Part 8 (1/2)
”Yeah,” agrees Edgerton, ”there must be some kinda special zoning up there.”
The weakest prospects are parceled out to the detail officers, with the detectives themselves running down alibis for the more promising suspects. Edgerton takes a young addict over on Lindin; Pellegrini, in turn, checks the background on a Callow Avenue man. It is a little like trying to draw to an inside straight, but without a murder scene-a primary site where the little girl was actually killed-there is no way to limit the prospects.
And where the h.e.l.l is that scene? Where the h.e.l.l did this b.a.s.t.a.r.d keep that girl for a day and a half without anyone knowing? With every pa.s.sing hour, Pellegrini tells himself, the scene is deteriorating. Pellegrini is certain that the site is somewhere up in Reservoir Hill, a veritable treasure house of physical evidence waiting for him in some bedroom or bas.e.m.e.nt. Where, he wonders, haven't they looked?
By late afternoon, Jay Landsman, Eddie Brown and other detail officers are once again up in Reservoir Hill, checking the vacant houses and garages on Newington, Callow and Park for the murder site. Tactical units supposedly went through every vacant property in the area on the previous night, but Landsman wants to be sure. After one such search, the men go for a soda at a Whitelock Street carryout, where they fall into conversation with the owner, a young, light-skinned woman who waves away the detectives' pocket change.
”How's it going?” Landsman asks.
The woman smiles, but says nothing.
”Have you heard anything?”
”You all are up here about the little girl, right?”
Landsman nods. The woman seems anxious to say something, glancing at both detectives, then looking out at the street.
”What's up?”
”Well ... I heard ...”
”Wait a sec.”
Landsman closes the front door of the carryout, then leans back across the front counter. The woman catches her breath.
”This might be nothing ...”
”Hey, that's all right.”
”There's this man lives over on Newington, across the street from where they say it happened. He drinks, you know, and he came in that same morning saying a little girl got, you know, raped and murdered.”
”What time was this?”
”Had to be about nine or so.”
”Nine in the morning? Are you sure?”
The woman nods.
”What did he say exactly? Did he say how the girl was murdered?”
The woman shakes her head. ”He just said she got killed. I just wondered 'cause no one up here had heard about it yet and he was acting, like, strange ...”
”Strange, like nervous?”
”Nervous, yeah.”
”And this guy drinks?”
”He drinks a lot. He's old. He's always been, you know, a little strange.”
”What's his name?”
The woman bites her bottom lip.
”Hey, no one's going to find out it came from you.”
She gives it up in a whisper.
”Thanks. We won't mention you at all.”
The woman smiles. ”Please ... I don't wanna get people up here against me.”
Landsman slides back into the pa.s.senger seat of the Cavalier before writing the name-a new name-in his notebook. And when Edgerton punches it up on the computer that afternoon he does indeed find a man with that same name and a Newington Avenue address. And d.a.m.ned if the guy's sheet doesn't show a couple of old rape charges.
Another corridor.
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 8.
They arrive in two cars-Edgerton, Pellegrini, Eddie Brown, Ceruti, Bertina Silver from Stanton's s.h.i.+ft and two of the detail officers-an exaggerated escort for one old smokehound, but just about the right number of people to perform a plain-view search of the man's apartment.
For that they have no legal authority; their reasons for suspecting the old man fall far short of the legal requirements of probable cause, and without a search and seizure warrant signed by a judge, the detectives can't take any items or conduct a thorough search, upending mattresses or opening drawers. On the other hand, if the old man allows them to enter the apartment, they can look around at what is plainly visible. For that purpose, the more eyes, the better.
Bert Silver takes charge of their suspect as soon as the front door opens, addressing him by name and making it clear, in a single declarative sentence, that half the police department has come to request the honor of his presence at headquarters. The other detectives slide past the two and begin moving slowly through a fetid, cluttered three-room apartment.
The old man moans and shakes his head, then tries to formulate an argument from a series of seemingly unrelated syllables. It takes a few minutes for Bert Silver to get the hang of it.
”Nuh gago t'nite.”
”Yeah, you do. We need to talk to you. Where are your pants? Are these your pants?”
”Dunwanna go.”
”Well, we have to talk to you.”
”Nuh ... dunwanna.”
”Well, that's the way it's got to be. You don't want us to have to arrest you, do you? Are these your pants?”
”Blackuns.”
”You want the black ones?”
As Bertina Silver a.s.sembles their suspect, the other detectives move carefully through the rooms, looking for blood spatter, for serrated knives, for a small, star-shaped gold earring. Harry Edgerton checks the kitchen for hot dogs or sauerkraut, then returns to the bedroom, where he finds a thick red stain by the old man's bed.
”Whoa. What the f.u.c.k is this?”
Edgerton and Eddie Brown bend down. The color is purple-red, but with a high gloss. Edgerton puts his finger to the edge.
”Sticky,” he says.