Big Silence (31 page)

She was at Harley Buel’s desk. Buel sat behind it looking like a sympathetic professor with his balding head, erect posture, and glasses.

“Detective Buel will help you, Mrs. Dwights,” Kearney said, then continued toward and out the door with Lieberman at his side.

They were on their way down the steps when they met Bill Hanrahan coming up.

“Captain,” he said. “Got a call at the desk. Gornitz kid walked up to a police vehicle downtown and identified himself.”

Kearney stopped and something like a smile touched his handsome dark face, a smile that had broadened years earlier to charm brass and the ladies. He had never recaptured that smile and charm after the death of his partner.

“Good,” Kearney said. “What shape is he in?”

“Call says he’s okay. Some bruises, a cut or two and maybe a broken finger,” said Hanrahan.

“Do it,” Kearney said, hurrying past the two detectives and down the stairs.

“They’re taking him to Grant Hospital for treatment,” said Hanrahan.

“Friendly Mike the driveway paver lost his vehicle to vandalism last night and the vandals almost did the same thing to our Mike,” said Lieberman. “He’s in the hospital. Edgewater.”

The partners stood looking at each other for about ten seconds and Hanrahan recognized his partner’s look. Basically the look said “You don’t want to know, Father Murphy.”

“You take Mike, Abe,” said Hanrahan. “How about I go to the hospital, ask Matthew about his ordeal, and bring him in if he’s up to it?”

“Meet back here after lunch,” said Abe.

“One?”

“Fine. You sleep all right?”

“Lonely there, Abe,” Hanrahan said softly. “Even with the company of ghosts. But yeah, I slept. You?”

“Fine.”

“You talk to Iris?”

“This morning,” said Hanrahan. “Told her we should keep our word to her father and Woo. She not only seemed to understand, she sounded relieved.”

They had to move out of the way for two uniformed officers, one man, one woman, who hurried up the stairs. There was nothing more to be said. Lieberman was sure that his partner suspected at least the possibility of Abe’s knowing something about the mysterious vandalism and beating of Mike Piniescu. He may even suspect that the vandals would be identified as Hispanic. Since he approved, however, Hanrahan asked no questions.

Twenty minutes later Lieberman was at the bedside of Mikhail Piniescu. There were three other beds in the room. Piniescu had a bandage around his head. His right arm was broken, as was his nose, and he groaned pitifully. Lieberman closed the thin curtains around the bed to give them a little privacy.

Piniescu looked at Lieberman and said, “You.”

“Me,” Lieberman agreed. “Not your lucky day, Mike.”

“They destroyed my only transportation.” He wept. “They almost destroyed me.”

“They say anything?”

“One of them while they were beating me in front of my wife said, ‘You’re out of business.’ ”

“Not bad advice,” said Lieberman.

Piniescu looked at the policeman standing at the side of his bed and tried to read the meaning of what had been said.

“You get a good look at them?” Lieberman asked.

“Mexican bandits. One, the leader, had a scar on his face. He smiled all the time. He was having fun. He made me look at the burning van. People were in the street now, watching. I could identify that one. And a few more. So could my wife.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Lieberman. “What were they wearing?”

“Who remembers?” Piniescu groaned. “What did I do, God, to deserve this?”

“Don’t you know, Mike?”

“I’m a businessman,” Mike cried in obvious pain. “This is America. This is my business.”

“I think you’re out of business, Mike. If these people are crazy enough to come to your house while a crowd is gathering and beat you to a pulp, I wonder what they would do if you didn’t heed their advice.”

“Find them,” said Piniescu, his fists tightening.

“You sure you want them found?”

“You’re a policeman. It’s your job. This is America.”

“You’ve given me that valuable information twice. When you can move, we’ll show you some pictures. Maybe you’ll be able to identify your assailants. Maybe they’ll have interesting criminal records that will help in your admirable determination to seek revenge and justice.”

Mike looked puzzled.

“I —” he began.

“Take care of yourself, Mike,” said Lieberman. “I’ll get back to you.”

Lieberman headed back to the station where Hanrahan was waiting at his desk.

“What’d he give you?” asked Lieberman.

“Got him in the captain’s office. He’s downing a Wendy’s double cheese. He’s talking fast and hard.”

“Wanna make the call to Carbin?”

“My pleasure,” said Hanrahan. “Piniescu?”

“Wants us to find the villains so the law can take its course.”

“You gonna find them?”

“Who knows, Father Murphy? This is a big city. Even with a decent description it won’t be easy. And I think our Mike might have second thoughts about identifying his attackers if they have a violent past that suggests they might be upset if he identified them.”

While Hanrahan made his call to the assistant state attorney, Lieberman went to his desk and dialed a number. Someone answered and Lieberman asked for the person he was trying to reach.

“Viejo,
what do you know? What do you say? I’m still in bed. Up late
la noche pasada.”

“So I hear,” said Lieberman. “You and your friends displayed more enthusiasm for your task than I asked.”

“
Viejo,
we got carried away with our duty to the public,” said El Perro.

“Our victim wants the perpetrators caught. He says he can identify them.”

“No shit,” exclaimed El Perro. “I thought he’d pack up and find some other part of the country. This is a big country.”

“He may,” said Lieberman. “Didn’t you tell me you were planning to visit your relatives in Guatemala?”

“I got no relatives,
Viejo,”
he said, “an’ I’m too busy here, you know?”

“Suit yourself,” said Lieberman.

“I have faith in you,
Viejo.”
said El Perro. “You know I got two girls here. One of them is very young. The other is her mother, who ain’ all that old either. You ever have two women,
Viejo?”

“I can’t say that I’ve experienced that pleasure,” said Lieberman watching Hanrahan get up from his desk and head toward his partner’s.

“I can set it up,” said El Perro.
“Dija la palabra y
—
”

“Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

“I was kiddin’ anyway,” said El Perro. “Truth is I got the grandmother here too and she ain’ so fuckin’ old.”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Lieberman.

“You wanna talk to them?”

“No, but thanks for the offer.
Hasta luego.
”

“Hasta luego,”
said El Perro.

Lieberman hung up. He had been careful in his conversation as had Emiliano, just in case the call was being tarred. It wasn’t likely, but you never knew. If he were asked about the call, Lieberman would have a perfectly acceptable tale to spin.

Lieberman looked up at his partner.

“On the way,” said Hanrahan.

“Let’s work.” Lieberman got up.

There weren’t many detectives and citizens in the squad room now, but there were a few. Business would pick up on the night shift. Hanrahan and Lieberman were not scheduled for the night shift for a month or so though they often worked overtime at night. Neither dreaded the night duty. On a good night, little or nothing happened, and besides, Lieberman slept better during the day. On a bad weekday night, both men wondered why they had become cops.

“Lieberman, Hanrahan,” Tony Munoz called from his desk where he was taking a statement from a reasonably attractive woman old enough to be his mother. A single glance at his smile left no doubt that he was hitting on the woman.

“Blitzstein agreed to walk-through on the site,” he said. “Got a call from the state attorney’s office. I think they’re making a deal with him. Who knows? They’ll be here in an hour.”

“Thanks,” said Hanrahan. “If we’re in the captain’s office, ask them … no, tell them to wait.”

“They made a deal,” Lieberman said.

“TV, papers’ll be all over it,” Hanrahan said as they walked across the room. “White Jew kills poor homeless black man, a once sort of famous black man. Was it ever thus, Rabbi?”

“Ever,” said Lieberman.

The boy sat at Kearney’s table. There was an open box that had once contained a double burger and there was a bag of fries that was almost gone. The boy, his glasses in the pocket of his white T-shirt, looked up solemnly.

“This is my partner, Detective Lieberman,” Hanrahan said, taking a seat across from the boy while Lieberman sat next to him. “Can you go over everything that happened? Your own words. Then we’ll ask questions. ’Fraid you might have to go through this three or four times. You know, people forget details.”

“They killed my father,” said Matthew, eyes moist, a deep scratch on his cheek. “And my mother. I’m going to kill them. Torture them.”

“Let’s find them first,” said Lieberman. “Mind if we tape?”

The thin young man nodded in agreement.

“In Ohio,” he began when Hanrahan had produced a small cassette recorder and turned it on, “at the motel. They came through the window, two of them, fast, with guns. We were asleep. The breaking glass woke me up. I heard a loud noise, the shot, and they dragged me through the broken window, two of them. They were big, strong. Not too old. Italian or Greek maybe. I could identify them if I saw them. I’ll never forget the bastards —”

Matthew paused, choked with emotion.

“Take your time,” said Lieberman.

“I’m okay,” the young man said. “They put me in the backseat of the car, covered my eyes. I asked them what they were doing. They told me to shut up. When I asked again, one of them hit me hard. They kept me in a basement. I was scared. They said they were going to kill me if my father didn’t do what they wanted. They wanted … they wanted him …”

Again the young man couldn’t speak. He put his head down and closed his eyes.

“To kill himself,” Lieberman supplied.

Matthew pulled himself together, his narrow shoulders quivering for an instant. He rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his soiled shirt and went on. “They said they were going to send my fingers to my father till he did what they wanted. They asked me if I had ever seen anyone with no fingers. They showed me pictures. God, I was so scared.”

“So,” said Hanrahan, “they never took the blindfold off?”

“No, except to look at the pictures. They even led me to the toilet and fed me with the blindfold on. I did get a look when they showed me the pictures but I was too scared to pay attention. Later I did get a peek under the wrapping once. I could see I was in a small room with concrete walls and some wooden steps leading up. There was a dirty little window. I didn’t get a look at anyone’s face that time, but several of them had really bad grammar. One, the one who was on the phone to my father, spoke much better. They pushed me around a lot. I think they wanted to be sure I was frightened when I talked to my father. I was. Very frightened.”

“Seems reasonable,” said Lieberman. “Go on.”

“Not much more,” Matthew said. “This morning they led me out. It was cold. They drove me where I guess was downtown. They didn’t talk. Someone reached over me to push the door open and then shove me out. I tripped over a curb, stood up, and heard the car pulling away. I tore off the blindfold.”

“You see the car pulling away?” asked Hanrahan.

“I think so. It was big and black. The sun was almost blinding me after those days in the dark, but it was big and black.”

“What did you do with the blindfold?”

“Do? There was a garbage can. I threw it away and began looking for a policeman. My legs were a little weak. They still are.”

“Where exactly were you?” Lieberman asked gently.

“In front of the Picasso,” the boy said. “May I have some water?”

Hanrahan turned off the tape recorder. Lieberman went to the door to open it and call, “Tony, can we have a cup of water in here?”

Lieberman returned to the table and folded his hands in front of him. Hanrahan turned the tape recorder back on.

“Did you talk to your father very much over the past few years?” Abe asked.

“On the phone, maybe once a month,” he said. “We talked about my coming to visit him when I went to college. You know, spend spring break, maybe Christmas.”

“He write to you?”

“Yes,” said Matthew. “Maybe three or four times a year. We were getting closer. I wanted to see him. Now —”

Munoz came with the water in a paper cup. He looked at the boy and then at Hanrahan, who gave no clue to how things were going or what they were learning if anything. Lieberman said something to Munoz, who nodded and departed. Matthew drank the entire cup.

“We’ll go over all this again later, Matt,” said Lieberman. “Just a few more questions.”

“Sure.”

“You sure the car pulling away was black, not white?” asked Hanrahan.

“White? No, it was black.”

“You know someone named David Donald Wilhite?” Lieberman said immediately, but gently.

“David — he’s my roommate at school. But —”

“Good friend?”

“Friend,” Matthew said, looking puzzled.

“He has a white car, hasn’t he?” asked Hanrahan.

“Yes,” said Matt slowly.

“He’s missing,” said Lieberman. “Think that might have something to do with what happened to you? You think he could have been working with the people who kidnapped you, killed your mother?”

“David? No. Never.”

There was a knock at the door and Hanrahan stopped the tape recorder again. Munoz came in before anyone could tell him to enter. He had a sheet of paper in his hand. He gave it to Lieberman and went out again.

Lieberman read the sheet and handed it to Hanrahan.

“This note is a piece of serendipity,” said Lieberman. “David Donald Wilhite has been picked up on the turnpike in Michigan heading east. He was just outside of Detroit.”

“Picked up?” Matthew asked, looking at both detectives.