by Thom Whalen
* * *
On Friday morning, just before lunch, Chief Albertson came through the door to Elsa’s kitchen, followed by four officers, the entire Wemsley police force, I believe.
Their guns were not drawn, but all five had their hands on the butts, not just resting there, but with their elbows held high and their fingers wrapped loosely around the grips.
Randal was at the grill. Three burger patties were frying under his gaze. He looked up at the officers.
“You know why we’re here, Randal,” Albertson said. “Don’t cause a problem. You’ve been arrested before so you know the drill. Step away from the stove, turn around, and put your hands behind your back.”
Randal did exactly as he was told, moving slowly, keeping his hands in plain sight at all times.
I wondered if Albertson knew that Randal had been a prisoner of war for five months in Vietnam. And knew that he had escaped, not just from the prison, but from the subsequent manhunt. And had killed men when he did it. With a knife.
The chef’s knife was inches from Randal’s hand when Albertson approached him.
Albertson might have been more cautious if he knew how dangerous Randal could be.
He was damned lucky that Randal didn’t flash back to ‘Nam but let himself be handcuffed without reaching for the knife. Then Albertson told him that he was under arrest for the murder of William James Paul and that he had the right to a lawyer.
It took me a second to understand that William James Paul was Billy.
Randal said, “I want Phil with me when I’m being interrogated, just like last time.”
Apparently, I was Phil, not Gunner, when the police were involved.
“Forget it,” Albertson said. “You weren’t under arrest last time. You’re under arrest now. The law says that you don’t have to talk and that you can have a lawyer present if you do. It doesn’t say anything about having friends there.”
“Phil is going to be a lawyer. He’s going to college. He’s the one I want.”
Randal had never accepted that I was going to Columbia to be a mathematician. He wanted me to be a lawyer because he had no use for a mathematician but he would often need a lawyer.
“Forget it. Lawyer means a licensed member of the bar. I don’t care if the kid’s a regular Perry Mason, he ain’t licensed by the State of New York.”
As they took Randal away through the front, parading him past a handful of shocked customers, he shouted at me, “Don’t give up. Come and visit as soon as you can and we’ll talk.”
“Shut up,” was the last thing that I heard Albertson say as they left through the front door.
Mrs. Everett walked past me toward the office. “I better get Gil in here to help you,” she said. “And we’ll have to hire someone else to help him. We’re going to miss Randal.”
She was certainly right about that.
It was a long day. Gil had been working here for a couple of weeks and he wasn’t completely useless, but he wasn’t as much help as I would have liked.
One small blessing was that when he tried to chat up Katie now, she gave him no time. He didn’t know why and I wasn’t about to enlighten him.
Some things weren’t his business, no matter how much he wanted them to be.