Big Silence (32 page)

“We sent out a bulletin with a description of his car and his plate number,” said Hanrahan. “They’re bringing him back here now. Should be here this afternoon some time.”

“Why?”

“Suspicion of murder,” said Lieberman.

“David? He didn’t kill my mother. That’s crazy. I told you it was two men who —”

“My partner thinks he killed your mother. I think you did. What color was the car they took you away from that motel in?” asked Lieberman.

“I don’t remember. It was blue, black. I don’t know. I didn’t kill my mother. Are you crazy?”

“Not white?” asked Lieberman. “The car wasn’t white?”

“No,” said Matthew.

“It was white,” said Hanrahan. “I watched it drive away.”

“You were there?” asked Matthew.

“Room across from yours,” said Hanrahan.

“No,” the boy said, looking from detective to detective.

“Yes,” said Hanrahan.

“We can wait till we talk to your friend David,” said Lieberman. “We’ve got time.”

“Garbage pickup downtown is midnight,” said Hanrahan having no idea when the garbage pickup was. “We’re sending a couple of men down to the Picasso to look through the trash cans for your blindfold. Dirty job, but it looks like it has to be done.”

“Why?” asked Matthew.

“Because we don’t think you’re telling the truth,” Lieberman said sympathetically. “You’re smart, but we don’t think you’re smart enough to actually put a blindfold in the garbage. You expected us to believe you.”

“So wait a minute. You really think I had something to do with killing my own mother and father?” Matthew asked, standing up.

“Please sit,” said Lieberman.

The young man stood for a few seconds more and then sat.

“We know you didn’t kill your father,” said Hanrahan. “We know your friend David didn’t kill him. We know Jimmy Stashall didn’t kill him. Want to know why?”

“I … yes.”

“Because your father’s not dead,” said Lieberman. “We staged the whole thing over the phone.”

“No, he’s dead,” Matthew said with a smile of suspicion. “You think I had something to do with killing my parents. This is crazy. I want to see a lawyer.”

“You’ve got it,” said Hanrahan. “We’ll stop the tape now and read you your rights. You don’t have to say anything more till you get a lawyer.”

Lieberman rattled off the Miranda in a monotone and closed with asking Matthew if he wanted a court-appointed lawyer.

“This is crazy,” he repeated.

“We’ll talk to your friend David,” said Hanrahan.

“Want to see your father?” asked Lieberman.

“He’s dead,” the boy shouted.

Lieberman shook his head no.

“I think he’s right outside the door by now,” Lieberman said, standing. “We’ll play the tape for him and see if he confirms the story of reconciliation between father and son, the phone calls, the letters. We don’t know how tough your pal David is, but we’ll see if he can be persuaded to tell his part.”

“We think you planned the whole thing, got your buddy to help you with the promise of money you would be getting from your mother’s life insurance and other holdings and the insurance policy and assets of your father.”

“You killed your mother for money,” Lieberman said, shaking his head.

“No,” Matthew said emphatically.

“Then hate,” said Hanrahan.

This time the young man did not respond.

“I’ll check on your father,” Lieberman said, moving to the door, opening it, and motioning to someone. He held the door open wide and Assistant State Attorney Eugene Carbin entered with Mickey Gornitz right behind.

“No!” Matthew shouted, backing against the wall. “You’re dead.”

“Matt,” Mickey said softly, stepping toward his son.

“This isn’t fair,” Matthew cried. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I’m okay,” said Mickey. “And you’re not hurt. That’s all that counts.”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Matthew screamed.

“You read his rights?” asked Carbin.

“All on the tape,” said Lieberman. “He wants a lawyer.”

“Needs one,” said Carbin. “I understand they picked up the other kid.”

Lieberman nodded.

“Matt,” Mickey said. “It’ll be okay.”

“I don’t want it to be okay,” the boy shouted. “I want you dead. You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I love you, son,” said Mickey.

“I hate you, Dad,” the boy said, his back to the wall. “I hated her and I hate you. You weren’t parents. She was a demanding, critical monster, a Medusa in tight dresses, a manipulating bitch. And you, you’re a cringing piece of shit who never made any real effort to see me, talk to me, find out about how I was or wasn’t. You love me? You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

With that, Matthew broke from the wall and threw himself against the window. The window didn’t give. Hanrahan ran to the boy and threw his arms around him, lifting Matthew from the floor and turning him back into the room to face Lieberman and Carbin. Matthew went limp in defeat.

“Even if you went through it,” Hanrahan said, “it’s only one flight down. Most you’d probably do unless you took a dive is break a leg. Only know of one who had the nerve to take a head-first dive out of a low window.”

“Matt,” said Mickey. “Matt. Did you kill your mother?”

“He doesn’t have to answer that,” said Carbin. “He has a right to an attorney.”

Matthew looked at his father with ugly hatred and nodded.

Hanrahan sat the boy back at the captain’s small conference table and put the cuffs on him as gently as he could.

“Matt,” Mickey tried.

“Go away,” the boy shouted. “Go away. I have nothing more to say to you ever except I hope Stashall finds you and kills you, tears your head off.”

Mickey was going to speak again but Carbin, to whom Lieberman had handed the cassette of the interview with Matthew, took Gornitz by the arm and led him out of the office.

“We’ll get you a lawyer,” Lieberman said.

Matthew’s head and shoulders were down in defeat. A lawyer might restore some confidence to him. Hell, a good lawyer might even get the boy off depending on what David Donald Wilhite had to say under pressure.

“I’ll take him, Abe,” Hanrahan said, helping Matthew to his feet. “You call Kearney.”

Matthew didn’t resist as Hanrahan led him out of the office.

Lieberman walked to the phone and dialed the central police headquarters downtown. He asked for the assistant chief’s office and got a secretary, female.

“My name’s Lieberman. Is Captain Kearney still in a meeting?”

“Yes,” she said abruptly.

“He wants to talk to me,” Lieberman said.

“I’ve been ordered not to interrupt.”

“The assistant chief will want this information immediately,” said Lieberman. “Believe me. Tell them I said it was urgent. I’ll take the blame if there is any. I’m getting old. I’m getting tired. I can handle the irritation of the mayor if I have to.”

“You’re Abraham Lieberman out of Clark Street?” she asked.

“My reputation precedes me,” he said.

“And it’s not all bad,” she said. “I’ll get Captain Kearney on the line.”

Lieberman didn’t feel like sitting. He didn’t feel like thinking about the boy who had shot his mother in the face and had been nearly maniacal because he had failed to drive his father to suicide. He didn’t feel like it, knew he would think about Matthew.

“Kearney” came the voice.

“We’ve got the Gornitz kid back and we know who shot his mother,” said Lieberman. “He did.”

“Nailed tight?” asked Kearney.

“Looks that way,” Lieberman said. “How’s it going? Or can’t you talk.”

“Better than I thought. This will help. I’ll see you back at the station.”

Kearney hung up. So did Lieberman.

He went out into the squad room, which was almost deserted. The rush would come later. Three people were standing at his desk. He knew them all, no-nonsense Faye Lasher from the state attorney’s office, Bob Blitzstein looking decidedly unrested, and Irving Hammel, Lieberman’s nemesis at the temple.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Lieberman asked.

“I’m representing Bob,” said Hammel. “He called me.”

“And?” asked Lieberman.

“Mr. Blitzstein has agreed to cooperate,” Faye Lasher said.

“My client has been completely misunderstood,” said Hammel. “My client is ready to make a clarifying statement.”

“I’m looking forward to hearing his new tale,” Lieberman said, looking at Blitzstein, who wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Mr. Blitzstein has agreed to go to the crime scene and show us what happened,” said Faye Lasher. “As arresting officers, I’d like you and Detective Hanrahan to come with us.”

“Detective Hanrahan is booking a suspect, and I don’t think —”

The squad room door opened and Hanrahan came in walking toward the quartet at his partner’s desk.

“Juvenile is coming for him,” Hanrahan said. “Rene is booking him in. What’s the party?”

“William, how would you like to spend an hour or so in an alley listening to a tale that promises to be worthy of Baron Munchausen?”

“Abe,” Hammel said, “I resent that.”

“I apologize,” Lieberman said, bowing his head in false contrition.

“Sounds like fun,” said Hanrahan.

“Then let’s get it over with,” Faye Lasher joined in, heading toward the squad room door, which opened ahead of her to a uniformed officer who was ushering in a thin man who looked like an emery board.

“What’s that guy’s name, Rabbi?” Bill asked Lieberman.

“Thin guy?”

“That’s the one.”

“Suede something.”

“Wonder what he’s in for. I saw him last night, driving drunk in a Mazda around Leland and Ashland. Maybe I should have stopped him, but I was long off duty and had a lot on my mind.”

“When we come back, we’ll see,” said Lieberman. “Now we run after the Amazon woman.”

Faye Lasher was almost as tall as Hanrahan, lean and fast. The four men had trouble keeping up with her. She didn’t ask anyone when they were in the parking lot. She simply headed for a dark Buick LeSabre and motioned for everyone to get in.

T
EN MINUTES LATER THE
five of them were in the alley behind Lunt. It was definitely cold, definitely gray, and definitely a place where none of them wanted to be.

“I was going to visit my daughter,” Bob Blitzstein said in a monotone. “He was in front of the apartment house, in the courtyard, looking at her window. I told him to get the hell away. He laughed at me.”

“You had a gun in your pocket,” said Lieberman.

“I was bringing it to Rita for her protection,” said Blitzstein.

Irving Hammel nodded in agreement. Faye Lasher looked bored.

“He grabbed my arm, pushed me down the street,” Blitzstein went on as they walked from the spot in the courtyard he was talking about. “We went this way. I told him to leave me alone.”

“You can use his name,” said Lieberman. “Clark Mills.”

“We went this way. I thought someone would see us, call for help. I started to shout. He — Mills told me to shut up. He was big. I was afraid.”

“But angry,” said Hanrahan.

“At that point, just afraid,” Blitzstein said, adjusting his glasses and looking at his attorney, who nodded to let him know he was saying the right thing.

“We came in the alley here,” Blitzstein went on. “He pushed me this way. I knew he was going to beat me up, maybe kill me. I’m not a young man. I was afraid. He pushed me against that wall there.”

Blitzstein pointed at a wall.

“Between two cars,” he said. “He started looking around after he told me to stand still and shut up. Then he picked up this piece of wood. It was dark, broken at one end, sort of a broken board.”

“We didn’t find anything like that,” said Hanrahan. “But we’ll look again.”

“It was probably picked up by the garbage men,” said Hammel.

“Then?” Lieberman asked.

“I remembered the gun in my pocket.”

“The one you were bringing your daughter?” asked Hanrahan.

“Yes. I took it out and when his, Mills’s, back was turned to me, he said, ‘I’m going to smash your head to a pulp.’ I was terrified. I peed in my pants. I held up the gun. It was shaking in my hands. I shot. Once, twice, I don’t remember. He went down. I was in total panic. I ran down the alley and threw the gun away. I should have stayed, but I was afraid, for myself, for my daughter.”

“Good story,” said Lieberman. “Panic notwithstanding, you managed to wipe your prints off the gun.”

“I don’t remember,” Blitzstein said, looking at his lawyer.

“It’s the truth,” said Hammel. “For now, that is all my client has to say. He has cooperated fully.”

“Let’s go.” Faye Lasher sounded as if she wanted the whole farce over with. She would look for holes in the story, but if Blitzstein stuck with it and could keep looking as if he were telling the truth, he would probably walk.

“I’ll see you at services,” said Lieberman. “Irving, Bob, what’s the commandment that fits here?”

“Thou shalt not bear false witness,” said Hanrahan.

Faye Lasher smiled, not much of a smile, but a smile. Lasher, Hammel, and Blitzstein left. Hanrahan and Lieberman stood in the alley in which they had spent the better part of the night.

“It’s a living, Abe.”

“It’s a job.”

Lieberman held up his hand and said, “You hear that?”

“I hear a lot of things. Rabbi. Traffic on Sheridan. The wind.”

“No, I —”

Lieberman started back down the alley with his partner beside him. He stopped at concrete stairs leading down to a door. Standing next to the door looking up at them was the dog with no name.

“That is one ugly dog,” said Hanrahan.

“I think he could clean up pretty good,” said Lieberman, taking the Baggie with the bagel out of his pocket and holding it out as he knelt at the top of the steps.

“He’s got half an ear missing. If he were cleaned up, I think we’d see some scars, and there’s something wrong with his eye, the left one.”

“He has character,” said Lieberman.

The dog came slowly, cautiously up the steps watching the two men. He had never by his own choosing come this close to humans before.

“I like him,” Lieberman said as the dog took the bagel gently in his teeth and retreated down the steps to eat it and watch the two men.