Absolute Rage (41 page)

“Oh, he'll live. But I guess it'll be a while before Wayne's interested in that sort of thing.” To Karp, Hendricks said, “You'll want to see them right away.”

“Yeah. You know the drill. Keep them separate, and the Miranda stuff. Let's have that gun tested. Make sure they're comfortable and take care of their medical needs. We'll talk to Wayne later in the hospital.”

*  *  *

“I guess my wife won't be leaving me now,” said Stan Hawes to Karp as soon as Karp walked into his office. “And I can take my kid to Little League again.”

“Was it that bad?”

“Pretty near. Anyhow, it worked. I guess we need to talk to those boys.”

“Whenever you want.” Karp hesitated, then said carefully, “You know, I've done this a lot. Maybe I should take the lead interviewing the first one.”

“I got no problem with that. On the other hand, I think I got more experience with boys like the Cades than you do. I guess you don't have many like them in New York City.”

“Good point. We'll feel our way. You want to go downstairs now?”

“You know, as a matter of fact, I'd like to get something to eat first.” Hawes stood up and slipped on his suit jacket. “I haven't been eating all that well since I became a corrupt son of a bitch. Christine's been flinging a frozen dinner at my head and calling it supper. Let's go down to Rosie's. The Cades'll keep for a while.”

The restaurant was crowded, much to Karp's surprise. There was no velvet rope, but they had to hang around in the entryway for a table to be cleared.

“It's Friday,” Hawes explained as they took their seats, “catfish on the menu. Gus's catfish is famous. He's got a tank in the back he keeps them in. He brings them up from a farm in North Carolina.”

“Well, I do love a mess o'catfish.”

“I bet you do, country boy like yourself.”

“What's with all the old guys?” asked Karp, surveying the room.

“Pension day today. They're all old miners. Basis of the economy, besides coal itself. Another one of our local traditions. There's your Lester Weames fan club. The union's been screwing them for generations and they love it, because he hands them a cheap pension every month. Plus occasional odd jobs. A great and generous man, Lester. Another reason I brought you here. Look over there, those fellas at that big round table in the corner.”

Karp looked. He did not recognize any of the eight men at the table, but he thought instantly of Marlene and her flash of déjà vu. He had seen tables like that in Italian restaurants in his neighborhood at home. The men were dressed a little better, and a little more formally than the other diners, and they had a sleek, confident look as they dug into the greasy fried fish and downed bottles of beer. Three of them were larger men than average, with hard, stupid faces. The table was making a good deal of happy, aggressive noise.

“Man in the yellow golf shirt with the little round glasses, that's Lester himself. Over one to his right is George Floyd. The others are his buddies in the union management, and his goons. I guess you can tell which ones are the goons.”

Karp inspected them for a moment. “They seem to be having a good time. I guess us arresting the Cade boys isn't affecting their appetites. I assume they know?”

“Oh, yeah. Swett must've been on the horn to them five minutes after we brought them in.”

George Floyd said something and everyone laughed heartily. Karp imagined that this was not an infrequent occurrence when Floyd made a joke. Weames seemed quieter, almost studious; perhaps it was the glasses. He looked like the sort of nondescript accountant who turns out to have forty-three dismembered women in his basement. Weames glanced up from his fish. His glasses glinted. He said something to Floyd, who raised his head and stared over at Karp. Their eyes met. Floyd said something to Weames and laughed, and then their whole table laughed and turned to look at Karp and Hawes.

The waitress cut off their view. Hawes said, “Don't need no menus, Maggie. We'll have the catfish specials. That all right with you, Butch?”

“Sure, why not.” Karp smiled at the waitress.

The fish was extremely tasty, he had to agree. He could not help noticing that, as the various tables of pensioners finished their meals, they would go up to Weames's table for a word or two. Paying homage. George Floyd stood, pulled a fat roll of currency out of his pocket, and peeled off a half dozen bills, licking his thumb and snapping it down to pull each one off. Karp had seen the gesture a hundred times on Mulberry Street in Little Italy.

“In the event that Lester ever becomes a defendant here,” Karp observed, “it's not going to be easy assembling a jury, is it?”

Hawes grinned at him, a satisfied grin. “Ah, finally, the penny drops.”

T
HERE WERE NO FORMAL INTERVIEW
rooms at the Robbens County jail, so they had Bo Cade brought to the deputies' lunchroom, a fluorescent-lit, windowless nine-by-twelve with a Formica table and several mismatched straight chairs. Its air was warm, stagnant, reeking of burnt coffee and microwaved pizza.

“Do you like catfish, Mr. Cade?” was Karp's first question.

Bo looked confused, then nodded warily. A trick question, his face declared. He still smelled strongly of beer, but no longer felt drunk. Being arrested for murder often has a literally sobering effect.

“Good,” said Karp. “I brought you some catfish from Rosie's.” He handed over a paper sack. “We can talk while you have your supper. I think the sheriff can spare a soda, too.”

Karp and Hawes watched Bo eat catfish and drink RC. “Pretty good, isn't it?” said Karp. “I never had catfish before today, but I'm a fan now. I don't think it's usually on the menu in the prison system—correct me if I'm wrong, Stan.”

“No, I wouldn't think so,” said Hawes, “not at Mt. Olive. Or not fresh like Rosie's anyway. Maybe you'd get some soggy frozen fish fingers, though.”

Cade stopped chewing. “I got nothin' to say to you. I didn't do nothin' and I don't know nothin'. I don't even know why I'm here.”

“Uh-huh,” said Karp, “I hear what you're saying. Well, let me do something then. I'm going to read to you off this sheet of paper, and then I'm going to ask you to sign it if you understand what's on it.” Karp read off the Miranda rights and asked, “Do you want to see a lawyer now, or would you like to talk with us some more?”

“Hell, I told you I don't know nothin'. Why'd I need a lawyer then?”

“Good, then sign the form.” Bo signed. Karp said, “Okay, Mr. Cade, let's talk about your situation. On May twenty-eighth of this year, you went into the Bi-Lo in town and purchased a pair of Rocky-brand hunting boots, size nine and a half. We have a copy of the receipt and the clerk remembers you. You wore those boots the night you killed Mr. and Mrs. Heeney and Elizabeth Heeney.”

“I didn't kill—”

“Right, you didn't do nothing. But just hold that for a second. Subsequent to the murders, upon finding the boots were spattered with blood, you threw them off the green bridge on Route 130, where they were found and worn by Mose Welch. You also left several good sets of fingerprints at the Heeney home. Now, we have done a detailed analysis of the interior of the boots—”

“Hey, now, wait a minute! I thought you got that Emmett Heeney for all that anyway.”

“No, actually, that was a ruse.”

“A what?”

“A trick. A swindle. We pretended to arrest Emmett Heeney so that you boys would come down from Burnt Peak and we could arrest you without having to go up there and drag you out, with the chance that someone might get hurt.”

Bo Cade gaped.

“Yes, I thought it was pretty smart, and it worked,” said Karp. “As I was saying, we took apart one of your boots. Do you know what DNA is, Mr. Cade?”

“Yeah, the forest rangers.”

“No, that's DNR,” said Hawes. “The Department of Natural Resources. DNA is a chemical found in your body. It's different for different people. If we got some DNA from a crime scene, we can compare it to the DNA in your body and tell if you were there.”

“Thank you, Stan,” said Karp. “Well, Mr. Cade, it turns out that when you wear boots, little flecks of skin get shed through your socks and stick to the leather. We've extracted some of those little flecks from your boots. Now, naturally, some of them belong to Mose Welch, because he wore those boots, but others of them we've found belong to someone else. I would bet a lot of money that when we compare that DNA to a sample from your body, it'll match right up. Also, we've got good footprints of where you stood on the night of the murder right outside the Heeneys' back door. Our lab people can tell the weight of whoever made those footprints with your boots, and I would also bet a lot of money that they're going to come up with exactly your weight. So we have what we call a good circumstantial case. That means we can put you in your fancy boots at the Heeney home the night of the murder, where you got them splattered with Mrs. Heeney's blood right after you killed her.”

“I told you I didn't kill no one.”

“Yes, you did. But the problem here is you're the one we have. You're the only one with bloody boots.”

“Oh, hell, Earl had blood all over his shoes, too. He throwed them away into the laurel.”

A considerable silence followed this remark. Karp let it hang, then said, “Uh-huh. He killed the Heeneys with his shotgun, didn't he?”

Bo hesitated, looking sullen. Karp waited, his expression neutral. Bo said, “I ain't got nothin' more to say to you.”

Karp said, “I see. So that means
you
were the one that shot Lizzie Heeney in the head? That's funny, because I didn't figure you for someone low enough to shoot a ten-year-old girl while she was sleeping in her own bed.”

“I did not! I didn't do no killin' at all,” Bo shouted. In a smaller voice, he added, “It was Wayne did the little girl. I didn't think they was gonna kill all of them.”

“Uh-huh. And where was George Floyd while all this was going on?”

“How'd you know about him?”

“Mr. Cade, I know
everything,”
said Karp, smiling gently. “I'm only asking you these questions because you're a kid in trouble and I'm trying to catch you a break. I know you didn't kill anyone. But you're going to go away for murder unless I hear it from your own lips that you weren't pulling any triggers that night and you sign a paper that says so. Then I can go to the judge and get you off. But you have to tell me the whole truth about what happened so that I can tell him that
your
part of the story is true, okay?” Karp passed a pad of yellow paper and a ballpoint across the table. Bo Cade looked at it, glowered briefly at Karp, then took up the pen.
I dindt kil no one,
he wrote, the pen clutched vertically in the crotch of his thumb.
It was Gorge Floyd got my broter and my cousin Wayen and me to do it.

*  *  *

Two hours later, Karp and Hawes were in the latter's office waiting for Bo Cade's handwritten confession to be typed.

Hawes still seemed a little stunned. “Boy, I thought they'd be tougher nuts to crack. You were pretty smooth.”

“Oh, right,” said Karp, eyes to the ceiling, “the battle of the Titans. I was rolling dumb kids twice as bright as Bo Cade before he was born. No, the real sweat on this case is going to be getting Floyd, and then getting him to rat out Mr. Weames. In fact, as soon as that confession's done, I've got to get a hold of Judge Bledsoe, have him issue a warrant for Floyd, and a warrant to search his personal effects and any bank accounts to which he has access. You can take a statement from Earl. I don't think he'll give you any trouble. I presume Wayne is still having his testicles reattached?”

“That's what I hear. He won't be ready for questioning until tomorrow late at the earliest.”

“Yes, I should be sadder about his misfortune, but somehow . . . anyway, then I will whistle up Captain Hendricks and go bring in Mr. Floyd. But no catfish dinner for Mr. Floyd. He's already had his catfish.”

*  *  *

George Floyd did not dwell in a mobile home like so many of the people who employed him, but in a large, distinctly stationary two-story brick home on nicely kept grounds in the southeastern, more genteel regions of the county. It was hard to find a place in Robbens County unscarred by coal, but a good number of people had persevered, it seemed, and the community of Peale was the result. Peale was ten miles south of McCullensburg on Route 11. Here were located the substantial estates of the coal barons, the Killebrews and the Hergewillers, as well as the (somewhat) less imposing homes of the union grandees.

Armed with warrants for arrest and search, Karp arrived at Floyd's house in the evening, accompanied by Captain Hendricks, two Blazer-loads of green-clad troopers, and a crime-scene van from the state lab at Charleston. The frightened housekeeper tried to keep them out, but was bullied out of the way with threats and waved papers. Some forty minutes later, Floyd himself pulled up in his Chrysler. Karp watched Hendricks arrest him in his own living room, while troopers dismantled his home. It was a good arrest, the rights read out properly, no violence, or rather, no obvious violence. Karp had, of course, heard the expression
if looks could kill,
but had not often seen a demo so vivid as the one he got from George Floyd, who kept looking at him as Hendricks snapped the handcuffs on. Floyd's face had turned an interesting shade of lavender, tending to scarlet along the cheekbones. His pale eyes bulged and his lips were drawn back over his big yellow teeth, as if preparing to rend living flesh. He didn't say anything dramatic, as they do in the movies, neither protesting his innocence nor promising dire consequences.