Murder Mountain (12 page)

I had to prepare myself mentally to see him, and to make the phone call that had to be made. I called the County Prosecutor’s Office to make a request that I knew would have them in a complete uproar. I explained to them what I was going to do, what I needed, and why, and they reluctantly agreed. Then I called the jail and told them to have Bobby Delphy brought down to the interview room.

Eric called while I was on my way to the jail. I didn’t tell him what I was going to do because I knew he would get angry about it.

When I pulled into the jail parking lot, I saw that the inmates were in “the playpen,” a term for an outdoor cage. It’s a recreation area where they are allowed to be for one hour a day, playing basketball and volleyball, and smoking cigarettes. I hated walking into the jail when they were out because they always ran to the side of the cage yelling and whistling at me, which I was particularly not in the mood for on that trip. Right on cue, they started as soon as I opened my car door. Most of the trash they yelled didn’t bother me that much.

When I walked by the reception window, I saw Greg Miller, a corrections officer who was a friend of Eric’s and mine, seated there.

“Delphy down here yet?”

“He’s in Room One. He’s been bitching since we brought him down, wanting to know who wants to talk to him and why. He got his ass kicked the other day on the D cell, and he’s been running his mouth ever since.”

“Who got him?”

“Dunno. I think it was a group of the Ocie Hill boys. We don’t know what brought it on. They just walked over to him and started pounding his face in,” he shrugged.

I smiled. I owed Deondre Carter a case of booze for that. Although I would never tell anyone, I knew he’d had his boys kick the shit out of Delphy because of what he’d done to me.

I wouldn’t even bother asking Deondre about it because I knew he’d just deny it. I’d just leave the booze on his porch as a token of my appreciation.

I was pretty calm when I entered Bobby Delphy’s room. He was in his orange jump suit and his face was pulverized. Deondre’s friends had done quite a job. I was sure he’d still had some bruising left on his face from the deputies before he’d got it again.

He started yelling the minute he saw me, although no one could hear him. “Hey! I got a lawyer! She ain’t allowed to be in here talkin’ to me! Hey! Anybody hear me!”

“Be quiet!” I ordered him. “I’m not here to talk about what you did to me.”

“I don’t care! I got a fuckin’ lawyer! I ain’t talkin’ to you without my fuckin’ lawyer!”

“Is that right?” I smiled, wickedly, I hoped.

“That’s right!” He wasn’t smiling.

“Then you call your lawyer and tell him to get down here right now,” I snapped at him, “because if you ever want to get out of this hell-hole, and if you ever want to get rid of the attempted murder charge, you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do.”

I paused to let him think about it. He didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was mulling over what I’d said. He asked for the phone to call his lawyer. I slammed it down on the desk in front of him. I knew a lot of people would be upset about what I was doing, but not half as upset as I was. I was angry. I was angry that it had come to this, to getting rid of the attempted murder charge in exchange for a statement in the Lizzie Johnston case, but I knew Bobby could crack the entire case, which would include providing a solid lead in Boz’s murder. Finding Boz’s killer was more important than this shit-bag serving time for kicking my ass, especially since I felt responsible for Boz’s death in the first place.

Even though I needed his statement, I wasn’t going to be nice. I didn’t have to be with what I was offering, and I have pride.

While Bobby called his lawyer, I went outside and smoked two cigarettes in about thirty seconds. I needed a break in this case, and even after all this, there’d be no guarantee I would get one. Still, I was hoping.

Bobby’s lawyer, Anthony Krepenzski, arrived at the jail in fifteen minutes. Law enforcement people around here called him “Slithery Tony” because he was a slimy grease ball, a real snake. I was not surprised in the least that he’d taken Delphy’s case. He was as dirty and crooked as the people he represented, and he got most of his cases through being court-appointed—no sane person would actually pay money to have him as their lawyer. I knew Tony would tell Delphy to take my deal, not because it was a good one, but because Tony couldn’t argue a case in court if he tried, and courtrooms intimidated him. He just took plea bargains and collected his money.

“Detective Gallagher, how are you?” Tony asked pleasantly. Why shouldn’t he be pleasant?

“I’m fine, Tony. How have you been?”

“Can’t complain.”

“I can’t say I’m shocked to see that you’re representing this piece of garbage. What did you do? Read about him in the newspaper and run to the jail with your business card out?”

He laughed, “Would you expect any less? Now, do you mind if I speak with my client for five minutes?”

“No problem. Just holler when you’re ready,” I said as I walked out of the room.

Every time I see Tony, I always do my best to get in one good dig. He always laughs at what he considers a joke. It has yet to dawn on him that I’m being serious. I stepped outside and smoked another cigarette while I waited. A new corrections officer that I had only seen once before yelled out to me that they were ready.

“We’re ready to hear this deal you’re talking about, detective,” Tony announced.

Tony and Bobby were seated at the table in the interview room. I leaned across the table, still standing, and said, “Here’s the deal, Robert. You will tell me
everything
you know about Lizzie Johnston and the people you are involved with from West Virginia. You will also tell me what happened to Karen Cummings and Lisa Grendle. And, most importantly, you
will
tell me anything you know about the murder of Detective Christopher Boscerelli. When you give me a taped statement on all of the above, the charge of attempted murder will be dropped to a misdemeanor assault, with no jail time. That’s the deal. No compromises. Take it or leave it.” I looked at him hard as I sat down.

I noticed Bobby’s face go completely white at the mention of Lizzie Johnston and West Virginia. Tony, on the other hand, looked completely clueless, and rightly so, since he had no idea what I was talking about.

“How do you know about West Virginia?” Bobby asked with cold eyes and a flat voice.

“It’s not important how I found out about West Virginia!” I said, standing up and raising my voice. “I’m not here to tell you how I found out about anything! I have a dead cop, and I know you know who is involved in it! I am not leaving here until I get some answers from you!”

“Now, just hold on a minute ...” Tony started.

“Tony!” I snapped, holding up my hand at him, “Don’t even start! You have no clue what this about, so you can’t possibly say anything that’s relevant right now.”

“As a matter of fact, I do, detective. You don’t need to be so harsh. Quite frankly, you’re getting a little out of line,” he intoned pompously.

“Screw him,” I said. “He’s getting a hell of deal today. He ought to be thankful, not worried if I’m out of line!”

“I understand that,” Tony said. “All I’m asking is that you try to be somewhat cordial. I mean, my God, the deputies kicked the crap out of my client and put him in the hospital. What more do you want?”

“Oh, please. He fell down on his face because he was so drunk. That’s what the report said; that is what happened,” I said sincerely, then shot him a wide but most insincere grin.

I turned to look at Bobby. “This is your last chance to start talking, then the deal is off and you go on the attempted murder of a police officer charge. You tell me what I want to know, or you go to jail for the rest of your life.”

Bobby looked at Tony, then at me. I had him. He was going to start talking. I knew it. What came out of his mouth next, however, couldn’t have shocked me any more than if he’d told me my pants had fallen around my ankles and I was standing there in nothing but a thong.

“Well, detective,” he began, “why don’t you just go
fuck yourself!”
he screamed. “I would rather spend the rest of my life in prison than tell you a fucking thing. I’d be dead within a week anyway, so what difference does it make? I’ll stay in jail, you worthless, stinking bitch!”

It’s probably a good thing that Tony was there. If not, I would have lost my job and gone to prison; that is a fact. I’d had to put my pride aside to offer him this deal, and he’d just humiliated me, more than he had already, by turning it down. I don’t take too well to humiliation, either.

“Bobby, wait,” Tony begged, “you need to think about this. As your lawyer I am telling you, you are crazy if you don’t take this deal.”

Bobby crossed his arms, glared at me, and drawled, “Nope. I’ll stay here.”

I turned towards the door. “I will tie you to this case. I promise you that. You will be lucky to spend the rest of your life in prison. You can plan on dying by lethal injection for your part in the murders of those women. And when you do, I will be at the window watching you die.” I turned and left.

I sat in my car for half an hour feeling completely defeated and beaten down.
Where do I go from here?
I thought.
This man who tried to kill me once, just beat me up again.
It was extremely hard for me to swallow. I felt like a fool. I never thought he would turn the deal down, but he did. Of every investigation I had ever worked in my career, I had never felt there weren’t any options left, until now. The icing on the cake was that I would have to call the prosecutor’s office back and tell them to go ahead with the charges.

After I got myself together and went back to my office, I called Hughes Fabrications, the factory where Andrea Dean worked, and talked to her boss. Of course, she got along great with everybody and didn’t have any enemies. I expected this, but felt better doing
something.

My dad called later to see if there were any breaks in the case. He clearly wasn’t happy when I told him no. No one was. Uncle Max and Uncle Mike had stopped in a few days earlier asking the same question.

I left my office and ended up driving around Roseland for two hours trying to figure out what to do next, wondering what I had missed. I went to the edge of the woods where Boz had been murdered and stood there. At this point, I was hoping for anything. Whether it would be some psychic vision or divine intervention, I felt that if I stood there long enough, something would come to me. I was losing my mind. Where in my life had I hit a point where I couldn’t accept defeat? I didn’t have an answer to that, like everything else I didn’t have answers for. Without any burning bushes or clairvoyant visions, I drove away.

I was about fifty feet from the woods when I slammed on my brakes. An elderly woman was sitting on a porch swing on the porch of one the homes lining the street. I knew uniforms had talked to everyone in the neighborhood, but I thought I’d give it a shot. Again, doing something, anything, made me feel better.

I pulled into her driveway, got out of the car, walked up to the porch, and introduced myself. She was old, maybe early eighties, very thin, with gray hair that was obviously a wig. She had piercing blue eyes that looked right through me. I noticed she had an old, red afghan across her lap, even though it was eighty degrees out. I explained why I was there.

The woman, who told me that her name was Lily Garrish, said, “Honey, I done tole those officers that was the one day I wasn’t outside. I was under the weather, layin’ in my bed watchin’ my soaps all day.”

I smiled and thanked her for her time. Just as I turned to leave, I had a thought. “Mrs. Garrish, you said the day you were sick was the only day you weren’t out. What about the days before or after that? Did you see anything unusual? Any cars going in and out of the clearing?”

“Nah, can’t think of any. Like I tole those other cops, kids go in and out of that clearing all the time, partying and doin’ things they’re not supposed to. It’s the same ones in and out, except for that damn truck with the loud muffler that shakes my windows. Of course, I’ve only seen it twice, but it sure rattles my house. Ain’t that against the law? But, no ma’am, I haven’t seen anything out of the usual ’round here.”

I actually started to see some light. “Mrs. Garrish, tell me about the loud truck.”

“Just like I said, it’s a cruddy blue pickup. Ford maybe? Loud as the dickens, and I’ve only seen it go in there twice.”

“Did you see who was driving?” I was breathing carefully, trying not to overreact.

“Two guys.”

“Could you tell me what they looked like?” I couldn’t help it; my heart starting to race and I had to keep myself from shaking too obviously.

“Honey I’m eighty-one years old and almost blind as a bat anymore. They were white boys. Drove back there once in the afternoon; I know that ’cause I just got done watching Guiding Light, and once at night. That damn thing is so loud it even scared my cats!” She looked somewhat vaguely perturbed by this outrage.

“Mrs. Garrish, the day you were sick, do you remember hearing that truck, at anytime that day, while you were watching TV?” I asked, my hands clenched in anticipation of her answer.

“Hmm. My hearin’s ’bout as good as my eyes, honey, but that truck is so loud it would wake my dead husband. Come to think of it, I think I did hear the muffler that day. I was watchin’ As the World Turns, and my cats ran under my bed.”

My heart was racing like a hummingbird. I knelt in front of her and took her hand. “Mrs. Garrish, is there anything else about the truck that was unusual other than the noise? Was it rusty, did it have any bumper stickers, flags in the windows, dents, anything?

“Oh, honey, I wish I could help you. My memory’s as bad as everything else. Getting old takes its toll on you. I’m sorry I don’t have more,” she said, shaking her head sadly.

“That’s okay,” I said. “You’ve helped more than you know. Here’s my card. If you do remember anything else, call me.”

As I was walking back to my car, Mrs. Garrish called out at me, “Honey, come here. I forgot somethin’.”