Victims (19 page)

“Hey—” I called softly to them, once more taking out my shield. This time, I pinned the badge to my lapel, ordering Canelli to do the same.

Uncertainly, the young couple hesitated, staring open-mouthed at my revolver. Then the girl nudged her companion, pointing to my chest. She’d seen the shield. When I beckoned for them to join us on the narrow, tree-arched tunnel of the smaller pathway, they obeyed.

“This is police business,” I said. “You stay here, out of sight. Anyone else that comes, tell them to do the same. Don’t let them get out on those stairs. Okay?”

Excited, they nodded in unison. “Yes,” the girl breathed. “Okay.” I saw the boy nudge the girl, then slip his arm around her waist. This day they would long remember.

I stepped cautiously into the wide path, looking to my left, toward the stairs. The upper flight of stairs was deserted. But, because of the angle, the topmost step cut off my view of the lower flight, below the single landing.

“Okay—” I gestured for Canelli to follow me, then motioned for him to walk to my right, close to the trees. To the left, I did the same.

As we drew closer to the top step, cautiously advancing, the lower flight of stairs came slowly into view. And then I saw them: first the top of Durkin’s head, then the taller Chinese youth’s head.

I saw the shorter teenager’s head.

Then John’s head.

Then I saw Durkin’s right arm, cocked. The right hand held a large rock.

“Christ,” Canelli said. “Jesus Christ. Look at that.”

“You stay here,” I said. “Call it in. Stay out of sight. Stay on the radio until you find out about backup. Make sure the backup’s got an officer, and tell him what we’ve got here. Make sure they’ve got shotguns. Let’s take it slow and easy. Clear?”

“Yessir.” Canelli stepped back out of sight, holstered his weapon and switched on the walkie-talkie.

Durkin had seen me—seen my head and shoulders. In recognition, challenging me, he called out a garbled obscenity. His eyes blazed, locked with mine.

I drew a deep, shaky breath, holstered my gun, then began walking down the stairs, one slow, deliberate step at a time. As I descended, the scene below came fully into view. Durkin was crouched about ten steps up from street level, with his back pressed against the brick retaining wall that ran up the hill on either side of the steps. He held John clamped close to his body, using the same stranglehold taught in the police academy. The rock, half as large as John’s head, was held in Durkin’s big, muscular right hand, about a foot from the boy’s head. Both Durkin and John were facing me. Wayne, the taller of the two teenagers, was also on the steps, about halfway between Durkin and the street. The shorter Chinese youth, the one I’d told to direct our backup, was at street level, surrounded by a knot of spectators. He was pointing up the stairs. Anxious, avid faces followed his gesture.

“I’ll smash his skull,” Durkin screamed at me. “You try to take me, I’ll smash his skull.”

I extended my arms out from my body, palms to the front. “I’m not trying to take you, Durkin.” I descended another step. Only a dozen steps separated us now.

“You will, though, you son of a bitch. You, and all the rest of them.”

“Listen, Durkin—” I took another step—and another. I could see every detail of John Kramer’s face. His eyes, enormous, were fixed on mine. But I couldn’t see fear in his eyes, only a kind of frozen fascination. His mouth was clamped shut, his chin was firm. Incredibly, he didn’t appear frightened. Even when he momentarily turned his head to look at the rock, he didn’t flinch.

“Listen, Durkin, you aren’t doing yourself any good, you know. You’re—”

“That’s far enough. Stop right there.”

“Okay—” Quickly, I obeyed. Less than ten feet between us. If I could brace myself, I could throw a tackle. In moments, Canelli would be on him, too.

But what would happen to the boy in the struggle, crashing down the concrete stairs? Even if the rock missed him, he could strike his head on the steps. A concussion could follow, even death.

“Take out your gun,” Durkin ordered.

I shook my head. “No. Not the gun.”

“I can kill him, with this—” Like some furious, half-coherent caveman, he brandished the huge rock. “And I will, too. I’ll smash his fucking head.”

“You can’t have the gun, Durkin. No way.”

“You’d better give it to me. I’ll give you three. I’ll count to three. Then I’m going to smash his fucking—”

“You’re going to murder a six-year-old kid? In front of witnesses? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I’m telling you that I want the gun. And I—I want
out. That’s
what I’m telling you. I’m telling you that I’m not going back inside. It—it was an accident, what happened with Quade. It was a fucking accident, and there’s no way I’m going to pay, no way I’m going to—” Suddenly, hysterically, his voice broke. I saw tears in his eyes, streaking his cheeks. John, age six, was dry-eyed. But Durkin, with his weight lifter’s muscles and his bully-boy eyes, was losing control.

If I could keep him talking, I could take him.

“You say it was an accident,” I said. “If that’s true, tell us about it. But don’t do this, for God’s sake. Don’t do this to yourself. You’ll just—”

Involuntarily, I broke off as I caught sight of Wayne, half concealed behind Durkin. Crouched low, the teenager was slowly, purposefully advancing on the man and the boy, from three or four steps below. Instantly—incredulously—I realized what was about to happen. The youth was going to attack Durkin.

I must keep Durkin talking, must keep his attention fixed on me. “You’ll just make it worse for yourself, doing this. Because there’s no way you’re going to win, Durkin. Not like this. You’ll only—”

I saw Wayne’s body snap straight, saw his hands reach for the rock. In the same instant, sensing the movement behind him, Durkin turned to face the threat, drawing back the rock, poised to strike. As I leaped forward, I called out for Canelli. My leap was short; my left foot struck the edge of the third step below, throwing me off balance. But my right foot found solid purchase; my body was arching forward, committed. I caught Durkin with both arms around the waist. John was down on the steps beneath me, screaming. I braced myself, heaved, felt Durkin stagger, fall off balance. The rock crashed on the steps, bounced once. With my arms still locked around Durkin’s waist, with my face fast against his chest, I heaved again. We were falling together, grappling, rolling down the sharp, cruel concrete steps. Wayne was calling out for his friend: “Richard, Richard.” Durkin was struggling with a wild man’s strength, almost free of my grasp. I must hold on, must keep my arms locked around him, keep my head pressed to his chest, keep close to him, protected from his flailing arms. Wherever he went, I thought wildly, he’d have to drag me—me and Wayne—still clinging to Durkin’s right arm. As the three of us tumbled down the stairs, we were—

A shot exploded close above me. And a second shot. My ears were ringing; I couldn’t hear what Canelli was shouting.

But, suddenly, I felt Durkin’s body go slack.

Instantly, I rolled free, backed away, staggered to my feet, drew my revolver. Durkin was on his knees, head hanging, his body pressed against the brick retaining wall. Was he wounded? Had Canelli shot him? At the thought, numbly, I shook my head. Canelli couldn’t have done it—
shouldn’t
have done it. Crouched over my revolver, I asked, “Is he all right?”

“He’s all right,” Canelli answered. “He’s okay, don’t worry.”

Still crouched on all fours, still with his head hanging low, still with his body pressed close to the brick wall, Durkin looked like a refugee who’d been caught in an air raid, cravenly cowering, dumbly trying to save himself from terror from above. The two Chinese youths stood back from Durkin, looking solemnly down at him. The boldest of the onlookers came closer. They were staring at Durkin as if he were an animal behind bars. Wayne was daubing at a bloody nose—and smiling widely. Suddenly, exuberantly, Richard pounded him on the back, as if he’d scored a touchdown, or made a game-winning basket. Both boys were talking Chinese—laughing boisterously—pounding each other.

“Hey—” It was John’s voice, behind me. Keeping my gun trained on Durkin, I put my left arm around the boy’s shoulders, drawing him close.

“Are you all right, John?”

Looking up into my face, he nodded gravely. Then, in a hushed voice, he said, “He didn’t hurt me. But he sure scared me.”

My sudden laugh tittered on hysteria’s edge, the backwash of fear, of my adrenaline’s rush.

“He scared me, too, John. Anybody’s not scared of someone like that, he’s crazy.”

“I always hated him,” the boy answered seriously. “I always did.”

For a moment we stood silently, close together, while Canelli holstered his revolver and handcuffed the suspect. Still with his head hanging low, Durkin made no move to resist. Once his hands were cuffed behind his back, Canelli offered to let him rise to his feet, but the suspect only shook his head. From down below, more of the onlookers began venturing up the stairs for a closer look at the beaten captive. The spectators who stayed below were pointing, babbling among themselves.

I holstered my revolver and looked closely at John. “You’re not hurt, are you? Anywhere?”

He lifted his arm, twisted so I could see a scraped elbow, oozing blood. “That’s all.”

“Good.” I kept my arm around his shoulders. “As soon as our backup comes—more police—I’ll take you to your mother. Okay?” As I drew him close to me, I remembered how it used to feel, holding my own son close, comforting him.

For a moment he didn’t reply. Then, still speaking in a slow, somber voice, he said, “I want my daddy, too. I want to see my daddy. Can I see him?”

I took a deep breath. “Soon, maybe. Not right now. But maybe soon.”

As he nodded, I felt him grasp the slack of my trousers. It was another long-forgotten moment of precious memory: the small, trusting hand, holding on.

“Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

“I
TELL YOU, IT
was an accident. It—it was Quade’s fault. All his fault. Ask Mr. Guest. Have you called Mr. Guest? Have you talked to Mr. Guest—asked him about me?”

“We’re talking to you, Durkin,” Friedman said. “When we finish with you, we’ll talk to Mr. Guest. And everyone else connected with the case, too. But now it’s your turn. All yours.”

“It’s because of my record,” Durkin muttered. “If I didn’t have any record, I wouldn’t even be here.”

“You’re here because you tried to run, Durkin,” I said. “You tried to run, and you got caught. You got caught with a lethal weapon in your hand, threatening to commit murder.”

“I’ve got a right to a lawyer.”

“That’s right,” Friedman said, “you have. But you haven’t called anyone—a lawyer, or anyone else.”

“I’m waiting for Marie to call. I’ve got to wait for her.”

“It’s been three hours since you were arrested,” I said. “She’s known for three hours that you’re here. I told her myself, when I took John home. And she hasn’t called.”

“You wouldn’t tell me if she called.” He spoke sullenly, sulkily. Sitting slumped at the interrogation room’s small steel table, both elbows propped on the table, Durkin was a defeated, deflated incarnation of the arrogant bully with the angry eyes and the bulging muscles that I’d first seen only three days before. He seemed, literally, to have lost substance. When our backup arrived, and I pulled him to his feet on the steps of Telegraph Hill, his arms and his torso had gone slack, unresisting. It was fear that had stolen his strength, left him suddenly so helpless. I’d felt that same kind of debilitation before, many times. Durkin knew he was going back inside prison walls. He knew he could go all the way—to death row. And the sudden, overpowering realization had left him without strength or hope, without even the will to resist. He was a lost soul. And he knew it.

“We’d tell you if Marie called,” I said. “You know we’d tell you.”

He shook his head, but didn’t reply.

“Listen, Durkin—” I leaned across the interrogation table. “Why don’t you tell us about it, make it easy on yourself? You know how it goes: You help us, we’ll help you. Give us something we can give the D.A., so he’ll look good. And you’ll get a deal. It’s guaranteed, you’ll get a deal. But this way, not talking, you’re just making it hard on yourself.”

“You’re forcing us to guess,” Friedman said. “And that’s always bad. We guess, we think the worst, not the best. It’s only human nature.”

“You said it was Quade’s fault,” I said. “What’d you mean, Durkin?”

“It was his fault. All his fault.”

“He fired first. Is that it?”

The suspect made no reply, but only shook his head, slowly and hopelessly.

“You didn’t go to the Guest house with the idea of killing anyone,” Friedman said. He spoke softly, beguilingly, subtly inviting the suspect’s confidence. “Did you?”

“No. I already told you that.”

“Then why’d you go?”

Durkin shook his head again. Doggedly. Desperately.

I sat silently for a moment, studying him. Why did he refuse to talk? He protested his innocence, but would go no farther, would say no more. Why? He didn’t want a lawyer. He just wanted to talk to Marie Kramer or Alexander Guest. Why? Was he protecting one of them?

Both of them?

I didn’t know, couldn’t guess. I could only blunder blindly ahead, hoping eventually to find the right combination of fact and fiction that would start him talking.

“You followed John,” I said. “That’s it, isn’t it? You were protecting John. So you followed him to Alexander Guest’s house.” I glanced at Friedman, who took up the slender thread.

“That was your job, to protect John. But you didn’t know Quade was doing the same job—at the same time, at the same place.”

“It was dark,” I said, remembering John’s testimony. “It was dark inside the house. And Quade had a gun. You thought he was Kramer, stealing John. You fired. And then Quade—”

“No.”
Suddenly his head snapped up, his eyes came feverishly alive. “No. He shot first. Quade. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It was dark, like you said. And I didn’t know my way around, in there. It was like a—a fun house, or something, it was so dark in that hallway. But finally I found John’s room. There was enough light coming through the window so I could see the toys. So I went inside, and saw he wasn’t there. And right away I knew what happened. They went out by another door, the two of them. So then I was going out again, into the hallway, when I saw something—heard something, I don’t know which. I was going to get out, go back the way I came. But then there came this shot, this goddam shot, out of nowhere. I—I shot back, at the flash, I guess. I shot, and I heard him groan. Then he shot again. And then I heard him fall. I—I remember standing there. I couldn’t move. It was like my—my feet were stuck to the floor. It was only a second, but it seemed like forever, standing there. And then he—God—he started moaning, and asking for help. I—” He broke off. Staring down at the table, mouth twitching, trembling, he drew a shaking hand across his forehead and momentarily down over his haunted eyes, as if to block out the memory of murder. Finally the hand fell listlessly away.