Motor City Burning (33 page)

21

I
T TURNED OUT TO BE A SMART MOVE ON
J
IMMY
R
OBUCK'S PART
to let Alvin Hairston stew in his cell overnight before beginning the interrogation. For on that very night, while Jimmy and Flo were at home eating ratatouille, while Doyle and Cecelia were talking late at his house over a bottle of Chianti and plates of ravioli in
puttanesca
sauce, a man who was obviously not a newspaper subscriber or faithful viewer of the eleven o'clock news dropped by the Riopelle warehouse to check on Alvin and the Armageddon II arsenal. His name was Kenneth Smith. He was arrested by the detectives staking out the place, and he, like Alvin Hairston, spent the night alone in a seventh-floor cell at 1300 Beaubien, wondering what the morning would bring.

Though he had a mild hangover from the wine and lack of sleep, Doyle showed up for work before Jimmy. It was all he could do not to take Alvin Hairston into the yellow room by himself, but he knew that would be a mistake. So he drank coffee and read about the Tigers in the
Free Press
and tried to ignore the clock.

Jimmy finally showed a little after nine, raving about Flo's ratatouille. Doyle wasn't about to tell him that Cecelia had raved about his ravioli and
puttanesca
sauce—or that she was charmed by the buckets scattered around his bedroom floor to catch the rainwater that came through the Swiss-cheese roof.

Doyle and Jimmy took turns working on Alvin Hairston. First, Doyle got him to initial and sign the Miranda warning while he distracted him with some ice-breaking small talk and assurances that the paperwork was just a formality. It was a technique Doyle had developed shortly after joining the squad, and it worked so well it had become standard department procedure. It was every cop's wet dream: The perps did the paperwork, and the paperwork guaranteed that the cases against them wouldn't get thrown out of court. Kiss my ass, Earl Warren.

But after three hours Alvin Hairston hadn't given up a thing, and the detectives adjourned to the hallway for a conference. While Alvin had not yet insisted on seeing a lawyer, he had refused to go for any of their bait. When Jimmy showed him a picture of the .30-caliber Winchester rifle that had just been positively identified as the weapon in a riot-related murder and pointed out that his fingerprints were on it, Alvin shrugged and said he'd handled several of the guns in the warehouse but had never fired a single one. He said he was in Cleveland during the riot attending his mother's funeral. He even volunteered the name of the funeral home.

Out in the hallway Jimmy said, “Let's look at the situation straight on, Frank. We don't got shit on the nigger and he knows it. I just called the funeral home in Cleveland and his alibi checks out. I say we ship his ass back upstairs and let him go to trial on the weapons charge and get on with our lives.”

“I've got a better idea,” Doyle said.

“I'm listening.”

“We both know Alvin didn't pull the trigger, but he knows more than he's letting on. I'm sure of it.”

“Such as?”

“Such as where that gun came from. I know he knows.”

Jimmy, the great respecter of gut instincts, said, “So what's your idea?”

“You go get Kenneth Smith and walk him by in the hall real nice and slow. No handcuffs. I'm going to go back in with Alvin and leave the door open.”

“Not the oldest play in the book, Frank? You really think Alvin's that stupid?”

“I know he is.”

Fifteen minutes later, Doyle watched Alvin Hairston's eyes widen at the sight of his fellow revolutionary, Kenneth Smith, being led down the hallway by the big black detective.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Doyle said, glancing over his shoulder. “We picked up your buddy Kenneth at the warehouse last night. Guess he hadn't heard about the raid. Man, Kenneth's a pussy.”

“What you mean?” Alvin sat up straight.

“What I mean, Alvin, is that Kenneth rolled over in five minutes flat.”

“Rolled over?”

“Yeah, Kenneth's on his way home.”

“Home? I don't take your meaning. I thought you just got through tellin me you picked him up at the warehouse.”

“We did. But it's not exactly a capital offense to walk into an empty warehouse, is it? I got to tell you, though, Kenneth's not the smartest guy I ever met.”

“No, he a dumb motherfucka.”

“Yes, Alvin, he's a dumb motherfucker, all right. He's so dumb, in fact, that he actually believed we've got enough evidence to pin a piece of that riot murder on him—accessory before and after the fact. But the reason he's going home now is because he was smart enough to cut a deal and sign a statement for us.”

“A statement?”

“That's right.”

“What it say?”

“It says you pulled the trigger, Alvin. We're talking Murder One here, my friend. Do you know what the punishment is for Murder One in the state of Michi—”

“You a lyin motherfucka!”
Alvin shouted toward the hallway, springing to his feet.

Doyle had to bite a knuckle to keep from laughing. He'd guessed right about Alvin's intelligence. Doyle said, “Sit the fuck down.” Alvin sat down. Doyle walked over and closed the door and returned to his chair. “Maybe Kenneth is a lying motherfucker, for all I know. But we've got his name on a signed statement, we've got your fingerprints on a murder weapon, and I know a guy in the District Attorney's office who's an old pro at getting all-white juries. Now let's you and me do the math here, Alvin. We've got a dead woman—a dead white woman—who was shot during the riot. We've got a defendant—a black defendant, namely you—who's been identified as the shooter by an eyewitness. Your fingerprints are on the murder weapon and, to make matters worse, you were caught red-handed in a warehouse full of guns and you're a known troublemaker who thinks it's time to get rid of the white race. You with me so far, Alvin?”

Silence. But Alvin was chewing his lip, so Doyle pressed on.

“What do you think that all-white jury's gonna do when it comes time to reach a verdict in this case, Alvin? You think they're gonna believe you? And I don't want to hear any more shit about your momma's funeral.”

“I ain't killed nobody.”

“You know something, Alvin? I want to believe you. I really do. But the only way you're going to convince me is if you start talking—right now—about where those guns came from and who was planning to use them. And when. And where. I need names, Alvin, and I need them right now. It's your ass or theirs. You don't deserve to go down with these people, and they
are
going down. It's your call.” Doyle stood up. “I'm gonna go smoke a cigarette. I'll be back in ten minutes, Alvin, and when I come back in here I want names.”

Jimmy was standing in the hallway gazing at Alvin through the one-way mirror. “Man, Frank, that was good.”

“You think?”

“No, I know. He yours. Since when you start smokin cigarettes?”

Doyle laughed. “Let's get a cup of coffee.”

When they got back to the one-way mirror, Kenneth had his forehead on the table. Doyle said to Jimmy, “You got that picture of Wes Bledsoe?”

“Got it right here,” he said, motioning to the folder under his arm. “U.S. Navy sent it over yesterday.”

“You got some other mugs to go with it?”

“Three.”

“Two'll do. No sense confusing the man.”

Jimmy handed over two mugshots and the photocopy of the U.S. Navy's official discharge picture of Seaman W. B. Bledsoe. Doyle shuffled them and took them into the yellow room. Alvin actually flinched when he heard the door open. Jimmy was right, Doyle thought, we've got Alvin. Doyle laid the photos face-down on the table and sat down.

Alvin's eyes danced around the yellow walls for a while and finally came to rest on Doyle's. Then Alvin looked down at his hands. “I ain't killed nobody.”

“You already told me that. Tell me something new.”

“Alls I can tell you—let me get somethin straight, first.”

Doyle waited.

“That jive piece a paper Kenneth signed—you gonna tear it up I give you what you want?”

“That all depends.”

“What it depend on?”

“On whether or not your story checks out.”

“It'll check out cause it's the truth.”

“Then we got a deal.”

“I give you a name and you tear up that piece a paper?”

“No, Alvin, you give me names—plural—and I tear up that piece of paper.” That piece of paper that didn't exist. “Provided your story about your momma's funeral checks out.”

“I only got three names. And that's God's honest truth.”

Doyle asked himself what Jimmy would do under the circumstances. He would say follow your gut. Doyle's gut told him that Alvin believed he was cornered and he was too scared and too stupid to lie his way out of the corner, so this was the best they were going to get. Way better than they had any right to hope for. “Okay then,” Doyle said. “You give me those names and we got us a deal.”

“You tear up the paper.”

“That's right.”

Alvin sighed. “The onliest people I ever saw in that warehouse was Kenneth and a brother name Yusef. That's his Muslim name and I swear to God I don't know his real name.”

Doyle waited.

“You got to realize I only been in that warehouse two, three times—”

“I'm waiting for another name, Alvin, not another story.”

“—I'm comin up on that. Yeah, I was there one day Yusef brought some guns, including that one in the picture you showed me. I put 'em on the racks, which is why my fingerprints is on 'em—”

Doyle held his breath.

“—we talkin three guns here. The guy who brought 'em in use to be in the Navy. He was suppose to be some big bad-ass, cording to Yusef, but he fat now. I think he were half-drunk too. Or high, one.”

Doyle was still holding his breath. “The name, Alvin.”

“Yusef called him by Wes.”

Doyle exhaled. “Any last name?”

“Jus Wes.”

“Was anybody with him?”

“No. He were alone.”

Doyle turned the pictures over and lined them up for Alvin to see. “Now I want you to take your time, Alvin, and look at these three pictures. Tell me if you see Wes.”

Alvin didn't hesitate. He tapped a finger on the picture of Seaman W. B. Bledsoe. “That's the motherfucka right there.”

“You sure about that?”

“Stone positive.”

Jimmy gave Doyle high fives and a bear hug out in the hallway. While Jimmy took Alvin back to his cell, Doyle went to the squad room and placed a call to the F.B.I. in Washington. It was time to find Wes Bledsoe.

An hour later Doyle called his home phone on the off chance that Cecelia was still sleeping off the red wine and the after-dinner calisthenics. She picked up after the fifth ring. “I wake you up?” Doyle said.

“God no, it's past noon. I made coffee and ate some toast. I've been . . . I hope you don't mind. . . .”

“What?”

“I've been weeding your garden. I used to love gardening but I haven't done it since Ronnie and I moved into the high-rise. I'd forgotten how . . . therapeutic it is. I hope you don't mind.”

“Be my guest. If you want to take a crack at that jungle in front of the house, the mower's in the garage.”

She laughed. “Don't press your luck. So how'd it go with that interrogation?”

“Better than good. Perfect. Unbelievable.”

“So you've got your murder suspect?”

“We've got the name of the man who sold the murder weapon. Just about the same thing.”

“You've already arrested him?”

“No, but we know who he is. Now we just have to find him. The F.B.I.'s helping us.”

“You sound happy.”

“No, I'm on cloud nine.” He paused. “You planning on hanging around the house for a while?”

“I'm going to finish this weeding. I'm not even halfway done. Why?”

“Because I'm in the mood to celebrate, take the rest of the day off. I've got a nice bottle of French champagne in the fridge and I thought—”

“I'll be right here.”

And she was. Her Mustang was still parked in front of the house and from the kitchen window Doyle could see her in the garden, dressed in gloves and a pair of his boxer shorts and a faded U. of D. T-shirt. She was down on her knees in the dirt, humming to herself. Her hair was piled up crazily, held together with a pencil, and when she shooed a fly Doyle could see she had a smudge of mud on the tip of her nose. He tapped on the window and she looked toward the house, a smile spreading on her face as she came out of the garden, up the back steps, into his waiting arms. They kissed. Then she followed him upstairs to the big room with the buckets half-full of rainwater scattered around the king-size bed.