Death Penalty (11 page)

“Unfortunately for Mr. Villar, the two young women, cute little things both, are gym teachers at our local high school. Also, between you and me, I think they have seen one or two of those things up close before. In any event, they were not frightened, and certainly they weren't impressed. They jumped poor Mr. Villar and gave him what we in police work like to call a sound thrashing. They used his ski mask as a kind of impromptu handcuff and led him forth, sans pants, to the street, where they flagged down a passing scout car.”

“And I presume they were outraged.”

She shook her head. “Not really. I think they enjoyed
striking a blow for aggressive feminism. Also, they are teachers, and a lot of kids use that excuse for a park. They don't want him waving his dingus at children.”

“It was probably just a one-time episode.”

Sue Gillis smiled, but there was a sadness in it. “I'm afraid not, Charley. We've had reports about an exposer in the park before. Mr. Villar meets the descriptions. Ski mask, too. I think your man feels the need to wave that thing every few months or so.”

“You know the type, Sue. Almost all exposers are the same. They're not dangerous usually, just sick.”

“I agree, but that doesn't lessen the shock to some little girl skipping through the park, does it?”

“Does he have a record?”

“Nothing shows, but I talked to him. He says he's been caught before. In Chicago. They let him go, providing he would agree to treatment.”

“Did he get treatment?”

“He says he did. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. Anyway, he's been quite active for the last several months, therapy or no therapy.”

“If treatment helps, that's what he needs, not jail.”

One cute little eyebrow shot up. “Jail? Charley, c'mon. You know better. Since he has no record, the most he'll get is a fine and probation. He doesn't have to worry about jail, at least not this time.”

“Jail is nothing compared to what will actually happen to him. He's the town's banker, Sue. A conviction will ruin him. He'll be fired for starters. This is a small community. He won't be able to go to the grocery without seeing the looks and hearing the whispers. He'll have to move.”

She smirked, but pleasantly. “What would you like, counselor? Shall we give him the ski mask back and provide him with a map of the local schools?”

“How about just holding the charge in abeyance until he gets treatment?”

“The schoolteachers may not like that, nor the judge.”

“I'll talk to the teachers, and the judge. If they don't go along, that's it. How about it?”

“How do you define treatment, Charley?”

“Hospital to start, then whatever the doctors think is right after that, okay?”

“It's not my decision.”

“Let's start with the complaining witnesses.”

She sighed. “The world would be such a better place without lawyers.”

“No it wouldn't. It just seems that way.”

“Come on, Charley,” she said as she got up. “Let's see what you can do.”

THE SCHOOLTEACHERS WERE EASY
. I think they felt a little guilty about roughing up the portly old banker, pervert or not. In any event, they seemed relieved, even enthusiastic, about the proposed compromise.

It was the judge who turned out to be trouble. The Honorable Thomas J. Mulhern had all the signs of a hangover. Not an unusual situation for him, but this one was apparently so bad he wanted the world somehow to share the pain.

I liked Tommy Mulhern, as he did me, but I was talking to the hangover more than him, and things got tense.

Finally, he agreed to put the case over for six months, but only on the provision that Villar get serious, intense treatment.

It took a while to arrange that. I called my friend and fellow recovering drunk Robert J. Williams, M.D., a board certified psychiatrist, and explained the situation. Fortunately, Bob Williams is the chief of psychiatry at one of the local hospitals, and he used his muscle to arrange for Villar's immediate admittance.

I was doing just great as a problem solver, but the biggest problem turned out to be my reluctant client.

VINCENT VILLAR STILL
hadn't yet combed his hair when he was released. He got all his property back, sans ski mask, and I escorted him out to the jail's lobby where his son awaited him.

The son, an accountant with a Detroit firm, was a carbon copy of his father, except his hair was dark and his waist thin. But the aloof expression was the same, and the eyes. In fact, the son's eyes sparked with something deeper. Whether it was anger or hatred I couldn't tell.

“Do I go to court now?” Villar asked.

“The case has been put over for six months,” I said. “The court wants you to be seen by doctors. If they feel you can be helped, the case will be dismissed.”

The elder Villar's head jerked up as if he had been hit. “I don't want that! I want to plead guilty and get this over with once and for all.”

“Mr. Sloan is doing what's best for you,” his son said. The words were spoken from between clenched teeth.

His father glared at him and then at me. “You have no right to interfere,” he rasped.

“Your son and I are going to take you to the hospital now so the doctors can talk to you,” I said. “Believe me, this is the best way.”

He jerked away from me, his eyes on the wild side. “No. I need to do what must be done.”

“Oh, Jesus,” his son exploded, “haven't you done enough? Ma's back home crying her eyes out. What the holy hell's the matter with you?”

“Get away from me,” his father said, then headed for the door.

The deputy who manned the glass cage looked down at me, silently inquiring if I needed help.

I shook my head.

I followed Villar out into the parking lot. His son was somewhere behind us.

“I can understand how you feel,” I said, trying to catch up, “but in a few days you'll be very glad . . .”

He started to run. At first it seemed funny, this grayhaired fat man dodging between parked cars, running awkwardly but surprisingly fast.

I started after him and I heard his son's disgusted shout.

A woman pulling out in her Mazda blocked my pursuit for a moment while Villar seemed to pick up speed flying through the rows of parked cars like racelines. I felt foolish trying to catch him and I suppose I really hadn't committed myself to an all-out run. I wasn't exactly the picture of athletic grace myself.

Then I saw where he was headed.

My legs, unaccustomed to such exercise, began to feel leaden. I looked around. Villar's son was far behind, running but not fast.

It was like a nightmare. Suddenly I realized what Villar intended to do, and there was no way I could stop him.

Traffic wasn't supposed to move fast on River Street, the main artery of the town, but everyone usually ignored the twenty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit, at least during the workday. Cars and trucks were whizzing by at forty or better.

A big refrigerator truck was coming at a good clip; Villar ran out right into its path.

The son shouted. I suppose I did too.

There seemed to be no noise, everything happening like an old silent film, as if in slow motion.

The driver saw him and tried to brake and swerve. Villar faced him and held out his arms, as if preparing for crucifixion. His mouth was open, but there was no sound; his eyes were fixed on the truck.

Then there was noise. The truck brakes shrieked and the big vehicle shook convulsively.

The driver was good, very good: the truck was almost stopped when it hit Vincent Villar.

Bouncing off the grill, he stumbled backward, sitting down hard on the pavement.

The driver was out of the truck, screaming obscenities, his body shaking with a mixture of anger and fear.

Villar just blinked up at him, appearing not to be injured, just surprised.

A crowd gathered and the police came. I arranged for an ambulance to take Villar to the hospital where they were already waiting for him. Villar began to cry as we waited. His son held him, talking quietly, this time without rage or hatred.

As for the truck driver, he was still shaking with emotion.

“What the fuck was he trying to do,” he snapped loudly at me, “kill himself?”

I NEEDED A DRINK, BADLY
, but instead I walked the hundred feet over to the river boardwalk. I gripped the steel safety rail and waited, watching the water until the feeling passed.

My concentration on the dark flowing waters was so intense that I didn't realize she was there until she spoke.

“You're not thinking of jumping, by any chance?”

Sue Gillis had taken a position next to mine, looking out at the river.

“No. I don't feel like a swim at the moment.”

“I saw what happened from my window,” she said. “For an elderly gentleman, Villar moves pretty well. He looked like a fat O. J. Simpson running through an airport. You didn't have a chance of catching him.”

“I was gaining there, at the end.”

She smirked. “A word of advice, Charley. If you're thinking of going out for the track team, don't.”

“Thanks for your support. You have the knack of making old men feel young.”

“You're not old.” She studied the water. “It's my fault, really. I should have guessed what he had in mind.” She looked at me. “It's a pattern of behavior, the offer of a quick plea, anything to get out and destroy the creature that can't be controlled. Everybody in police work, especially vice, knows that danger. I don't know why I didn't spot it this time.”

“Well, it didn't work, whatever Villar intended. All he got for his trouble was a bruised behind.”

“I feel sorry for some of them, the ones like Villar who can't help themselves. You can understand the suicidal feelings. The shame must be overwhelming. Maybe not long lasting, but strong enough at first that self-destruction must seem the only answer.”

I looked at her. “You sound more like a social worker than a cop.”

She smiled. “Maybe. Of course, I never let pity interfere with my duty, counselor.”

“So why are you here? The social worker side? Or the cop side?”

“You did a very nice thing back there, Charley. You really tried to save that old man. I was impressed. I thought someone should tell you.”

“As you say, my speed leaves something to be desired, but I thank you for the good thought. I have in my time performed even greater exploits. If you have time I could buy you lunch and bore you silly with past glories.”

“You want to take me to lunch?”

“That's the idea. How about it?”

She hesitated. “Well, I do have to eat, don't I? How
about we go dutch, that way no one can say it was some kind of bribe.”

“Jesus, if cops can be fixed for sandwiches I've wasted my entire life. So, I pay or the deal's off.”

“I have to go back to the office and get my purse. Where shall I meet you?”

“How about the inn?”

“Give me five minutes.”

BECKY HARRIS WASN'T ON DUTY
, which was a plus, since she would have perhaps haunted both of us. The waitress serving the table assigned to me was a Becky clone, a woman nearing fifty, handsome but with that touch of sadness a life of hard experience brings.

I ordered an iced tea and waited for Sue Gillis.

It should have been just a mundane lunch between a lawyer and a cop, a chance for both to form an informal network, a business lunch, nothing more.

But I felt like a pimply teenager out on a first date, and marveled at the feeling.

She came bouncing into the place, her movements and manner as youthful as any high school girl.

I was worried that long-latent pimples might pop out momentarily.

“Sorry to be late, Charley,” she said, sitting down, “but I had to take care of a few loose ends. What is that?”

“Iced tea.”

“It looks good.”

“It doesn't rival bourbon but it's not bad.”

“You don't drink, I understand?”

I nodded. “There is an ugly rumor going around that I almost ruined my career, my life, whatever, by booze. The ugly rumor is quite true, Sue. But I am what we in the program call a recovering alcoholic. I go to meetings,
and, knock wood, I get through each day without taking a drink.”

“It sounds pretty grim.”

“Not really. It was in the beginning. But you kind of get into a rhythm after a while. But someone like me can never let their guard down. We're all just one drink away from destruction.”

“God, you are a smooth talker, Charley. I bet with a sure-fire line like that the women are all over you, right?”

“It is a burden, I admit.”

She picked up a menu and studied it.

“Curiosity is a two-way street, Sue. We've done business for a while now, rapist here, window peeper there, and everyone always calls you Mrs. Gillis. I presume there is a Mr. Gillis?”

She put the menu down. “There was.”

“Divorced, I take it?”

She shook her head. “I'm a widow.”

“Children?”

“No.”

“Recent widow?”

“You certainly are nosy.”

“Hey, I'm not going to fork over good money for a lousy chicken salad sandwich unless I know all.”

One small eyebrow went up like a railroad crossing arm. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“We have ways of making you talk.”

She sighed, a theatrical sound. “Oh well, in that case.” She stopped and took a roll from the basket, tore it in two but didn't eat. “This is all pretty boring, frankly.”

“Bore me. I love it.”

“I was a nurse. I had a degree from Mercy and went to work at Pontiac General. I met a wonderful man, two years older than me, an engineer. He worked for General Motors. It was one of those magical things, frankly. We met in a singles saloon, and three months later we got
married. My parents were ecstatic, so were his. Could grandchildren be far behind?”