe that you arranged their deaths at the behest of Arthur Solquist, their father and husband. And in that behest may lie your once-in-a-lifetime, one-day-only chance to avoid the sure-as-shit Georgia death penalty.” Wills aggressively swept the photos into a pile and closed them into the murder book. “Those two beautiful little girls were supposed to be at their grandmother’s that night.

  “Still haven’t asked you a question, have I? That was again rhetorical,” said Wills, taking a paper towel from his pocket and blowing his nose. “But, Mr. Spangler, that’s not all. You know these narcotics charges that we’re holding you on from the club? They won’t stick, even though it was your club and your dope. But the war on drugs is a joke and we know it. So we’ll not even talk about that, but you should know that we have another individual that will bear witness to your involvement in arranging the deaths of the Solquist children. But more important, we’re going to interview Arthur Solquist next, and he may get the deal we’re offering you today. He may say he only confided his concerns about his wife’s knowledge of the shady dealings between you and him, and that you, without his knowledge, initiated the contract with DeWare Lovelace. That you felt your business was threatened by Mrs. Solquist, and therefore you should be the one the jury should seek the death penalty for. Someone, after all, should pay. He’ll say he never meant for you to, well, do what you did.” Wills picked up the file, tucked it under his arm, and turned to go out of the room. At the door he paused and looked back at Spangler. “Oh, and there’s all those now-empty storage units and the paper trail of your dirty money leading us right to Counselor Solquist.”

  Spangler didn’t move as the door closed. He leaned back very slightly in the chair, his arms once again resting on the table, chin raised, staring in the direction of the two-way mirror. Then his eyes narrowed as if he were trying to focus on some distant point.

  —

  THE LAWYER wasn’t pleased that Wills had spoken to John Spangler before he got there but readily made the deal. Spangler was going to prison for life and Arthur Solquist would go to trial to try to avoid the death penalty. In the presence of his lawyer, John Spangler signed a full and detailed confession.

  WILLS AND SISTER

  Every surface, even the exposed crossbeams, held glowing candles that blurred the in-progress construction of Wills’ dining-kitchen area. Three white candles in Mason jars sat in the middle of the table, and beside each were sprigs of white jasmine. The Rotties were in the backyard with new marrowbones. They were celebrating Wills’ closure of the Solquist case and Salt’s healed injuries; bruises gone, stitches out, her hand and arm freed from the brace.

  “I’ve never seen you in a dress,” said Wills.

  “I was in the thrift store on Moreland getting some things for Pearl, and I found it.” She looked down, smoothing the bodice of the cream-and-white cotton-lace shift, the small unravelings hardly noticeable.

  “Well I’ve got just the accessory.” He got up and left the room. Salt took a sip of the white wine that had accompanied one of Wills’ best-ever meals, Vegan Divan. They’d had dark chocolate squares for dessert with the last of the bottle of white wine. She licked her thumb and finger.

  Wills came back and stood behind her, once again lowering the Saint Michael and chain around her neck. “I hope this continues to have power and that it gives you positive memories rather than ones of DeWare.”

  She turned to him, holding the medallion to her chest. “I thought it had to be kept in evidence. And you’ve gotten it repaired and cleaned.” She lifted the gold Saint Michael and threaded the chain through her fingers.

  Wills knelt down beside her. “The photos will be good enough evidence—and your testimony. I cleaned and fixed it. You look so beautiful.”

  —

  “WHERE DID you get those blue eyes?” her father asked like always.

  “From you, Daddy,” she answered like always.

  They were standing in a large church walking up the center aisle. “Are you giving me away?” she a
sked.

  “Never,” said her father. “Never.”

  —

  SALT WOKE with a start. Down the street somewhere a dog barked, too far away to be Pansy or Violet on the back porch in their dog beds. Wills was asleep beside her, his hand on the pillow next to her face, on his fingers a slight fragrance of chocolate.

  The dog in the distance barked in threes, Aruff, aruff . . . aruff! Then he’d be silent for half a minute. Aruff, aruff . . . aruff!

  —

  “BLACK FOLKS used to say that white people smell like wet dogs,” said Sister Connelly.

  “I’ve heard that before,” said Salt. Pepper had told her that one night in their rookie days. “I have been dreaming about a dog.”

  She and the old woman stood looking out at the downpour from under the portico at the front of Sister’s small church. Salt always noted Wednesday nights, because when this had been her beat she’d try to come by to sit in the patrol car and listen to the weekly choir practice. Knowing that Sister always walked, Salt had come and for the first time gone inside and sat listening to the old hymns and gospel music, her uniform no longer a distraction.

  “Legba always has a dog with him. Someone trying to get a message to you from the unseen world?” The old woman’s smile was sideways.

  Salt thought about it. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe.”

  “Some a’ that ol’ voodoo true. You carrying Legba around your neck—oh, I know high church say that’s Saint Michael. But it’s all the same big thing. We get messages from another place, call it the dream world, call it your unconscious.”

  Salt opened the umbrella, took Sister’s hand, and wrapped it through her own arm for support going down the steps. In the car Sister shook rain off a collapsible plastic rain bonnet. “I don’t mind the rain, ’specially these spring showers.”

  They both sat watching the distant lightning and clouds moving. The windows of the old stone church were still lit from within, each window depicting one of Jesus’ disciples. “Your choir was in top form tonight,” said Salt.

  “We were, weren’t we? You got a favorite?”

  “That was a rockin’ ‘Roll Back Old Jordan,’” Salt said. “I love the old stuff.”

  “So does everybody if they admit it. We got these old songs in our head from way back. It’s like in movies—they play in the background of our lives, white and black. We got the same music going on in our heads.”

  “The big new churches don’t seem to do much of the old music, do they?” Salt asked.

  “That’s a symptom. The problem is that people try to forget the past. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for progress and creating new music, art, computers, all that. But you can’t do it without honoring the ones who’ve gone before and how hard it was, the good and the bad. It’s what brought you to here.” Sister patted the seat between her and Salt. “Like in the Bible they saw fit, thought it was important to include all those ‘begats.’ Cain and Abel begat their sons and Noah and Moses begat theirs. It’s important to know your begats. Slaves and convicts begat the roads and the tracks that begat the railroads, and the railroads begat the buildings and banks, and they begat this city.”

  “And the work begat the music,” Salt added, humming as she turned on the ignition. They worked out a little harmony for “Roll Back Old Jordan” on the short drive to Sister’s place.

  “You still smell like a wet dog.” Sister grinned and got out of the car, leaving Salt laughing, and went through the gate and up the walk of her lush yard.

  CALLED TO CHURCH

  The Homicide office was all but deserted. Rosie had left for the day. During these last hours before the end of the shift, knowing people would be out, most of the evening-watch detectives were taking advantage of the first summer-like night of the season to work the streets. So all around Salt the cubicles and gray-carpeted aisles were empty. One of the harsh fluorescent tube lights in the recessed ceiling flickered behind its plastic panel. Huff’s presence in his office across the room, the only one of the wall offices lit, the rest all dark windows and closed doors along the wall, somehow made the unit seem even more desolate. The silence of the space distracted Salt—silence punctuated by the occasional muted rumble from the elevator on the other side of the offices or the pings and pops of pipes expanding and contracting behind the walls of the old building. Salt was used to the funky rhythms of the street, a backbeat to her days and nights, not these lonely Homicide sounds.

  She stared at the notes she’d just added to the e-form on the monitor. Call to Melissa Primrose, 8:47 p.m. this date—In response to my query, Primrose recalled that there were two children at Michael Anderson’s house the night before his death. She said that both the children were African-American boys, approximately eleven or twelve years old, one dark and one light-complexioned. She hadn’t seen how the boys arrived, if they were with anyone. She just recalled them being there for a brief period of time and hadn’t even seen them interact with anyone. Salt felt sure she knew who those boys were. She printed the notes and added them to the file. She checked her e-mail, browsed the Internet, straightened the already neat desktop, and finally sat still for a minute, then looked down the aisle. She got up and headed to Huff’s lit office.

  He was behind his desk and just reaching for his Handie-Talkie when she got to the door. “Sarge, sorry, Huff, I just got off the phone with—”

  He held up his hand to indicate he was monitoring the radio and simultaneously turning up the volume knob.

  “Raise any negotiator,” dispatch called.

  “4144, go ahead,” they heard Felton respond.

  “4144, we have a hostage situation, man with a knife at 2199 East Avenue, Southwest.”

  “4144, copies,” acknowledged Felton.

  “I didn’t know Felton was a negotiator,” Salt said to Sarge.

  “He just completed his certification right before you came to the—”

  “Wait, Sarge, that address, it’s Big Calling.”

  “I’ll drive,” he said, grabbing his fedora from a wall hook.

  Salt ran to her cubicle, picked up the Handie-Talkie, and grabbed her coat, shrugging it on as she followed Huff into the stairwell and out to the parking deck. “Warm for the coat, doncha think?” he said.

  “Maybe.” She shut the car door.

  Waiting for a break in traffic before turning out of the driveway, Huff cleared his throat, then cleared it again. “I’m not into all this touchy-feely stuff.”

  She waited, then asked, “You mean the negotiator training, de-escalation?”

  “Nonverbal communication, yeah, yeah.” He turned onto North Avenue. “Don’t make me say it—come on.”

  “What?”

  “You, the coat—I know it was your dad’s. I know. And the thing with Stone—I shouldn’t have been such an asshole. My wife says it’s good for me to say it.”

  “Please don’t. Don’t and we’ll say you did.”

  “I’m sorry.” He made a bereft-like sob, then grinned at her, his teeth brightened by the passing lights.

  —

  LANDSCAPE LIGHTING on the grounds glared off the edifice of Big Calling Church, making a deep, sharp darkness of the surrounding areas. Other than the two patrol vehicles and Felton’s Taurus parked beside the side door of the church, there was only a lone dull sedan parked beneath one of the pole lights in the vast asphalt lot. Sergeant Huff parked near the patrol cars, next to the same door that Salt had previously used when she’d been to the church the first time. A uniform officer stood at the door, and as they approached he held his hand out. “Sergeant Fellows said to let her know when anybody—chiefs, commanders—got here, and she’ll come out.” The tall, young black officer had a military bearing, but there were streams of sweat running down the sides of his cheeks. The night was warm but not that warm. He stuck his head in the door, silently raised two finge
rs, and nodded into the sanctuary.

  Fellows, the new sergeant Salt had talked to across from the shelter, came outside. She was pale and serious. “This is what we got. Your negotiator, Felton, is in there now talking to the subject. The first officer here”—she nodded at the officer in the doorway, who swiped sweat from his face with one finger while he both listened to his sergeant and monitored the inside of the church—“was dispatched to a silent alarm call at this address.

  “When he got here, he found this door unlocked and partially open, so he called for backup and entered because he heard voices, specifically a kid crying.” She looked over at the officer, who nodded his confirmation of her account. “I arrived just minutes after he notified radio, and when I went in, he was trying to talk to the man who had the kid at knifepoint. Salt, it’s Twiggs, the guy I pointed out to you at the shelter, Devarious Twiggs. When Twiggs first saw my officer, he jumped up like he’d been shot from the pew where they were sitting, and both he and the boy had their pants unzipped. Then Twiggs pulled the knife.” Sergeant Fellows released a long breath. “SWAT has an ETA of fifteen.”

  “How’s Felton doing?” Salt asked. “He establish rapport?”

  “Twiggs is crying and shaking. I’m worried.” Fellows looked toward the dark interior of the sanctuary.

  Sergeant Huff took out his notepad. “What’s the guy’s name again?”

  “Sarge, I’m going in—give Felton some backup. I’ve had the de-escalation training.”

  Huff nodded his head and continued to get the details from Fellows.

  Inside, the cathedral-like space was dark except for the red exit signs, some spotlights on the dais, and wavy aqua reflections that floated around the walls. Behind the pulpit and between the choir lofts on either side, a waist-high crimson curtain had been retracted along a brass rail, revealing the full-immersion, glass-sided baptismal tank. The water in the tank was lit so that congregants could view the preacher submerging the newly saved. Salt moved quietly along one wall, positioning herself close enough so she could hear without being a distraction.