Done for a Dime (16 page)

He waited, and Murchison could almost feel, like some small gravitational force, the tug of his craving for eye contact. Murchison refused to give in, keeping his gaze straight ahead.

Stluka said, “Just about everybody you know has a story like that. Ever wonder why that is?”

“I don’t have a story like that,” Murchison said.

“That’s a lie. This job, it’s nothing but stories like that.”

“Jerry—”

“Know what I read the other day? A kid had a better chance surviving combat in World War Two than he does surviving childhood and adolescence in Washington, D.C., today. That’s after Black mayors since way back. And as much or more spent on social services as anywhere in the country.”

“The seventies, Jerry. We’ve had this talk.”

“No, Murch.”

“Factories closed down, jobs got shipped offshore. Black community got slammed. Crack came right after.”

“Murch, stop it. Capitalism ain’t the problem. Japan is the greediest country on the planet, money is king, and nobody cares how you make it, especially now that the so-called Asian Miracle’s tanked. Porno is huge there, and I’m talking seriously sick shit—S & M, child porno, even. And yet they’ve got the lowest violent and property crime rate in the world. Scandinavian countries have incredibly low crime rates. What do they have in common?”

“Just a guess—cannibalism?”

“Racial homogeneity.”

Murchison felt trapped and yet he blamed himself for that. Stluka was hardwired; any leeway to be had wouldn’t come on his end. Murchison resented that, resented all the things he knew he couldn’t do about it, and resented the stranger to himself and everyone else it had turned him into. But none of that, in the end, was Stluka’s fault.

He turned—toward the door, not his partner. “The world is a ghetto, Jerry. I dunno. You tell me.” He started to walk away.

From behind, Stluka said, “No, that’s my point, Murch. It’s not the world. It’s here. It’s us.”

“Okay, Jerry. You win.” He got as far as the door. Feeling a curious kind of guilt, like he’d failed to remember something that once had been second nature, he turned back for one last attempt at connection.

Stluka stood there, eyes shining, lips creased into the coldest of grins. “Come on, Murch, don’t sulk. Admit it, you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”

8

M
urchison made his way back through the narrow winding hallways to the lunchroom and slipped in coins to the vending machines for two packets of cheese crackers and a carton of chocolate milk. He put the crackers in his shirt pocket and shook the milk carton as he walked back through the hallways to the interview room in which Arlie Thigpen sat. Murchison punched in his code at the dial pad, unlocking the door.

“Hey, how we doin’ in here?” There was no recent mention of a father in Arlie’s file, so Murchison assumed the position was open. A common tactic. Uncle Dad, they called it. “I’m still scrambling around, putting this and that together, but I figured you might be hungry, so I got you these.” He laid out the crackers, the milk. “Not much, but it’s the best the vending company gives us.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“I’ll be back, we’ll talk then.”

Murchison turned to go. Behind him he heard the cellophane snap on one of the cracker packages. Over his shoulder, he saw the kid going at it with his teeth. Glancing up, Arlie froze, then spat out a sliver of wrapper.

Murchison punched in his code and slipped back out the door. He crossed through the squad room toward the detective bureau, stopping one door short. He knocked.

“Mr. Hussein?”

He opened the door and the storekeeper cringed. Murchison checked the photo books. Three Post-its stuck out above the pages, flagging head shots.

“These the only ones that look familiar?”

Tony Hussein frowned, scratching his neck. “You know, those things, they don’t—” He shrugged. “It’s not like, you know, how they look. When you see them.”

Murchison checked the pictures. Not one matched a name they’d already come up with, not even Arlie Thigpen. The guy got scared, Murchison thought. All this time alone.

“Would you mind coming with me for a second?”

Murchison lifted him out of his chair and led him—straggling, hand clutched to the waist of his trousers to keep them from sagging around his hips—back through the maze of hallways to the corridor between the interview rooms. Murchison talked as they went.

“There is nothing about what you’re going to see, Mr. Hussein, that should be interpreted as an indication of guilt in any way. We’re talking to people, a lot of people, about the fight outside your store. The murder. The anchor heave-hoed through your window. And we’re going to talk to a lot more people. Witnesses, not just suspects.

“For the moment, there are two young men in particular we’ve had the chance to speak with, and before they move on I’d just, for the sake of being thorough, like to know whether either young man looks familiar to you. And if so, why. I’m not saying either one will. It’s entirely possible both young men are strangers to you, and if that’s the case, fine. There’s no pressure. Don’t say you recognize somebody you don’t. But if either young man is familiar, I want you to tell me precisely why and how, tell me the last time you recall seeing him, what makes that occasion memorable. Okay?”

The routine was called a show-up. Murchison gestured Tony Hussein through the final door. Once inside, the store owner took barely a glance at either monitor before he spun around.

“What happens next, huh? Smash my window this time, but next time. Tell me.”

What is this, Murchison thought, a dare? “Mr. Hussein, I understand your concern. I do. We’ll catch the men who came after your store tonight. We’ll catch the ones who try anything else. We’ll put them away.” Murchison didn’t try to sound convincing and the storekeeper didn’t pretend to believe. Murchison gestured toward the monitor. “Just one look, okay?”

Tony Hussein turned, adjusted the glasses on his face, and squinted at the screen. “Him. The one, outside my store, yelling, fighting. With the old man.” It came out more like a complaint than an ID.

“You didn’t pick his picture out of the book.” And how could you miss him, Murchison thought, with those scars around his eye?

“Him.” The storekeeper said it again, but quieter now. “Him. The face I remember. Okay?” He turned back around with a look of almost defiant neediness. “And that’s that, right? I go back, you go back, everything normal, everybody happy. Everybody safe. Tuck tuck, night night.”

Murchison pointed to the second monitor. “Before we head back, could you look at the other young man for a moment?”

Hussein adjusted his glasses again, then stared at Toby Marchand. “Who the fuck is that?”

Murchison said nothing. Tony Hussein leaned a little closer, squinted, then straightened back up again. He shrugged, pitching his head left and right. “Him I don’t know.” The fear came back. “Should I?”

“Do me a favor. Look again. Imagine him in different clothes, if you can. Whatever the young men were wearing outside your store. Be sure.”

Hussein turned toward Murchison, blinked. Stared.

“Not me, Mr. Hussein. The young man in the room there.”

Arlie didn’t bother to look up as the door opened. He had crumbs on his chest. Cracker wrappers and the now empty milk carton lay scattered on the floor beneath the table. Murchison closed the door, crossed the room to the one empty chair, and sat, pulling it close till he and Arlie sat barely a yard apart. The kid made no move to increase the distance, but he kept his arms folded tight, legs stuck out in front of him, ankles crossed. His feet quivered like a current ran through them.

They taught you to first determine the suspect’s dominant need. Respect. Safety. Flattery. Sympathy. Then you were supposed to stimulate and exaggerate that need, and finally offer to gratify it in exchange for a confession. Tell him you understand how it could’ve happened, reduce the moral weight of the crime, suggest a less repelling motive for it than the evidence reveals. But never back down from your conviction the guy did it. And never offer a scenario for him to buy into that would remove intent.

There, simple. The less intuitive guys loved it. They could recite it back to you in a heartbeat. Only trouble was: What about the perp who thought respect was safety? By the time you figured out
his
confusion, he’d sealed up on you. Game over. And what about the guys who invited flattery but then turned on you, figuring if you kissed their butts you didn’t respect them? Same with sympathy—if you really understand me, you hate me. And I hate you. The dominant need turned out to be a smokescreen, behind which hid an enigma. The psyche. A human being.

“Feeling better now that you’ve eaten a little?” Murchison set his file on top of the table and pulled toward him the nearest stack of papers. “You get a chance to look at these?”

Arlie just glared. “I want to see my lawyer.”

The kid wasn’t mealymouthed about it. No:
Maybe I need
. Or:
Would it be possible if.

“This questionnaire here, it’s for witnesses.” Murchison held the blank material witness form up so Arlie could see it. “Thirty-six questions.”

Arlie responded by tugging at the front of his orange jumpsuit, then glancing at the door. “I’m a witness? Well, damn. When do I get my clothes?”

With the
Dickerson
ruling, cops could be held personally liable for any violation of a suspect’s rights. The California Department of Justice had issued a memo about it, warning there’d be no more coaching about interviewing outside
Miranda.
You could lose your home, your life savings, for doing now what they’d been training you to do for years. It was a miracle they could get cops to work through to retirement anymore, the number of times the rules got changed—especially now that it was you, not just the department, left holding the bag.

Still, as long as you didn’t threaten, there was room to maneuver.

“What I mean, Arlie, is that if you’re a witness, I can try to intervene on your behalf. Depends on what you’re a witness to.”

Arlie squirmed in his chair, face full of disgust. Murchison nudged his chair closer.

“Arlie, I’m not stupid. And I’m not one of those cops who think every Black kid who comes in here is stupid, either.”

“Whoa. Mighty Whitey.”

“I can’t help unless you let me.”

Arlie broke eye contact, shook his head. “My lawyer.”

“You have a lawyer?”

“You gotta get me one.”

“Aren’t you a little ahead of yourself?”

“You can’t hold me on one charge, pretend we just talkin’ on another charge. Don’t work like that. Not if I ask for the lawyer. I ask for the lawyer,
poof,
magic words.” He did a little side-to-side in his chair, a challenge. “From here on out, every word
you
say will be used against
you
. That’s the motherfucking law.”

“Just to fill you in, Arlie. Only warning ignored more often than
Miranda
is the one on the outside of a cigarette pack.”

“Ignored by who—you?”

“I got told once, by a judge right here in this county, I open a trunk and find a pound of weed, I lacked probable cause. I find a dead body, the opposite applies. That’s not us, that’s the court. Damn few lawyers are dumb enough, or dishonest enough, to file
Miranda
motions. They never work.”

“Not the way I heard it.”

“This isn’t TV, Arlie. This is right here.”

“Always a first time.”

“You’re not that lucky.” He looked straight in the kid’s eyes. “Are you?”

Arlie made a half-dozen faces at once, ended up staring at the wall.

Murchison said, “I was watching this program on the Discovery Channel the other night. The average person swallows six spiders a year during the night, did you know that? They crawl into your mouth while you’re sleeping, I kid you not. Spiders, they like warm, wet places. I wonder—think that happens more often in prison?”

“I
want
to see my
lawyer
.”

“Fine.” Murchison reached for the booking sheet. “Officer who brought you in, he had to go to the hospital.” He checked to see how that landed. Arlie recoiled a little further into himself. “Didn’t get a chance to finish the paperwork that’s required.”

Actually, Murchison had torn up the intake form Gilroy had filled out when he placed the kid in holding. Murchison wanted to redo it himself, try to build some rapport.

Arlie said, “I ain’t saying another word to you.”

“This is just the paperwork that allows us to track you through the system, Arlie. It’s not subject to
Miranda
warnings. So first thing we do is go through the basics, name and address and birth date. You know the drill.” He took the pen from his shirt pocket, clicked. “Arlington Nehemiah Thigpen, am I right?”

He started to write it down. Arlie said nothing.

“Arlie, if you don’t confirm that I have it right and I get it wrong, it’s only gonna make it harder for you to get processed out. Understand?”

Arlie’s eyes glimmered, moving slow behind half-shut lids. “Yeah.” A murmur.

Murchison wrote it out in block letters. “Thigpen. There’s a receiver, played for the Steelers, then the Titans. Yancie Thigpen.” He opened Arlie’s file, checked the address on his rap sheet, and left the file open so Arlie could see it. “You follow football?”

“Maybe.”

“Still live with your mother?”

Arlie bristled. “You want an address, I give you one.”

Interesting, Murchison thought. He tapped his pen against the rap sheet. “Just tell me if that one’s right.”

Arlie leaned close, read the address, then read a little more. All his arrests were listed in the dense, semicryptic code the computer spat out. “Yeah.” He slouched back in his chair again.

Murchison wrote out the address, slow. “I’m not much of a poker player, Arlie, but I know enough not to show my hand. All right? You know why you’re here, and it’s not for the bottles—”

“There ain’t no bottles. Damn cop set me
up.
”

“And it’s not for the dustup with the cop who brought you in here.”