Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  Creely frowned at him. “What?”

  “You heard me. I have reason to believe that you suspect my client of a crime. I demand that you read him his rights.”

  Creely chuckled. He narrowed his eyes. “Are you kidding me?” he said. He pointed. “I read him his rights the minute he walked through that door.”

  20.

  DORKED AGAIN.

  I was caught completely flat-footed. And who wouldn’t be? I mean, after hearing “you have the right to remain silent” on cop show after cop show, after TV show after TV show about bad busts, cops hamstrung by the system and cases thrown out of court on technicalities, it was a huge shock to learn the mighty Miranda/Escobedo decision wasn’t worth a hill of beans when confronted with a police officer genially willing to lie.

  I stared at Creely. “No such thing.”

  “Stanley,” Richard said.

  “Richard, he’s—”

  “Stanley!” Richard interposed himself between me and Creely. “Shut up. As your attorney, I advise you to shut up. If you choose to disregard that advice, you are free to hire another attorney. Make up your mind.”

  I shut up.

  “Fine,” Richard said. He turned back to Creely. “Now, if I could park my client in the corner for a minute, perhaps you and I could have a little talk.”

  “I would feel far more receptive to that,” Creely said, “if you weren’t threatening me with a libel suit.”

  Richard shrugged. “Ah, well, what’s a little libel suit among friends?”

  “That’s what I thought,” Creely said. “All right, if you can keep this joker here quiet long enough, I’m willing to listen to what you got to say.”

  “Fine,” Richard said. “Stanley? Do me a favor. Park yourself in that chair over there and try to stay out of trouble, will you?” He took me by the shoulders and pointed me to the chair. “There’s a good boy.”

  I walked over and sat down.

  They both watched me do it. Their looks were almost paternal, as if they were the grownups and I was the naughty child.

  It was a little much. I mean, just a while ago these two had been at each other’s throats. Now there they were, all buddy-buddy, as if this were their party and I were a fifth wheel.

  In a way I understood. Richard took Creely’s lying about reading me my rights as a matter of course. And Creely took Richard’s threatening him with a lawsuit as a matter of course. Despite the adversary position, they were two warhorses who understood the system. And I was just a poor schmuck who didn’t understand the system. And all they wanted to do was dispense with me and get down to business.

  Which they did.

  “All right,” Creely said. “What can I do for you?”

  Richard drew up a chair. “Well, now. We have a situation here.”

  “That we do.”

  “Perhaps we could define it somewhat, and then attempt to resolve it.”

  “Admirable idea.”

  “All right. Here’s the situation. My client’s had a rough day and he’d like to go home.”

  “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

  “Suppose I were to say charge him or release him?”

  “Then I’ll charge him.”

  “With what?”

  “Murder sounds good to me. How does that sound to you?”

  “A little harsh.”

  “Perhaps. But it’s the charge that comes to mind.”

  “It’s a charge that won’t stick.”

  Creely shrugged. “Now there, you see, we have a difference of opinion.”

  “I understand that,” Richard said. “I’m wondering if we could resolve it.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well now,” Richard said. “You’re telling me if I say charge him or release him, you’re going to charge him with murder, drag him before a judge and have him arraigned.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So I’m not saying charge him or release him. We’re still talking here.”

  “You’re still talking. I’m listening. I haven’t heard anything yet.”

  “All right then. Consider this: if you charge him you’re gonna get press. Now admittedly, this is a small town. The local press is probably not too hot. But this is a murder case. The victim is from New York City. My client is from New York City. Which means we’re not just talking local press, you’re going to have coverage here. And not just the papers. The TV stations too. You’re going to have camera crews in this place.”

  “I know that,” Creely said. The prospect obviously did not displease him.

  “Right,” Richard said. “And right now you’re thinking what a swell story it will be—small town boy makes good. But consider this: if you charge him with murder it’s gonna be big news. You’re gonna have reporters asking you questions, you’re gonna be on TV telling ’em how you cracked the case. That’s gonna make you a hot shit for a while. Then in a couple of days when this case cracks open and you have to turn him loose, it’s gonna get twice as much airplay. You know why? Because the reporters will have found a handle for the story. You know what it is? Bigmouth hick from the sticks jumps the gun and arrests the wrong man.”

  Creely frowned.

  “Oh course, that’s not fair,” Richard said. “New York City cops do it all the time—arrest the wrong man—and no one thinks a thing of it. ’Cause they got hundreds of murder investigations going on, and it just gets lost in the shuffle.

  “The problem is, you only got one. One murder. One case. You blow it, you’re history.”

  Richard shrugged. “You know that. You got the state cops yapping at your heels right now just waiting for an excuse to move in. You let ’em move in now you got nothin’. You try to handle it yourself and you fuck up, you got worse than nothin’. ’Cause then you take so much pressure you gotta let the state boys move in anyway, and then to everyone you’re just a dumb local yokel who couldn’t do the job.”

  I was watching Creely’s face. He didn’t like that on the one hand, but he wasn’t buying it on the other.

  “Says you.”

  “What?” Richard said.

  “Little flaw in your logic. I happen to have your client dead to rights.”

  “How so?”

  “Come on. He bird-dogged the victim for two days, followed her up here, registered under an assumed name, and had the murder weapon in his car. You make it sound like I’m arresting him on a whim.”

  Richard smiled. “Come on, Chief. If I understand your theory of the case, the guy drove up here, registered at the motel, got up in the middle of the night and killed the woman. Then he put the gun in the glove compartment of his car, went back to his unit and went to sleep, and waited for the cops to come wake him up.” Richard jerked his thumb in my direction. “Now, I admit my client’s not very bright. But even so, that strikes me as being somewhat short of the perfect crime.”

  Creely frowned. “Well,” he said. “Murderers are often dumb. That’s why so many of them get caught.”

  “I’m not trying to con you, Chief. I’m just giving you a tip. The guy didn’t do it.”

  “You’re his lawyer. Of course you’d say that.”

  “All right. Whose word would you buy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My client’s a private investigator in my employ, which is why I can vouch for him. But he’s also had dealings with the City of New York. Would the word of a New York City cop cut any ice with you?”

  “What kind of cop?”

  “A homicide cop.”

  “It might if I knew him.”

  Richard turned to me. “Who’s that homicide cop you’re palsy with?”

  “Sergeant MacAullif,” I said.

  I hoped to hell Creely’d heard of MacAullif. I’d done MacAullif a favor once, and though he’d long since repaid it, the precedent had been established, and I would feel no compunction about asking a favor of him. And just vouching for me on the phone wouldn’t be that big a favor. Unle
ss, of course, I happened to get convicted of murder. In which case, MacAullif would have really stuck his neck out.

  Creely shook his head. “Don’t know him.”

  Shit.

  “Anyone else?” Richard said.

  I frowned. I had one other name, but I didn’t really want to give it. But I realized I had no choice. “Well,” I said. “I also know a Sergeant Clark.”

  Creely pursed his lips. He nodded.

  “That cocksucker I know.”

  21.

  MY ONE EXPERIENCE WITH Sergeant Clark had not been pleasant. I hadn’t thought much of the man. I’d even told him so. He’d never expressed his feelings for me, not in so many words, but there was no way they could have been good. Sergeant Clark was a cold, methodical, humorless man, a cop who did everything by the book. I wasn’t sure what the book would tell him in this case, but I had a feeling that saying, “Good boy, Stanley,” patting me on the head and letting me go probably wasn’t it. So I can’t say I was bursting with confidence as I watched Creely place the call.

  It took five minutes for Creely to get him on the phone. When he did he introduced himself and started to give Clark a rundown of the situation. Of course, I could only hear one side of the conversation. I had to imagine the rest. The old fill-in-the-blanks game. After Creely mentioned the name Stanley Hastings there was a considerable pause, during which Creely frowned and glanced in my direction. My imagination was doing cartwheels over that one.

  The first part of the conversation was largely all Creely’s. He went ahead and laid out the situation: the murder, the evidence, the two Marvin Nicklesons and Monica Dorlanders, and the whole bit. He didn’t slant it any. He just gave the facts. The tone of voice in which he related my version of the story could only be construed as expressing extreme skepticism. But for the most part, I had to admit he was fair.

  When Creely was finished, it was Sergeant Clark’s turn. That left a big blank for me to fill in. ’Cause for the next five minutes, Creely did nothing but listen and contribute an occasional “uh-huh,” or “yeah.” In that time he also frowned, pursed his lips, chewed his gum, played with his glasses, grimaced, doodled on a piece of paper, and by and large looked somewhat less than pleased.

  At the end of it all he said simply, “Thank you, Sergeant,” and hung up the phone.

  I couldn’t wait to hear, though I didn’t really want to. It was likely the majority of Sergeant Clark’s monologue had been a lecture on the preponderance of evidence, and the duty of a police officer to act upon it, regardless of personal welfare.

  Creely frowned. Rubbed his head. Took a breath and blew it out again. Took off his glasses, stared at them, put them back on again. Frowned again, and then looked over at me.

  “Clark says you didn’t do it.”

  “What?” I blurted.

  Creely shrugged. “Clark says you’re a major pain in the ass. Not in those words, of course. Very genteel, Clark is. Never heard the cocksucker swear. But that’s the general idea. Says you’re a goof-off and a fuckup and a bungling amateur. Not at all surprised by any of this. Says it’s par for the course for you. Says you’re a credulous bastard who could have easily swallowed the improbable story you tell. Not many people who would, but Clark says you qualify.

  “That’s on the one hand. On the other hand, he says you think you’re smart. Smarter than the cops, that is. Says you fancy yourself some fictional hero, outwitting the poor bumbling police. Wouldn’t put it past you to withhold evidence and try to solve the thing on your own. Says if I give you the least chance you’ll meddle in the case and mess things up. And probably already have.”

  Creely paused and shook his head. “But as far as the killing goes, Clark says you didn’t do it. His most persuasive argument is you wouldn’t have the guts. You couldn’t stomach it. Says you’re a chickenshit who wouldn’t know one end of a gun from the other. Again, not in those words.”

  Creely jerked his thumb at Richard. “He also agrees with your attorney here that it’s too stupid, even for you. Here, he says, it’s a close call. He wouldn’t put it past you to do something incredibly stupid, just not something so obviously stupid.” Creely shrugged. “It’s a fine line, and I’m not so sure, but that’s the way Clark seems to think.

  “Anyway, he says to charge you with murder would probably be sticking my neck out. ’Cause I’d probably have to retract. Something, of course, I would not want to do.”

  “You’ll charge him or you’ll release him,” Richard said.

  “Right,” Creely said, turning to Richard. “And then there’s you. Clark gave me his opinion about you too.”

  Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah,” Clark said. “He said you’re too competent by half. He says if you make threats, you’ll carry them out. He seems to feel you’re not too bound by moral restraint.” Creely held up his hand. “Now don’t take offense. I’m not quoting word for word. I’m just giving you the general impression. None of this is actionable. Against me or Clark, if that’s what you’re thinking. The word shyster was never mentioned. All Clark told me basically was to watch my step.”

  Creely took his gum out of his mouth, wrapped it in a small piece of paper, and tossed it in the wastebasket. “So,” he said, “we have a situation here. According to Sergeant Clark, if I charge this guy with murder, I’m in deep shit. On the other hand, if I let him go with so much evidence against him, I’m in deep shit. So it seems to me, there’s only one way to go.”

  “What’s that?” Richard said.

  “Charge him with something else.”

  “Such as?” Richard said, and just like that they were off into plea bargaining, happy as pigs in shit, and sounding just like schoolboys trading two Yogi Berras for a Mickey Mantle as they bargained for my future. Creely opened the bidding with illegal possession of a firearm, Richard countered with a misdemeanor charge of disturbing the peace, and they battled it back and forth for a while and finally settled on obstruction of justice. When they finally did, I got the impression everything else had been for show, and that was what they were shooting for all along. I wasn’t that clear on what obstruction of justice was, but Richard seemed happy enough with it, so I figured that was good enough for me.

  Once they’d gotten the charge squared away, Creely put in a call to the local liquor store, the proprietor of which turned out to also be a judge, and we all moseyed over there to get me prearraigned.

  We moseyed in two cars, Richard in the back of his rented limo, and me in the back of Chief Creely’s cruiser, which was nothing more than a beat-up old Chevy, with grillwork between the front and back seats, a police radio, and a light to slap on top.

  The judge turned out to be a dapper old coot with no hair but a lot of adam’s apple, and an eye on the main chance. Not only did he not close up shop while I was prearraigned, he actually waited on customers during the course of the proceedings.

  Which seemed to puzzle him. The proceedings, I mean. Selling liquor he had no problem with. He didn’t really have any problems with procedure either—I wouldn’t want you to get the impression that just because he lived upstate and ran a liquor store, he didn’t know his law. No, what confused him was why in the face of so much evidence I was being charged with obstruction of justice rather than murder. He was so skeptical in fact, that at first I was afraid he wasn’t going to ride along, and it occurred to me Richard might have to bribe him by buying a case of cognac. But after Creely made it clear that obstruction of justice was really all he wanted, the judge was perfectly willing to oblige. In no time at all he’d scheduled an arraignment hearing for a week from the following Thursday, released me on my own recognizance, and sold two bottles of burgundy and a pint of gin.

  And that was that. Five minutes later Richard and I were in the spacious back seat of his stretch-limo, tooling over to the motel to pick up my car, as if the whole thing had never happened.

  22.

  ALICE WASN’T ON THE computer whe
n I got home.

  She was on the phone.

  Talking about the computer.

  That’s the thing about these computer junkies. They have a whole network set up. A computer freak society. And they hold monthly meetings and exchange information. And in between they call each other up and talk animatedly and endlessly, employing digital linguistics only they can understand.

  Which drives me nuts. I mean, Alice was big on the phone before we got the computer, what with her network of mother junkies calling up to discuss their respective offspring. But lately, the problem had escalated out of all proportion.

  When I get home, I’d like to say hello to my wife. Even if I have no specific news to impart, it’s still nice to make contact. But I never can. ’Cause she’s always on the computer or the phone. When I have nothing pressing to discuss, this is mildly annoying. When I have something important, it’s excruciating.

  I used to stand in the kitchen and wait for her to get off the phone. Alice broke me of the habit. “Don’t stand there staring at me,” she’d say. “I’ll get off the phone when I’m off the phone. If it’s important and you need something, just say, ‘Excuse me.’ ”

  It was important and I needed something, so I walked up to Alice and said, “Excuse me.”

  Alice said, “I’ll be off in a minute,” and went on talking.

  I waited a minute and said, “Excuse me,” again.

  She waved her hand at me impatiently and went on talking.

  I tried one more, “Excuse me,” which drew an exasperated grunt and an, “I’m sorry, my husband’s bothering me, go on.”

  I went into our office, hunted up a piece of paper, wrote SHE’S DEAD on it in block capitals, went back in the kitchen and held it under Alice’s nose.

  That produced the desired effect. Alice said, “I’ll call you back,” and hung up the phone.

  I told Alice the whole thing. She took it well. Or as well as any wife could be expected to under the circumstances. On the whole she was a brick. She didn’t blame me for anything. She didn’t point out that I was stupid. And she told me not to worry. From which I gathered that she was fully prepared to do the worrying for both of us.