The Angel of Knowlton Park (16 page)

"Guy down by the park. Osborne. He's a faggot." Martin's eyes darted around the room, checking the walls. Then he looked around behind him. "Started hanging around Timmy when he was at the park, invited him back to his house for pizza. Starts showing him dirty pictures and trying to get Timmy to take off his clothes, take a bubble bath. Timmy won't, so the guy sets his dog on him. Dog's as big as Timmy. Kid came home hysterical." The massive shoulders shifted as the body moved restlessly on the chair. "I hadda go to talk to him."

Martin, figuring they'd hear it anyway, added, "It was that colored cop, lives in the neighborhood, always got his nose up everybody's ass. He brought Timmy home, told us what had happened. I told him it was a family thing and we'd deal with."

"When's the last time you saw Timmy?"

Martin stared blankly at the table, tapping the side of his head, trying to jar a thought loose. "Last night, I think. Or maybe it was the night before, I dunno. Little bastard come in looking for something to eat. There wasn't nothing, so he started in crying. I was eight years old, I didn't cry about nothin', but Timmy, he was always whimperin' and whinin'. He's Pap's kid, is what it is. See, all them Watts is whiners. He grabs my arm, and he's saying how he's hungry..."

He looked nervously back over his shoulder at the empty wall, but Burgess didn't think Martin's demeanor had anything to do with the questions. "What did you do?"

"I told him to shut up. He wouldn't, so I hit him."

Burgess waited, keeping his disgust off his face, but that was all Martin had to say. Timmy Watts, a pitifully undersized child, had come to somewhere just above this man's knee. "You hit Timmy very often?"

"He weren't home very often. Knew enough to stay out of folk's way."

"What did Timmy do after you hit him?"

"He just lay there in the dog shit, starin' up at me with those eyes. He was the most pathetic lookin' thing you ever saw. He didn't cry or nothin', just looked at me, like it was my fault he was hungry. I took out my wallet, got out a ten, and dropped it. Told him to buy himself a pizza."

Behind him, Burgess felt Melia's anger, though he knew that if he looked back, Melia's expression would be neutral. "Yeah," he said, "sounds like he was a real irritating kid to have around. What did he do? He pick up the money?"

"Oh, yeah. Grabbed it before it hit the floor." Martin looked around again, drummed his fingers on the table, swiped at his nose, and went back to drumming.

"When you gave him the money, about what time was that?"

Another shrug. "Six, maybe."

"Six," Burgess repeated. "You remember what he was wearing?"

"Yellow shirt. Shorts. Them shoes that light up when you walk." Martin smiled proudly. "I bought him those."

"And that's the last time you saw him?"

"I already said that."

"Timmy wasn't at home much, right?" Martin nodded. "Where did he go?"

"Around the neighborhood." His hand scrabbled restlessly on the tabletop. Plucked at his shirt. "You got a cigarette?" he asked.

"Marlboro okay?" Burgess asked, pulling out a pack. He passed one to Martin, lit it, waited while the man inhaled. It was like watching a religious experience. "Any people in particular he liked to visit?"

"That school teacher. The kids down the street. That asshole cop." Martin shrugged. "Lotta people. Kid was so pathetic, people took pity on him. Not that he needed it. He was treated okay at home. Timmy liked the attention."

"Anybody else?"

"I dunno. Lots of people."

"Mr. Martin, even if he was annoying, he was only a little kid. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?" Martin looked at him blankly. "Someone who had a grudge against another member of the family, anything like that?"

Martin's eyes shifted suspiciously from one of them to the other. Then he shook his head. "Ain't nobody got a reason to do something like that."

"Nobody with a grudge against you or your brothers, or against Mother or Pap, who might have taken it out on Timmy?"

"It would take a pretty low son-of-a-bitch to..." Martin trailed off, staring at the blank wall, rocking back and forth on his chair.

Burgess could only guess at the thoughts in his head, wondered what the standards for low-down behavior were for a man who casually cuffed a hungry little boy down into dog crap. "Can we get you a soda or something? Some coffee?"

Martin scratched his chest, then his head, pulled at his ear-lobes, then scratched some more. Finally he said, "You got Dr. Pepper?"

Melia stood up. "I'll get it," he said. He looked grayer. Probably needed the air.

Burgess moved his chair closer to Dwayne Martin. "It seemed like such a good lead," he said, loading his voice with disappointment. "See, we heard that a few days ago you were arguing with some guy, out in front of your house, and the guy you were arguing with threatened that if he didn't get what he wanted, something terrible was going to happen. And this, what happened to Timmy, I'd say that's pretty terrible, wouldn't you?"

Martin stared. He had a stunned-ox look, like some beefy creature that's been hit in the head. It was pleasantly cool in the room, but his face was red and the part that wasn't covered by beard was shiny under the lights. Shiny and plagued with acne. "Who the fuck told you that?" he grunted.

"A witness."

"The fuck's name?"

Burgess smiled. "I think we both know people supplying information about you prefer to remain anonymous. This gentleman with whom you were arguing... is there any reason to think he might have hurt Timmy?"

Martin considered, rocked some more, then shook his head, dismissing the possibility. "Nah. That ain't his kinda thing." He paused. "You got another cigarette?" When Burgess had lit it, he said, "He ain't that creative."

Creative. Hell of a word choice. "And there's no one else? Nobody else who's mad at your family?"

Martin laughed. "Shitload of people mad at my family. None of 'em I know of would dare do anything about it."

Melia came in then with the soda, popped the top, and set it on the table. Burgess was glad for the interruption. For a moment, he'd been losing it, afraid his opinion of the despicable piece of scum he thought Martin was might be showing through. He knew the drill. You could feel any way you wanted. How you acted depended on the result you were looking for. He'd been looking for information; knew he wouldn't get it if Martin clammed up or asked for a lawyer again. He'd hoped for a vestige of family feeling, at least an us versus them, but Timmy might have been an annoying neighborhood dog that got hit by a car for all his brother Dwayne cared.

Martin grabbed the soda and emptied the can. He was getting more agitated, starting to rock faster. His eyes were bloodshot with deep circles below them, like a man who hasn't slept for a while. He looked unhealthy. And he kept looking over his shoulder even though there was nothing there.

"What were you and this other guy arguing about?"

"Nothing important."

"Must have been a little important. You were shouting in the street." Martin shook his head. "What time did the argument take place?"

"Who the fuck cares?"

Burgess moved his chair a little closer. "Who were you arguing with?"

"None of your damned business."

"I'd just like to find him... ask for his side. Make sure he wasn't involved."

"He's got no side. He's an asshole. A loser."

Burgess moved closer. "A customer?"

"A loser."

"He gave you money for something, and you couldn't deliver? You stiffed him?"

"I don't stiff people," Martin said angrily. "I said I'd take care of him, didn't I?" He pushed his chair back. Burgess pushed forward.

"What did he give you money for?"

"None of your fuckin' business."

"He give you money for drugs?"

"None of your fuckin' business."

Don't let him lawyer up on me, Burgess thought, keeping his questions fast and short. "He gave you money for drugs, didn't he? And then you couldn't deliver."

"None of your..."

"You couldn't deliver because your drugs disappeared, didn't they?"

"How the fuck...?"

They continued their chair dance. Martin back and Burgess forward. "Your drugs disappeared, didn't they? Know where they went?"

"How the fuck...?" Martin was on his feet now, leaning toward Burgess, his uncuffed hand raised in a fist.

"Oh, we found them. You want to know where?" he taunted, ignoring the fist.

"You shithead cops had no right to search my fuckin' house." Martin moved forward, dragging the table with him.

"It's not your house," Burgess said, standing his ground.

"Where did you find my shit!" Martin roared.

"What shit?"

"My fuckin' crank," Martin raised his arm, lifting the table right off the floor.

"In Timmy's room." Martin and the table continued to move forward as Burgess and Melia backed toward the door. "Did you kill him?" Burgess asked.

"If I'd known the little shit had taken it, I woulda fuckin' killed him," Martin said, turning to pick up a chair. By the time he'd swung around, they were safely out the door.

"Joe," Melia said, stopping to catch his breath, "I sometimes wonder whether sending you to that interview and interrogation course was a good idea."

"Hey, that's as much cooperation as anyone's ever gotten from Dwayne Martin. And he just confessed on tape that the stuff in Timmy's room was his."

Melia winced as something crashed against the door. "Joe, he's destroying my interview room."

There was a roar of laughter from Melia's office. Stan Perry stuck his bandaged head around the doorframe. "You guys gotta see this."

On the TV monitor, they watched Dwayne Martin, perched precariously on two chairs, the up-ended table dangling from his wrist, peering into the ceiling vent, trying to find the camera. He was yawning and his eyes were at half-mast, a disjointed stream of curses flowing from his mouth.

"Five minutes," Perry said. "And he'll be out like a light." Burgess covered a yawn of his own. "We should all be so lucky." He'd love to be out like a light. But he still had places to go.

Chapter 12

It was a very modest house, the furniture tired and the carpet worn, but there were books on the coffee table, dozens more in the bookcase, and children's drawings had been taped over the screen of the silent television. Burgess knew, even before they'd exchanged names, that this family cared about children. This was a place where a little boy like Timmy Watts had mattered. He shook hands first with the man who had opened the door. "Detective Sergeant Joe Burgess," he said.

"Alan Gordon." The man's handshake was steady, though he held himself with the tenuous caution of someone recovering from a body blow. "This is my wife, Julie."

Julie Gordon was small and strong, with no-nonsense short hair, a warm smile and tired brown eyes. Her eyes were red, so was her nose, and her shoulders slumped as though today the weight of the world, which she normally carried with grace and firm resistance, had won. Burgess took her hand between both of his and said the words that had meant so little a few houses away. "I know how much you cared for him. I'm terribly sorry about what happened."

Her eyes filled with tears. She lowered her lashes, and then her whole face, as grief crumbled it. She turned away with a sob and stepped into her husband's embrace.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I've been trying all day... I just can't seem to stop crying. He was... such..." She struggled to get the words out, "...such a special little boy... and I feel..."

Her husband rested his head on hers, rubbing her back in a gentle rhythm. "I feel..." The words were exhaled on a sob. She turned her stricken face toward Burgess. "I feel like what happened is my fault. If I'd only..."

"Jules," her husband said, "You've got to stop. This is not your fault! You did your best. His family failed him. The State failed him. Not you."

Alan Gordon lifted his head and looked at Burgess. "I'm sorry, Sergeant. I'm afraid she's... we're both... taking this very hard. Timmy was..." He pulled out his own handkerchief and wiped his eyes. "He was like a third son." Gordon's voice was rough and strained. He had a big, tawny Mark Twain mustache, a matching thatch of tawny hair and tragic spaniel eyes. He wasn't an especially big man, but he was a sturdy, scrappy one, and scars on his face and arms made Burgess think he'd been a pretty good brawler until domesticity had settled him down.