Blood Relatives (4 page)

“Or maybe San Diego,” Kling said.

“Well, no, it was either San Francisco or Los Angeles.”

“If that was where she was going,” Carella said, “and if she left yesterday—”

“That’s when she left, sir,” Donatelli said.

“We can check with the airlines. There aren’t that many lateafternoon flights to California, and there couldn’t have been too many girls named Betsy—”

“Well, I’m not even sure it was California,” Donatelli said.

“Mr. Donatelli,” Carella said, “are you aware of the fact that we’re talking about a homicide here? Are you aware of that? Are you sure you realize that a girl was brutally murdered on Saturday night and that—?”

“Yes, I’m aware of it, I realize it.”

“Then why are you giving us this bullshit about a bowling alley, and a girl you met in the park, now what is
that
supposed to be, Mr. Donatelli? Are we supposed to
believe
that goddamn story? If you want my advice—I’m not supposed to give you this kind of advice, Mr. Donatelli—I’d get a lawyer in here right away, because the bullshit you’re giving us, it sounds to me like you’re going to be in very serious trouble before too long. Now that’s my advice.”

“I don’t need a lawyer,” Donatelli said. “I didn’t kill that girl you’re talking about.”

“Mr. Donatelli,” Carella said, “I think we’re going to have to hold you in custody, in what amounts to something more than a routine interrogation, and that being the case, I’ll have to advise you of your rights. In keeping with the Supreme Court decision in Miranda versus Arizona, we are not permitted to ask you any questions until you are warned of your right to counsel and your privilege against self-incrimination. First, you have the right to remain silent if you so choose. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Second, you do not have to answer any police questions if you don’t want to. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Third, if you
do
decide to answer any questions, the answers may be used as evidence against you. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“You have the right to consult with an attorney before or during police questioning. If you do not have the money to hire a
lawyer, a lawyer will be appointed to consult with you. Do you understand everything I’ve told you?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Are you willing to answer questions without an attorney here to counsel you?”

“Yes,” Donatelli said. “I didn’t kill that girl.”

“Then what
did
you do?” Carella asked at once. He was able to question Donatelli more freely now; the man had signified that he understood all the warnings, and had waived his right to have an attorney present. This did not give the police license to keep him there for four days and four nights while successive teams of interrogators bludgeoned him with questions. As a matter of fact, if Donatelli changed his mind at any point during the questioning, he could simply say, “I don’t want to answer any more questions,” and that would be that; the police would have to respect his wishes and cease all questioning at once. In many respects, America is a very nice country.

“I didn’t do anything,” Donatelli said.

“Where were you on Saturday night? And please skip the bowling-alley bullshit, if you don’t mind.”

“I told you where I was.”

“We don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s where I was.”

“If you’re hiding something, Mr. Donatelli, it can’t be anything as serious as this homicide, I’m sure you realize that. So if you’re hiding something, I suggest you tell us about it, because otherwise we’re going to start thinking things you don’t want us to think, and then you’d better change your mind and get a lawyer in here to help you. What do you say?”

“I can’t tell you where I was Saturday night.”

“Then you
weren’t
at the bowling alley, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Where were you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I tell you that…no, I can’t tell you that.”

“Mr. Donatelli, we’ve got an eyewitness to the murder. We’ve got a girl who can identify the man who killed Muriel Stark. Now we can bring that girl up here, Mr. Donatelli. We can have a car pick her up, and she’ll be here in five minutes flat, and we can ask her to identify that man for us, we’ll put him in a lineup with six detectives and ask her to pick out the man who killed her cousin. Do you want us to do that, Mr. Donatelli, or do you want to tell us where you were on Saturday night between ten-thirty and eleven-thirty?”

“Well, I…I wasn’t at the bowling alley,” Donatelli said.

“Where were you?”

“With a girl.”

“What girl?”

“A girl I know.”

“Betsy?”

“No. I made Betsy up.”

“Then what girl?”

“Well, what’s the use?” Donatelli said.

“Who’s the girl, Mr. Donatelli?”

“It won’t help me. If I tell you who she is, it won’t help me.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’ll lie. She’ll say she doesn’t know me.”

“Why would she do that?”

“It’s what I told her to say. I told her if ever anyone asks her about me—her mother, her father, a policeman,
anyone
—what I want her to say is she’s never even heard of me.”

“Why’s that, Mr. Donatelli?”

“Well,” Donatelli said, and shrugged.

“How old is this girl?” Carella asked.

“Well,” Donatelli said.

“How old is she?”

“She’s pretty young,” Donatelli said.

“
How
young?”

“She’s thirteen.”

Carella turned away, walked toward the far end of the narrow room, and then came back to where Donatelli was sitting.

“Were you with her Saturday night?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Her house.”

“Where were her parents?”

“They went to a movie.”

“What time did you go up there?”

“At about ten.”

“And what time did you leave her?”

“At a quarter to twelve.”

“What’s her name?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Donatelli said. “If I give you her name, and you ask her about me, she’ll say she doesn’t know me. She knows I can get in trouble for being with her, she knows that. She’ll lie.”

“What’s her name?”

“What difference does it make?”

“What’s her goddamn
name?
”

“Gloria Hanley.”

“Where does she live?”

“831 North Sheridan.”

“How long have you known her?”

“I met her six months ago.”

“How old was she then?”

“Well, I…I suppose she was twelve.”

“You’re a very nice man, Mr. Donatelli,” Carella said.

“I love her,” Donatelli said.

The object of Mr. Donatelli’s affections was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when she opened the door to the apartment on North Sheridan. Gloria Hanley was a tall, angular girl with tiny breasts, boyish hips, green eyes, a dusting of freckles on her cheeks, and sun-washed blonde hair cut in a Dutch Boy bob. They had announced themselves as police officers, and she had asked them to hold up their shields to the peephole before she would open the door. She stood in the open doorway now in jeans and short-sleeved blouse, studying them with only mild interest.

“I was just having lunch,” she said. “What is it?”

“We’d like to ask you some questions,” Carella said. “Would it be all right if we came in?”

“This isn’t about that dope thing, is it?” Gloria said.

“What dope thing?”

“At school. Some kids were caught smoking dope in the toilet.”

“No, this isn’t about that.”

“Well, sure, come on in,” Gloria said. “I hope you won’t mind my eating while we talk. I go to school at the crack of dawn, you see, the bus picks me up at six-thirty, would you believe it? But I get
home
early, too, so I guess it’s not all that horrible. The thing is I’m positively
starved
when I get here. Would
you
care for something to eat?”

“Thank you, no,” Carella said.

They followed her into the kitchen. Gloria poured herself a glass of milk and drank half of it before she sat down at the table. “My mother should be home any minute,” she said, “if this is anything she ought to hear. She works part-time, usually gets home a little after I do. What’s this all about, anyway?”

“Gloria, I wonder if you can tell us where you were last Saturday night between ten and midnight.”

“Huh?” Gloria said.

“Last Saturday night,” Carella said. “That would have been Saturday, the sixth.”

“Gee, I don’t know
where
I was,” Gloria said.

“Would you have been here?”

“Home, you mean?”

“Yes. Here in the apartment.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Gloria said.

“Was anyone with you?”

“My parents, I guess.”

“Your parents were here with you?”

“Or maybe not. Saturday night, huh? No, wait a minute, they went out, that’s right.”

“Where’d they go?”

“A movie, I think. I’m not sure. Yeah, a movie. Mm-huh. You sure you don’t want something to eat?”

“Were you here alone?” Kling asked.

“I guess so. If my parents were out, then I guess I was here alone.”

“Any of your friends stop by to see you?” Carella asked.

“Not that I can remember.”

“Well, this was only Saturday night,” Carella said. “It shouldn’t really be too difficult to remember whether—”

“No, I’m pretty sure nobody stopped by,” Gloria said.

“So you were here alone.”

“Yes.”

“What’d you do?”

“Watched television, I guess.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Gloria, do you know a man named James Donatelli?”

“No, I don’t believe so,” Gloria said, and poured more milk from the container into her glass.

“He says he knows you.”

“Really? James
who
did you say?”

“Donatelli.”

“No,” she said, and shook her head. “I don’t know him. He must be mistaken.”

“He says he was here Saturday night.”

“Here? You’re kidding. I was here alone.”

“Then he
wasn’t
here, is that right?”

“I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”

“James Donatelli.”

“Nobody by that name was here Saturday night. Or any
other
night, for that matter.”

“He said you might lie for him.”

“Why should I lie for somebody I don’t even know?”

“So he won’t go back to prison.”

“I don’t
know
anybody who’s been in prison. You’re making a mistake. Officers, really, I mean it. I don’t know this man, whoever he is.”

“Gloria, a girl was killed on Saturday night—”

“Well, I’m sorry, but—”

“Please hear me out. This man Donatelli has a prison record, we picked him up this morning because we wanted to question him about the murder.”

“I don’t know him, I’m sorry.”

“He says he was here Saturday night. That’s his alibi, Gloria. He was here at the time the girl was killed.”

“Well, that’s…Is that what he told you?”

“Yes. And he also said you’d deny it.”

“Well, he was right, I
am
denying it. He wasn’t here.”

“That means he hasn’t got an alibi.”

“I’m sorry about that, but how can I say he was here if he wasn’t here?”

“Gloria, we’re going to have to assume that Donatelli was lying to us. Which means we’re going to keep questioning him about where he
really
was on Saturday night. And if we
still
can’t get some satisfactory answers, we’ll run a lineup on him and try to get a positive identification from the girl who witnessed the murder.”

“Well, if he didn’t do it, he’s got nothing to worry about,” Gloria said.

“Before we put him through all that, I want to ask you again—are you
sure
you don’t know anyone named James Donatelli?”

“I’m positive.”

“No one by that name was here on Saturday night.”

“No one. I was here alone. I was here alone watching television.”

“Gloria,” Carella said, “if you know this man, please say so.”

“I do not know him,” she said.

At 2:00 that afternoon they ran a lineup in the squadroom. Six detectives and James Donatelli stood in a row. The detectives all had dark hair and light eyes, and they were all wearing dark suits and shirts without ties. None of them wore hats. James Donatelli was the third man in the line, flanked by two detectives on his left, and four detectives on his right. In addition to the seven men in the lineup, there were three other men in the room: Carella, Kling, and a man named Israel Mandelbaum who had been appointed as Donatelli’s attorney, and who
still
objected to the lineup, even though Donatelli had agreed to it.

“You’ll get a person in here,” Mandelbaum said, “she won’t remember
what
the hell she saw Saturday night, she’ll pick you
out of the lineup, you’ll spend the rest of your life in jail. You want to go to jail for the rest of your life?”

“I won’t go to jail,” Donatelli said. “I’m innocent. I was with Gloria at the time of the murder. I’m not the man, I’m not the guilty party.”

Mandelbaum shook his head gravely, and said, “If I had a nickel for every poor slob who was ever mistakenly identified in a lineup, I’d be a rich man and not a practicing lawyer.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Donatelli said, but Mandelbaum was still shaking his head when Patricia Lowery walked into the squadroom.

Both of her hands were bandaged, and there was a bandage on her left cheek as well, where eight stitches had been taken to close the knife wound there. Carella led her to a chair and then asked if she’d care for a cup of coffee or anything. She declined the coffee. She was already looking over the men lined up in front of the detention cage. She knew why she was there; Carella had prepared her on the telephone.

“Patricia,” he said now, “there are seven men standing across the room there. Would you please go over to them, and look at them closely, and then tell me whether you recognize any one of them.”

Patricia got out of the chair and walked slowly across the room, past the filing cabinets and over to where the seven men were standing just in front of the detention cage. She paused before each man, looking at him carefully before she moved on to the next man in line. When she reached the end of the line, she turned to Carella and said, “Yes, I recognize one of these men.”