Streets of Fire (35 page)

‘Nothing yet.’

‘Except that he’s my alibi,’ Langley said. ‘Of course, he could be telling a lie on that, right?’

‘He’ll go in on a perjury charge if he swears to it,’ Ben said. ‘He could be hit with an accessory if he knew about Breedlove before or after.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’

‘No, I think you do.’

‘Tod didn’t know shit,’ Langley said exasperatedly. ‘Hell, I don’t know shit as far as the killing’s concerned.’

Ben pressed the package of cigarettes toward him, shaking it slightly. ‘Sure you don’t want one?’

‘Ah, hell,’ Langley said. ‘I’ll take one.’ He pulled a cigarette from the pack, then leaned forward and let Ben light it.

‘I was over at the house most of the afternoon,’ Ben said as he waved out the match.

‘I figured you would be,’ Langley said. ‘Find anything else? A pair of Breedlove’s underwear, something like that? With his initials on it?’ He shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me what you found in that house. They could have planted anything.’

‘Trouble is,’ Ben said, ‘how’d they get in?’

Langley shrugged and took a pull on the cigarette.

‘The windows were all nailed shut,’ Ben said. ‘And the doors hadn’t been messed with.’

Langley said nothing.

‘Any other way in that house?’ Ben asked pointedly.

‘I don’t know,’ Langley said. ‘I ain’t been renting it but a few weeks. I didn’t hardly ever go there.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Maybe somebody came down the chimney. You know, like Santa Claus.’

‘The chimney’s cemented over,’ Ben said. ‘Got any other ideas?’

Langley took another pull on the cigarette, then glanced to the right. ‘Them niggers sure can keep themselves stirred up, can’t they?’

‘You could go to the chair, Teddy,’ Ben said grimly. ‘We’re talking about a cop. Informer or no informer, we’re talking about a cop.’

Langley’s eyes swept over to him. ‘Who wants me dead, Ben?’ he asked almost gently. ‘I can’t figure it out.’

Ben stood silently, staring upward slightly, concentrating on Langley’s face.

‘Put up your right hand,’ he said finally.

Langley looked at him, puzzled. ‘What?’

‘Put up your right hand.’

Hesitantly, Langley lifted his hand, palm outward. ‘Like this?’

‘Yeah,’ Ben said as he placed his own hand over it.

Langley’s was smaller, the tips of his fingers barely reaching beyond the second joint of Ben’s.

‘What’s this for?’ Langley asked. ‘They already got my prints.’

Ben drew his hand away, then stepped back over to the cell door, opened it and walked back into the corridor.

Langley continued to sit rigidly on the bunk, his hand still hovering in the air, fingers outstretched, as if reaching for an invisible bird. ‘I would die for my beliefs,’ he said fiercely. ‘But like a man, Wellman. Like a man. Not led down some hallway like an animal. Not with my legs in chains.’

Ben nodded slowly.

‘Not in the chair,’ Langley added determinedly. ‘Not in chains.’

Ben closed the cell door and locked it.

‘
Not in chains, goddammit!
’ Langley yelled to him once again as he turned and walked away.

Several yellow Jefferson County school buses were lined up in the garage, and as Ben headed for his car he could see hundreds of faces behind their windows. Scores of state troopers in full riot gear ringed the buses. Inside the ring, McCorkindale paced back and forth along the side of one of the buses, slapping his nightstick rhythmically against his leg. From time to time he would stop abruptly, wheel around and smack the tip of his nightstick against the window. The faces behind the glass would jerk back reflexively, then stare sullenly as McCorkindale’s enormous belly shook with mocking laughter.

Ben turned away, once again moving in the direction of his car. He was still a few yards away from it when he saw Patterson coming toward him from the other side of the garage.

‘What are you doing over here?’ he asked as they approached each other.

‘I got the lab work on the Breedlove case,’ Patterson said.

‘Where are you taking it?’

‘Directly to Captain Starnes.’

‘Captain Starnes?’

Patterson nodded. ‘He’ll probably take it straight to the Chief.’

‘What’d you find out?’

Patterson hesitated.

Ben stared at him accusingly. ‘What’s going on, Leon?’

Patterson glanced left and right suspiciously. ‘All I know is that Captain Starnes wants me to report directly to him.’

Ben looked down at the small yellow envelope that was nestled beneath Patterson’s arm. ‘What’s in the report, Leon?’ he demanded.

Again, Patterson hesitated, but only briefly. ‘Nothing much, if you want to know the truth. The cause of death was pretty obvious. Like it always is.’

‘Is there anything that wasn’t obvious?’

‘Just that Breedlove must have been on the move a little bit that night.’

‘How do you know?’

‘From what I scraped off his shoes,’ Leon said. ‘He had two different kinds of soil on them. One was a regular loose-grained loam. The kind you find in the fields to the north.’

‘Like the one we found the body in,’ Ben said.

‘That’s right,’ Patterson said. ‘It was stuck to another layer of something else, though. Some kind of whitish clay, very acidic. Those two kinds of ground, they don’t exactly end up side by side.’ He smiled helplessly. ‘I know that’s not much help.’

‘Is there anything else?’ Ben asked immediately.

‘As far as the … well … the mutilation, that was done after he was dead,’ Patterson told him.

‘Anything on the knife that was used?’

‘It had a serrated edge,’ Patterson said unenthusiastically. ‘And the blade was about an inch and a half wide at the hilt.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s about all the help I can give you. Not much, is it?’

‘No.’

‘You making any headway?’

Ben shook his head.

Patterson leaned toward Ben, lowering his voice as he spoke. ‘Is it true he was an informer?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ben said. ‘A lot of people think so.’

‘For the federal boys, you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, it must have been somebody,’ Patterson said emphatically. ‘I mean, what’s an informer do if he doesn’t report to somebody?’

Suddenly Ben felt a strange night breeze envelop him, saw a dark lake glimmering in his mind.

THIRTY-NINE

The lights of the city blinked brightly behind the large office window, and as Davenport stood before it, they seemed to wrap around him like a shimmering cape.

‘Has there been some break in the case?’ he asked as he shook Ben’s hand.

‘Which case?’

Davenport looked at him, puzzled. ‘Doreen’s case. Isn’t that why you’re here?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Davenport said. ‘I thought you probably came over to report on some new development.’

‘Are you used to that?’ Ben asked pointedly.

‘Used to what?’

‘Getting reports from the Police Department.’

‘No,’ Davenport said. ‘Should I be?’

Ben thought a moment, then decided to go at it from another direction, drawing Davenport in slowly, entangling him in enough information so that finally he would not be able to squirm out of the net.

‘Do you remember the last time we talked?’ he began.

‘Yes,’ Davenport answered. ‘It wasn’t very pleasant. But then, you were accusing me of something. I’m not sure what. But it seemed to me that you thought I had something to do with Doreen’s murder.’

‘Did you?’ Ben asked flatly.

Davenport stared at him coldly. ‘Of course not.’

Ben watched him silently.

‘Why would I hurt a little girl?’ Davenport asked. ‘What would I have to gain?’

Ben did not answer. ‘You said something about lives being at stake.’

A fleeting look of sorrow passed over Davenport’s face. It came and went so quickly that it appeared to have escaped from some deeply guarded quarter of his mind. For an instant it fluttered in his eyes, then vanished into the stern lines and set jaw which now watched Ben coolly from behind the polished desk.

‘What lives?’ Ben asked.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Davenport said.

‘Why?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Davenport repeated. ‘Let it go at that.’

‘Why doesn’t it matter?’

Davenport said nothing. He stared at Ben unflinchingly.

‘Because it’s too late now,’ Ben said. He paused, waiting for Davenport to respond.

Davenport continued to sit stiffly in his chair.

‘When you warned me not to keep at this case,’ Ben said, ‘you told me that I should let someone else do it. Do what?’

‘I don’t know what I meant by that,’ Davenport said, his voice weak, unconvincing, ‘I’m not even sure I said it’

‘Let someone else do the looking,’ Ben replied insistently. ‘That’s what you said.’

Davenport nodded. ‘Maybe.’

‘Who was that someone else?’

Davenport’s body grew tense. He did not answer.

‘It was someone else in the Police Department,’ Ben told him. ‘Someone who was reporting to you.’

Davenport remained silent.

‘Charlie Breedlove,’ Ben said flatly.

Davenport drew in a long, slow breath. ‘And so I told you the truth, didn’t I? There was a life at stake.’

‘How long had he been reporting to you?’ Ben asked immediately.

‘For several weeks.’

‘What about?’

‘The FBI was concerned that there might be some kind of Death Squad in the Birmingham Police Department. They were worried about their agents, and a few other targets. One federal judge in particular, and a few other people. They mentioned a few names. There was a prominent businessman who’s been actively trying to work with the Negroes. They thought he might be ripe for assassination.’ He shook his head. ‘Breedlove never really developed anything. He came up with the idea that Doreen’s death might have been done to provoke the Negroes, cause them to riot. He thought the Death Squad might be behind it.’

‘Did he find any evidence of that?’

Davenport shook his head. ‘No. He told me that he got desperate one night and went after you.’

‘Me?’

‘In your house,’ Davenport said. ‘He told me that he thought he scared you pretty well, but that you didn’t tell him anything.’

‘I didn’t know anything,’ Ben said.

‘That’s what Breedlove figured,’ Davenport told him with a slight smile. Then he stood up. ‘I could use a drink. Want one?’

‘No.’

Davenport walked to a small bar at the opposite end of the room and made himself a drink. For a moment he simply stared at the amber liquid he’d poured into the glass. Then he downed it quickly and returned to the desk. ‘I don’t have to tell you how important it is for you to keep your mouth shut about all this. I mean, that Death Squad – it may still be out there.’ He shrugged. ‘Or it may be nothing. It may be purely imaginary, something they dreamed up in Washington.’

‘Well, somebody killed Charlie Breedlove,’ Ben said.

‘Yes, somebody did,’ Davenport said. ‘Teddy Langley.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I don’t know it for sure,’ Davenport said. ‘But Charlie was afraid of Langley. He thought that Teddy suspected him, and that if anybody had the making of a Death Squad type, it was Langley. I mean, for God’s sake, he’s been going after Bearmatch like some kind of avenging angel. And according to Charlie, he’s really gotten brutal since the demonstrations began, talking even meaner than before.’ He hesitated, glanced at the window, then back at Ben. ‘There are times when I think he killed Doreen,’ he said. ‘Maybe he found out about me, too, and just decided to get even in some way.’

‘Would killing Doreen make it even?’ Ben asked doubtfully.

‘We’re not talking reason here, Sergeant Wellman,’ Davenport said. ‘We’re not talking high intelligence.’ He shook his head. ‘We’re talking about something in the guts, like a fire in the guts. Who knows what that could lead to?’

‘Did Charlie ever mention Langley’s house?’

‘House?’ Davenport asked. ‘What house? I thought they lived in a trailer.’

‘They do,’ Ben said. ‘But Teddy Langley had a house, too.’

‘What kind of house?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Ben said, ‘if Charlie never mentioned it.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Did Charlie suspect anybody else?’ Ben asked quickly.

‘Of what?’

‘Of knowing that he was an informer.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Davenport answered.

‘Starnes? Daniels? McCorkindale? Even the Chief?’

Davenport shook his head.

‘Anybody outside the department?’

Davenport’s lips curled downward. ‘I don’t think Charlie knew many people outside the department.’

‘So you don’t have any idea who fingered him?’

Davenport shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’ He turned toward the window. Beyond it, the city glowed in the summer darkness. ‘It could have been anybody,’ he whispered. ‘Anybody at all.’ He looked back at Ben. ‘That’s the trouble with a situation like this,’ he said. ‘You just don’t know who’s who.’

FORTY

Outside his bedroom window, Ben could hear the agitated sounds of the crickets and the katydids. The soft whir of the single rotating fan served as a gentle background, but did nothing to relieve the heat. He lay on his back, a single sheet beneath him, his underwear clinging to his chest and thighs. Inside the room, the darkness was nearly total except for the small gray rays that came through the window, a sure sign that Mr Jeffries was up and about, incessantly roaming the dingy corridors of the house across the street. From time to time a single car would whiz down the narrow street, some teenage hot rodder on his way to the late-night drag strips which dotted the rural counties that surrounded Birmingham and whose fabled ability to strip city boys of their hard-earned money had been legend since his youth.

He turned onto his side, closing his eyes tightly, drawing himself into a perfect darkness. He tried to think of nothing at all, shut down his mind entirely. But as the minutes passed, he found that his thoughts couldn’t be marched into some separate room, locked up for the night and then released again in the morning. They were insistent, nagging, sleepless, and they plagued him like small animals gnawing at his flesh.