Homicide Related (13 page)

“It's nothing that'll get you into trouble.”

“I didn't think it was.”

Dooley shook his head. There was such a thing as too much trust. He should probably tell Warren that some time.

The two homicide cops were waiting for Dooley when he got to work that afternoon.

“You remember us, right, Ryan?” Detective Randall said.

Dooley just looked at him—how stupid did he think Dooley was? But he couldn't remember Randall's partner's name. He couldn't even recall if Randall's partner had even mentioned his name.

“We'd like to talk to you,” Randall said.

“I'm supposed to be working.” Linelle was watching him through the window. Dooley wondered if she had made the two suits as cops.

“I'm sure your employer will understand,” Randall said. “After all, it's about your mother. You want to help us get things straight, don't you, Ryan?”

“I guess.”

“You don't sound sure.”

“I told you, we weren't close.”

“You did say that,” Detective Randall agreed. “Still, we need to ask you some questions.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“Arresting you? Why would we do that? We just need you to help us clear up a few things.” Randall glanced around. “Come on. Let's find a place where we can sit down for a few minutes.”

Dooley glanced at Linelle again, but he couldn't read the expression on her face.

“Okay, whatever,” he said.

He went with the two detectives to a restaurant two doors down from the video store. They sat in a booth. The cops ordered coffee. Dooley didn't want anything. Then Randall said, “Why don't you tell us again about last Wednesday night, Ryan.”

“Last Wednesday?”

“The night your mother died.”

“What for?”

“Like I said, we're just trying to get everything straight. You want to know what happened to your mother, don't you, Ryan?”

Dooley hated talking to cops. It unnerved him the way they always looked directly at you and didn't care that you knew that they thought everything you said was bullshit. Well, whatever. He'd already told them about that night. He'd tell them a hundred times more, if that's what they wanted. They couldn't touch him.

“I went to the library,” he said. “I did some research for a school project. Then I went home. I was home by eleven. I called my uncle from the home phone. I know you can check that.” They could get phone records that would verify what he was saying, or at least that someone had made a call from his uncle's house at eleven o'clock that night, and tell them the number that had been called.

“Did you talk to anyone at the library, Ryan?” Randall said.

“What? Why do you want to know that?”

Randall repeated his question.

What was going on? Were they trying to put him in it?

He thought for a moment. It had been over a week ago now. He hadn't memorized everything he had done that night, and even if he had, he wanted to come across like a normal person. Most normal people don't remember every detail of a routine evening a whole week ago.

“I went to the information desk,” he said. He made a show of thinking it over. “Yeah. I was having trouble finding what I needed, so I went to the information desk and talked to a woman there.”

“You mean, like an information clerk?”

“Yeah.”

Randall pulled out a notebook. “An information clerk remembers talking to you,” he said.

That brought Dooley up short. They'd already done some checking. He couldn't decide if that was good or bad.

“She recognized your picture,” Randall said. His
picture?
They'd been showing his picture around? “She said you were very polite. Do you remember what time you talked to her, Ryan?”

“I'm not sure,” Dooley said. But he had a feeling that wasn't going to cut it. If the woman remembered talking to him, maybe she also remembered when they had spoken. “I think it was pretty soon after I arrived.”

“She helped you, didn't she?” Randall said. “She said she pointed you to some resources on the environment, is that right?”

Not only did the woman remember but it also sounded like she had a total-recall memory.

Dooley nodded.

“If you had to estimate what time you talked to the information clerk, what would be your best guess?” Detective Randall said.

“I guess maybe eight, eight-fifteen.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I found the material I needed. I worked on my assignment. Then I left.”

“Do you remember what time it was when you left?”

“No.”

“If you had to estimate what time you left, what would be your best guess?”

Why was Randall pushing on where he'd been that night? What was he after? He couldn't possibly think—

“Ryan? What time did you leave the library?”

“I'm not sure,” Dooley said. The place had been jammed with people, but he hadn't spoken to anyone except the woman at the information desk, so maybe he was okay. “But the place closes at ten, right?”

Randall shook his head, as if he were disappointed in Dooley.

“Are you saying you stayed at the library until it closed?”

“No,” Dooley said. Not now he wasn't, not when Randall had that look on his face. “I don't remember when I left. I'm just saying it must have been sometime before ten because that's when it closes.”

Randall glanced at his partner, whose name Dooley wished he had asked. Then he turned back to Dooley.

“One of the security guards remembers you, Ryan,” he said. “He says you left the library at about ten minutes to nine.”

“Yeah?” Dooley tried to look doubtful. “I'm pretty sure I was there longer than that. Maybe he made a mistake.”

“He's pretty sure,” Randall said. “You know how he remembers?”

Dooley was thinking, how could the guy possibly remember? There had been hundreds of people in the library that night, coming and going.

“Seems you picked a busy time to leave,” Randall said. “Seems an entire class of Korean English-as-a-second-language students was leaving at the same time you were. Seems you stuck out like a sore thumb. What do you have to say to that?”

“I don't know,” Dooley said. “Is he sure it was me? Maybe it was some guy who looked like me. You know what they say about eyewitness identification.”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Detective Randall said. “People make mistakes all the time.” Dooley waited. “But this particular security guard”—here it comes—“is a retired cop, Ryan. And you know what? He was a pretty good cop in his day. And he says he's positive it was you who left at the same time as those Korean students. The Korean students left at ten to nine. They were on their way to a restaurant nearby where they had a nine o'clock reservation.”

Dooley concentrated on looking mystified.

“You have anything to say to that, Ryan?”

“I guess I must have lost track of the time,” Dooley said, realizing when he heard the words that he sounded just like his uncle.

“You were seen leaving the library at ten minutes to nine. You told us you walked home. You said you got home at eleven o'clock. You said as soon as you got home, you called your uncle. Ryan, you could have crawled home from the library on your hands and knees and you would have been home in an hour, max. You want to tell us where you were between ten minutes to nine when you left the library and eleven o'clock when you called your uncle?”

Why were they asking that? Why were they pushing on him so hard? Did they think he had something to do with what had happened to Lorraine? How could he have? They knew she was alive at ten when she called Gloria Thomas. And, according to what his uncle had said, they figured she'd died a little after eleven. Had they checked what he'd said before? He'd been in his uncle's house at eleven. Phone records would prove it. He started to have some sympathy for his uncle. For sure, if he'd known the first time he'd talked to the cops that they were going to be back asking more questions, he would have played it differently. He bet his uncle would have, too. Now, no matter what he said, it was going to come back and bite him—hard.

“It's time to come clean, Ryan,” Randall said. “You don't want us to think you're hiding anything from us, do you?”

Dooley tried not to panic. But, Jesus, it sounded like they were trying to nail him for something. He thought back to that night. He thought of anyone who might have seen him after he left the library—who might
remember
him. He had taken the bus. Maybe, if they asked, the bus driver would remember him. Or maybe it would turn out that one of the passengers was a regular on that route and would remember him. After he'd got off the bus, he had walked to the apartment building. Maybe, if they asked, there were some people on the street who would remember him. Then …

The man.

There had been a man coming out through the security door when Dooley got there. Dooley had turned away and pretended to fumble in his pocket for his key so that he could catch the door before it clicked shut. He was pretty sure the man hadn't seen his face. But what if he had? Or—knowing Randall—what if the cops had already asked around, based on what the security guard at the library had told them? What if someone had seen him waiting for the bus? What if someone had seen him get on? What if the driver had not only remembered Dooley but had also remembered where he had got off? What if they'd already nosed around there? Boy, when all he'd been trying to avoid was not coming off as a total screwup—
again.
He didn't believe that honesty was always the best policy, but it sure was less complicated than trying to work through all the permutations and ramifications of lying.

“Okay,” he said. “So I made a stop before I went home.”

Randall leaned back in his chair and waited.

Dooley hesitated. There was no way this wasn't going to come back at him somewhere down the road. But how could he possibly have known what was going to happen that night? He drew in a deep breath, wished he believed in prayer so that he could say one, and told the two detectives exactly what he had done after he'd left the library that night. Neither of them interrupted. After he had finished, Randall asked him a dozen questions, some of them the same question but asked in a different way, as if he were testing Dooley, which, Dooley knew, he was. They both wrote everything down, including the address of the apartment building. Finally Randall said, “Why didn't you tell us this when we talked to you the first time?”

“Because I didn't think it mattered. I had nothing to do with what happened to Lorraine.” It wasn't the real reason, but Randall seemed to buy it. “Besides, my uncle said it was an overdose.”

The two cops exchanged glances.

“How did your uncle and your mother get along?” Randall said.

“I don't know.”

Randall looked into Dooley's eyes. “What do you mean, you don't know?”

“I told you.” Cops and their stupid games. You could tell them something a million times and they'd still ask you to see if you'd screw yourself by telling it differently the million-and-first time. “I wasn't close to her. Neither was my uncle, as far as I know.”

“As far as you know? What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, I haven't known my uncle that long.”

“Exactly how long
have
you known him?”

“Two years.”

“You've only known your uncle for two years?”

“Yeah.” Jesus, wasn't he listening?

“And before that?”

“Before that, what?”

“You never met him before that?”

“No.”

“Why's that?”

“I don't know. Like I said, he and Lorraine weren't close. I didn't even know I had an uncle. Lorraine never mentioned him. She never told him about me, either.”

“Is that right?” Randall said. It was always Randall, never his partner, who limited himself to scowling at Dooley.

“Yeah, that's right.”

“So your uncle and your mother weren't close,” Randall said. “That happens in a lot of families, am I right, Bob?” He glanced at his partner, who merely grunted. “You have any idea why they weren't close, Ryan? Did your mother ever say anything to you about it?”

“I told you,” Dooley said. Shithead, I
just
told you. “I didn't know I had an uncle.” So figure it out yourself, Einstein. If I didn't know I had an uncle, how could I possibly know why my mother wasn't close to him?

“Right,” Randall said. “So you have your mother, who had you … how old was she when you were born, Ryan?” Acting like he didn't know, trying to get under Dooley's skin. Dooley just stared at him. “Math not your strong point, huh, Ryan?” Randall said. “Seventeen. She was seventeen when you were born. And you never knew you had an uncle. Makes you wonder what happened, doesn't it—you know, why your mother never told you she had a brother? And, from what you say, why she never told her”—he paused for a fraction of a second—“
brother
that she had a son. Why do you think that is, Ryan?”