Motor City Shakedown (6 page)

The sound of a large motor rumbled over the water behind me. I looked back. A searchlight cut across the river, methodically working back and forth. It was upstream but not far. I dug into the water again, pulling hard for the shore, but the knot in my calf made that leg nearly useless, and I was exhausted.

The light passed over me, then quickly reversed direction and locked onto the back of my head. I dived again, again swimming downstream. This time when I came up, the light found me almost immediately, and the boat sounded like it was very close.

“Freeze, Anderson,” a voice called. “You go down again, you ain't coming up.”

*   *   *

A pair of policemen dragged me out of the wagon and pulled me up the broad concrete stairs toward the maw of the Bethune Street police station. My shoes made a squishing sound with each step. A man stood in the doorway, hands on hips, silhouetted by the light behind him. Detective Riordan. His six-foot frame, fedora, and the curl of smoke rising from his ever-present cigar made him immediately recognizable. We stopped two steps below him.

“God damn it, Anderson,” Riordan growled.

I looked up, startled. It wasn't that long ago he'd punched me in the mouth for taking the Lord's name in vain. In the near dark, the scar that curled from his mouth toward his ear looked like the lopsided grin of a jack-o'-lantern.

Riordan shook his head. “You are one dumb son of a bitch. She saw your face. How could you have thought you'd get off this time?”

I shrugged. What was I going to say?

Riordan pulled the cigar from his mouth and looked at it, a disgusted scowl on his face. He hurled the cigar onto the steps, spun around, and walked into the station. Without looking back, he said, “Lock him up.”

*   *   *

I sat awake all night in a cell with three other prisoners, all drunks sleeping one off. Shortly after a pinkish light began to show through the small barred window at the back of the cell, I started sweating and sniffling, and silently lamented the loss of my morphine. The guards were probably enjoying it by now.

The sun was full up when a guard slid four bowls of gruel and cups of coffee under the bars. I ignored them, keeping my arms wrapped around me to try to stay warm. One of the drunks, a husky German who stank of stale beer, grabbed two bowls of oatmeal, if that's what it was, so it didn't go to waste.

Shortly after lunch, which I also ignored, a guard brought me to a telephone, and I called my attorney, Mr. Sutton. I spoke with a secretary, who told me to keep my mouth shut (advice I already took as gospel) and wait for Mr. Sutton, who would be there as soon as possible. Then it was back to the cell. The drunks were gone now, replaced by a small man with long greasy hair and the sunken mouth of the toothless. Even though he was sitting on the bench at the back of the cell, I could hardly stand being pushed inside. A stench poured from the man, some combination of shit and rot.

I sat at the end of one of the side benches, as far away from him as I could, and leaned back against the bars. My stomach was cramping, and sweat ran down my face. I closed my eyes, hugged myself, and shrank into the corner of the cell.

“Hurts, don't it?”

I opened my eyes. The stench-ridden man was now sitting five feet away from me on the bench. He looked closer to death than he did a threat, so I closed my eyes again and ignored him.

“Opium?”

That opened my eyes. “What?”

“Is it opium?” His mouth was a black hole, framed by pink gums. “That's mine. Looks like it's yours too.” His jaws worked back and forth, and I couldn't take my eyes off the wrinkled, puckered skin around his lips.

“No,” I said. “I'm no addict.”

He cackled. “So you say, so you say. Bet if I had some you'd change your tune, eh?”

I sat up and gave him the “dead eyes” look Wesley had taught me. With a look of alarm, he slid back a few feet. “Man! No offense, I just know what you're feelin'.”

“If you don't shut your mouth,” I said, “I'm going to shut it for you.”

Looking hurt, he shuffled to the back of the cell and sat where he had previously. I had to resist the urge to get up and beat the hell out of him. He and I shared nothing.

Shortly thereafter, a guard pulled me out of the cell, clapped handcuffs and leg chains on me, and brought me to an interrogation room.

Mr. Sutton was already pacing the wooden floor. He looked up when the door opened. “Hello, Will.”

The guard stepped out of the room and closed the door. Sutton walked up close to me. He was a handsome man, trim and energetic, and looked younger than I remembered. Then I saw why. He'd trimmed back his side whiskers from the muttonchops to a pair of brown slashes in front of his ears. That alone probably took five years off him.

“Another murder arrest?” he said. “Is this harassment?”

I walked over to the small wooden table and sat. A few moments later, I muttered, “Yes, well … no, not exactly.”

“What?” He hurried around the table and looked down into my face. “Did you do this?”

I shook my head. “No. And I have an alibi.”

“I'm listening.”

I told him about my dinner with the Prestons.

“What time did they leave?”

“I don't know—around ten, I think.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I … I went out.” I looked up at him sheepishly. “I went to Moretti's. But he was already dead.”

“Oh, yes, that
is
a clever alibi.”

“Well, I wouldn't say the last part.”

“You won't need to. The prosecutor will explain that you set up an alibi before going out to kill Moretti.”

I shrugged.

“You were in his apartment?”

“Yes.”

“And an eyewitness saw you run down the hall after the incident?”

I nodded.

He sighed and sank into the seat opposite me. “Why were you there in the middle of the night? No, don't tell me. This has something to do with Vito Adamo, doesn't it?”

I nodded. “Moretti worked for him.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

“No.” And I wasn't going to bring up the prostitute I'd seen. My association with Elizabeth was too well known to raise the possibility that Moretti had been killed by a tall, slender, auburn-haired woman. I raised my hands and awkwardly wiped my nose on my sleeve.

Sutton took a deep breath, placed his hands on the table, and stood. “Okay, well, you know the drill. You'll be formally charged, followed by the bail hearing and the preliminary hearing a couple of weeks later.”

“What do you think about bail this time?”

He rubbed his chin. “I don't know. The judges could still be holding you at least partially responsible for Judge Hume's death, which would be a problem. But you never know what's going to happen.”

“Don't tell my parents I'm in here.”

“If I don't, they're going to find out from the newspapers. You know—‘Return of the Electric Executioner,' or some such thing.”

“Yeah. All right. But tell them to stay away.” I thought about Elizabeth. “I don't want
any
visitors.”

“Are you all right?” Sutton was looking down at me with a great deal of concern in his eyes. “I have to tell you—you look terrible.”

“Just not feeling well. Influenza or something.”

“Can I get you anything?”

I thought about it for a split second before rejecting the idea. “No.”

“You don't need anything?”

Oh, yes. There was something I needed. But nothing I would ask him for.

CHAPTER SIX

I vomited again, now only a weak stream of stomach acid burning my throat. I spit and curled up on the cold concrete floor, hands clutching my stomach. It was dark, just the dim glow of a light at the end of the corridor illuminating the cot and bucket in the tiny cell.

My heart raced. My guts felt like they had been torn to ribbons. I groaned. Voices shouted out around me, some making fun, others telling me in no uncertain terms to shut up so they could sleep. I cursed them, their mothers, God, morphine, myself, before finally passing out.

I woke sometime the next day and wished I hadn't. I hurt like I never had before. My hand was nothing more than a passing interest. My stomach was filled with shards of glass. My head throbbed and pounded, ice picks stabbing behind my eyes. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think. I didn't want morphine any longer. I only wanted death.

I begged the guards to either get me a doctor or kill me and be done with it, but they ignored me. Eventually the men in the other cells shut up. I may have been reading too much into their reaction, but I think they actually sympathized.

I didn't eat, drank little, and fouled myself frequently. By the end of the third day in the cell, I could only lie on the floor, drifting in and out of consciousness, nightmares blending with reality. My pain began to fade. I was just alert enough to know it wasn't because I was healing.

I embraced the thought of death, welcomed it, wished for nothing else. My lucid moments disappeared.

*   *   *

Dr. Miller leaned down close to me, his kind face crinkled with concern. Lights reflected off his pince-nez glasses, making his eyes invisible. His fluffy white hair and beard made me think of clouds. He smiled. “Nice to see you're back with us, my boy.”

“Thanks,” I whispered. Looking past him, I saw I was in a hospital room. “Where am I?”

“The state hospital. You nearly died.”

I took a quick inventory of my pains. My hand had its normal burn, but the agony in my stomach and head was gone. “What happened?” I whispered.

“Dehydration. If you'll think back a bit, you'll recall my instructions to keep Elizabeth hydrated. You were dying for lack of water.” He sighed. “Will, I told you to be careful with the morphine. You saw what heroin did to Elizabeth. How could you expect it to go better for you?”

I looked away from him. “I needed medicine.”

“You should be dead now. You've been given a reprieve. Use your second chance.” He gripped my forearm. “Change your life.”

“As if it matters now. I'm never getting out of jail.”

“Why, I'm sure Sutton will be able to convince the jury of the truth, Will. You'll be out before you know it.”

I shook my head. I wasn't going into it with him. “My parents haven't seen me like this, have they?”

“Yes. I wasn't sure if you were going to make it. The State had to let them in.”

“Shit.” It was hard to imagine how I could hurt them any worse, but given my recent history, it seemed to be only a matter of time.

*   *   *

A week later, the police brought me to a cell at their Detroit headquarters. Physically I was weak but was feeling better than I had any right to be. My mental state was something else altogether. I had a niggling itch twenty-four hours a day. Whenever I thought of morphine my mouth turned dry, and I felt a craving digging at me that was impossible to ignore.

They'd taken away my glove, so I had a front-row seat to watch my fingers curl inward, the muscles tightening as they had done after I'd been burned by the acid. I didn't bother with my stretching exercises. It hurt too much, and the hand was useless anyway. No matter what I did, I'd never regain the ability to hold a pen or caress a woman's body, not that, with the likelihood of a life sentence, the latter would ever again be a possibility.

My parents and sisters, Elizabeth, and Edsel Ford came to the jail, asking to see me. The only person I agreed to speak with was Elizabeth.

It was early afternoon about a week after I'd been returned to the jail. A guard chained my arms and legs before pushing me along to a small interrogation room, where Elizabeth stood near the window, wearing a yellow day dress with a matching small-brimmed hat. My heart ached. Worry lines creased her forehead. Her eyes were red and puffy. But still and all, she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

The guard closed the door behind us. Eyeing Elizabeth with a leering smile, he said, “You got five minutes.”

I turned back to him. “Could we have some privacy, please?”

“No. And don't touch her either. You stay on this side. She stays on that one.”

I realized my mutilated hand was on display, and, as it was chained in front of me to my left hand, I had no way to hide it. I slid into the closest chair, and Elizabeth sat opposite me, her hands out on the table in front of her. I kept mine out of sight.

“How are you, Will?” Her eyes were pooled with tears.

I was determined to show her a brave face. “I'm fine. I have a cell to myself. It's boring, but I'm okay. Getting better.”

“I didn't know about the morphine.”

“No.” I looked away. “It was just medicine.” I glanced at her again. “My hand hurts all the time. It just got away from me a little bit.”

“Yes.”

I ducked my shoulders and tried to talk casually, to keep the guard from discerning any importance to my question. “Have the police been to see you?”

“Yes,” she said. “But of course I couldn't tell them anything, other than I didn't believe you would kill anyone. Well … anyone else.”

“Right. Were they fishing to find accomplices or anything?”

“No.”

“Good.” No one but me had seen the auburn-haired woman with Moretti. Or at least no one had come forward.

She asked if I needed anything, and we chatted for a few minutes before the guard told us our time was up. I stood and put a smile on my face. “Thanks for coming, Lizzie. But I'd appreciate it if you would stay away for now. I'll be out of here soon. I don't want you to see me like this. And I don't want you ogled by these degenerates.” I glanced back at the guard. “The inmates, I mean.” I turned back and winked at Elizabeth. That got a real smile out of her.