Justice (26 page)

“Either/Or.”

“Don’t tell me,” Erica said. “A little birdie told you to strangle her.”

“Not a birdie, just the voices in my head. And believe me, Counselor, it’ll fly. Because unlike certain rich-kid brothers in this city who
almost
got away with murder based on
nothing
, I’ve got documentation—a solid, psychiatric history of mental illness
prior
to Cheryl Diggs’s murder.”

Weller glanced at Berringer, then at Decker.

“Why are you looking at Sergeant Decker, Counselor?” Whitman seemed annoyed. “He doesn’t know anything. Because it’s not the kind of stuff that one advertises. But I will if I have to.”

Again the room went silent. Oliver broke it. “This defense save you from being shitcanned in the past, Whitman?”

“Well, it won’t work now,” Davidson said.

“My record’s squeaky clean.” Whitman looked at his hands. “What you have is an abused kid with mental problems, and no prior record of antisocial behavior.” He looked up and grinned. “I guess I just snapped.”

Everyone waited a beat. Then Decker said, “Tell me your history, Chris.”

“Pick a condition, Sergeant…one from column A, one from column B. You want verification of my voices, I’ll send you my files from the Northfolk County Psychiatric Hospital. I was an inpatient there for three months when I was twelve.”

Nobody spoke.

Whitman said, “Or how about depression and despair? I’ll give you the dates of my two suicide attempts as well as the names of each mental hospital where I was subsequently committed. A month in each.”

Davidson said, “Kid’s a nutcase!”

Whitman flashed him rage from hot blue eyes. “You said it, Lieutenant! And I’m betting a jury’ll feel the same way.” He looked at Erica. “Are you getting all this on tape, Counselor?”

She said nothing.

Whitman said, “As long as we’re doing true confessions, I might as well tell you about my prior drug and alcohol condition. Six-week inpatient stay at the Clinic Care Hospice in upstate. I voluntarily checked in right before I came out to Los Angeles. Unfortunately, I’ve had relapses. People saw me drinking the night Cheryl was murdered. Of course, I don’t remember too much.”

“I’ll bet,” Davidson muttered.

“How much of a wager, Lieutenant?” Whitman retorted. “You short on cash, I’ll take a marker.”

“Shut up, Whitman,” Decker snapped.

“Yes, sir!”

Again, the room went dead.

Whitman said, “Out there are lots of notes about my mental state. The picture isn’t pretty. Looks like I’m never going to run for office. Unless mental illness suddenly becomes PC.”

Decker said, “Is that all, Chris?”

Whitman’s eyes went dead. “It isn’t enough for you, Decker?”

Decker rolled his eyes. “Whitman, I’m just trying to get a total picture.”

The teen seemed mollified. “You want to hear about the abuse?”

Decker was impassive. “Yes, I do.”

“The usual. Cigarette burns in the back and butt along with scars from some slashing across my lower back and
thighs. Now, the missing spleen. That’s a good one. Courtesy of a sucker punch from my old man when I was eight. Nice emergency surgery done at Lenox Hill in Manhattan. I’m sure they keep excellent records. My father did time for it. I was taken away, put in foster care for a couple of months. Then my old man swore he had reformed. I was sent back home and…what can I tell you? Old habits are hard to break.”

Whitman sat back in his chair and blew out air. But his expression was anything but smug. Decker realized he’d been tensing, even cringing as the kid told his tale. And if this was the gut reaction of a seasoned cop of twenty-odd years, he could only imagine how the boy’s story would play to civilian jurors.

“You said I’m nuts, Lieutenant? You’re absolutely right.”

Again, there was silence.

“Matter of fact, I’m about this close…” Whitman measured out a tiny space of air between his erect thumb and forefinger. “About this close to a breakdown. I can feel this…this buzz in my brain that keeps getting louder and louder and louder…I mean I’ve
been
there before. The only reason I’m maintaining is because someone else is involved. So do we deal or what?”

Weller was quiet.

“Speak to me, Counselor,” Whitman said. “I’m getting very uptight.”

Weller said, “Any deal we cut is predicated on your telling the truth. And that’s a
big if
since you’re a known pathological liar.”

“Fine,” Whitman said. “Check it out. I’m not worried. I accept your conditions. So let’s talk about pleas. You heard my offer. Are we done?”

Weller said, “If you’re telling the truth—and that’s a big if—”

“You’re repeating yourself, Weller.”

The DA said, “On a confession and a plea of guilty,
I’ll give you Man One, six to twelve. Best I can do, Whitman.”

“That’s shit.”

“Take it or leave it.”

“That’s shit.”

“Now who’s repeating himself?”

Whitman buried his hands in his face, then looked up. “Let’s see. Even if I should receive max…with prison crowding and time off for good behavior, I should be out in what? Around six, seven years?” He looked at Decker. “That sound about right?”

“Something like that.”

“I’ll be twenty-five….” He nodded. “I can truck with that. But you’ve got to drop the assault charge. And most important, I want my drawings back before I get shitcanned.”

To Weller, Decker said, “If you have the plea, State doesn’t need the drawings.”

Davidson said, “Whose side are you on?”

Decker said, “What difference do the sketches make once we’ve settled on a plea? You want to hear what
I
care about? I care about Cheryl Diggs. Before you bargain, I want to hear his story.”

Whitman said, “Too bad. Because I’m not going to confess anything until I’ve got a deal.”

“How can we deal until we hear what happened?” Decker said.

“That’s your problem,” Whitman said. “And even when I talk, I want it off the record.”

“What good does something off the record do?” Davidson said.

“It gives me a sense of completion,” Decker said. “How about this, Counselor? We hear Whitman’s story off the record. If it sounds plausible, we deal. If not, I send Whitman back to jail, we go back to what we already have. No harm, no foul.”

“Not a chance,” Whitman said. “Bargain first, confession later.”

The room turned silent. For a moment, the only sound was the whirring of the video camera.

Weller tapped his foot. “I like Decker’s solution. We hear you off the record first. You don’t talk, we don’t deal.”

Whitman banged the table with his fist. “I don’t believe this shit!”

“Believe it!” Davidson said.

“Oh, fuck—”

Decker said, “Chris—”

“Fuck you, too!”

Davidson said, “Send him back. We’re through.”

“
I’m
not through,” Decker said.

Davidson said, “You bucking me, Decker?”

“Looks that way,” Whitman said.

“Whitman,
shut
your fucking mouth!”

The teen went quiet. Decker took a seat next to him. He leaned into the kid’s face and spoke softly. “You want your friend dragged into your mess, Chris?”

Whitman was quiet.

Decker spoke in the kid’s ear. “You can save her, guy. But first you’ve got to tell me your story. Just the two of us, okay?”

“You and me and the rest of the vultures looking through the one-way mirror.”

“No. Just me and you and the video camera, all right?”

Whitman was silent.

“We talk in privacy,” Decker said aloud. “Later, I play it back for Mr. Weller and for Ms. Berringer.”

“Then what?”

Decker looked at Weller. “How about this, Morton? If we like the story…and if the kid’s history checks out…if he passes both tests…you’ll agree to Man One, six to twelve, no assault, no drawings.”

Weller swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like an erratic thermometer. “All right.”

“Whitman?” Decker said.

The kid buried his head in his hands, then looked up. “Why should I trust you?”

“So who are you going to trust, Chris?” Decker smiled. “You want to trust your lawyer? You want to trust your uncle? Tell me what you want.”

The teen blew out air and nodded.

“That’s a yes?” Decker asked.

“It’s a yes.” Whitman shook his head. “You like what I say, we deal. Let’s get this over with.”

Davidson said, “It better be good, Whitman.”

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant. It’ll be good. Because it’ll be the truth.”

Erica said
,
“You push this button here when you’re ready. This red light should go on. That means it’s recording.”

Decker said, “I think I can handle that.”

Erica glanced at the blanket hanging over the one-way mirror. Decker knew that the crew on the other side would be straining to see or hear something. They’d get their opportunity later on.

The young DA left the interview room and closed the door. Decker made final adjustments through the viewfinder, then pushed the record button. He pulled up a seat opposite Whitman, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one of the smokes, and handed it to him. The kid inhaled deeply.

“Thanks.”

Decker poured him a glass of water. “Anything else?”

Whitman shook his head.

Decker waited.

Whitman leaned his elbows on the table, clasped his hands together, placing his forehead on his knuckles. Wisps of smoke swirled to the ceiling, hairspraying the room. “In order to get with the program, you’ve got to know the history.”

“Shoot.”

“Right before I came out here, I was six weeks in detox for drug and alcohol abuse.”

“What drugs do you do?”

“Did. Past tense. I did lots—reed, coke…popped a little scag. Also, I had lots of legal drugs—imipramine, Prozac, Xanax, Haldol. But mainly, it was booze. Like all boozehounds, I’ve got a really high tolerance for drinking. It takes a lot before I feel a buzz. I don’t have a good stop mechanism until I’m blitzed out.”

Decker kept his face flat. “You just can’t help yourself. It’s an illness.”

Whitman looked up, cigarette between his fingers, and broke into a smile. “Yeah, these hospitals aren’t too big on personal responsibility. They say the lines—gotta pull yourself up and take charge—but not
too
loud. Because if being self-indulgent isn’t an illness, they don’t get their insurance money.”

Decker waited.

“It’s all pretty irrelevant,” Whitman said. “All I’m saying is, when I’m drunk, I’m basically comatose. Which means I don’t remember anything.”

“You ever get DTs?”

“Couple of times. But that was right before I was committed to County for hearing voices. So I don’t know which caused which—the psychosis or the booze.”

“What did your voices say?”

“I don’t remember much, but I don’t recall anything violent. Stupid, repetitive things. ‘Tie your shoes, tie your shoes, tie your shoes’…over and over. But it was a real pain in the ass because I listened to them. You have any idea how miserable it is to tie your shoes a million times a day?”

“Do you remember your official diagnosis at County?”

“Something like Acute Episodic Self-Limiting Paranoid Schizophrenia—Adolescent Onset. I might have gotten a couple of words out of order. Anyway, the
voices went away after I took medication. Eventually, I was weaned away from the Thorazine and that was that. But even after I was discharged, I still drank.”

“You were admitted when you were twelve?”

Whitman nodded.

“You were an alcoholic at twelve?”

“I can walk away before I get drunk. But that’s only because it takes a lot to get me drunk. When I don’t walk, things get very hazy. Couple of times I woke up in a strange place and didn’t know how I got there.”

Whitman took another drag on his cigarette.

“One of my suicide attempts? I woke up in my bed, blood leaking out of a hole in my stomach, a twenty-two in my hand. I don’t know what happened. Only thing I remembered was I’d been drinking. It could have just been an accident. But because of my history, they labeled it suicide.”

“Was that the first or second attempt you were talking about?”

“Second.”

“What’d you do the first time?”

“Pills. I tried to OD on my mother’s Demerol. Her death was an ugly one…painful to watch. Suddenly, I didn’t want to live anymore.”

Decker waited a beat, then said, “Let’s talk about you waking up in strange places.”

“There’s a psychological term for it—fugue states. I know it happened at least twice—it’s on my record at County. And there was my second suicide attempt. That was like a fugue. I’d use that as my defense if this mess about Cheryl went to trial.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I have no idea how Cheryl happened.”

Decker took in the kid’s eyes—flat and dimensionless. “You don’t remember anything?”

“I remember some things. But I don’t remember killing her.”

“You remember tying her up?”

“Sort of. I’m sure I did it. Because whenever we had sex in the past, I’d tie her up. Originally, I used to just pin her down with my hands. But she didn’t like it. Said it hurt her too much because of my weight, and it was too much like rape. She’d been raped several times by one of her mother’s ex-boyfriends.”

Whitman sucked his smoke.

“I told Cheryl I wouldn’t do her unless she was pinned. So she agreed to the binds. After a while, I think she liked it. Because she trusted me. On the rare times the sex wasn’t working, I never forced her. Never forced a girl in my life.”

Decker scratched his temple. “Why wouldn’t you do her unless she was tied up, Chris?”

“I like being in control. Trouble is with sex…” Whitman took a drink of water. “When you’re into it, you’re not in control.”

Decker waited for more.

Whitman took another hit of his smoke. “If the girl’s tied up and I lose control, I know she can’t hurt me.”

“You thought Cheryl might hurt you?”

“Once you’ve been a piñata, Sergeant, you never trust again.”

“Not even your friend Ms. McLaughlin? Is that why you tied her up?”

“No, that was different. That was art. I never had sex with her.”

“Art?”

“My rendition of Jesus on the cross.”

“You tied her up for art?”

“I couldn’t exactly peg her to the cross.”

“Why’d you tie up Cheryl?”

Whitman said, “I told you. I didn’t trust her. I don’t trust anyone. You’re in ecstasy, coming inside a woman…next thing you know she has a knife in your back.”

“You thought Cheryl was going to kill you?”

“Call the binds insurance.” Whitman stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “I need to be in control. When
I’m not, there’s always a chance that I’ll freak. You want an ogre for my weird behavior, blame my father.”

“How old were you when your father died?”

“Nine.”

“How’d it happen?”

“He was murdered. Gangland hit.”

Decker studied the kid’s eyes. Again, they were unreadable. Even though everything was on tape, Decker still took out his notebook. His own scribblings reminded him of the salient points of the case. “What happened after your dad died?”

“My mother and I went to live with Joey Donatti.”

“Did Joey ever beat you, Chris?”

Whitman’s eyes went to the camera. “No.”

“At least not when you’re on film.”

“Joey never beat me.”

“Donatti adopted you.”

“After my mom died, yes.”

“Is Joey Donatti a blood relative of yours?”

Whitman shook his head.

“Why’d he adopt you?”

“Deathbed promise to my mom.”

“What was their relationship?”

“My mother was his mistress.”

“Ah.” Decker took a sip of water. “You remember tying up Cheryl the night of the prom, Chris?”

“Like I told you, I was real drunk. But I’m sure I could have.”

“You weren’t too drunk to put on condoms.”

“Habit. I always use rubbers.”

“In the heat of passion, you can stop, evaluate the situation, then calmly put on a rubber. That takes a lot of discipline.”

Whitman shrugged. “I never allow myself to be in the throes of passion unless she’s incapacitated and I’m wearing a rubber.”

“Even when you’re drunk, and you don’t remember doing too much, you remember to put on protection?”

“For me, putting on a condom is like zipping yourself up after you take a piss. No matter how drunk you are, you just do it.”

Decker said, “How about with your friend Terry? Did you wear a condom with her?”

“I told you, I never had sex with her.”

“Never did anything physical with her?”

“Nope.”

“She tells it differently,” Decker said. “She tells me the two of you were quite physical. You know what, Chris? I believe her.”

“We kissed,” Whitman said. “Maybe to her that’s physical.”

“So what’s kissing her to you, Whitman?”

“A heartbreak.”

“She said you did more.”

“I didn’t have sex with her.”

“You climaxed.”

Whitman looked at Decker. “She told you that?”

“She also told me you weren’t wearing a rubber.”

“We didn’t have intercourse,
okay
?”

“Don’t get peeved. I’m just trying to sort fact from fiction. You say you don’t remember things. You say you always wear a rubber. And you didn’t with Terry, that’s all.”

“Because we didn’t make love…we didn’t…” He sat back in his chair. “You and Terry must have had quite a little talk. What
else
did she tell you?”

“I’m running an investigation, Whitman. I ask lots of questions, and nothing’s too personal when it comes to murder. You tell me you don’t remember anything. But I tell you that you were aware enough to put on protection.”

“I told you that’s habit.”

“Except with Terry.”

“Decker, I don’t use rubbers when I don’t screw. Hookers give me head, I don’t use rubbers. Why would I bother? Give me an effing break!”

“Tell me what you do remember about that night in the hotel room.”

“Not much. I remember waking up the next morning in my bed with a thrashing headache. Of course, I was out of Advil. I went to a twenty-four-hour drugstore and bought a bottle. When I came home, I found your card on my doorstep. I called. You came over with your pictures.” He looked pained. “I knew I was in deep shit. Because the whole scene at the hotel was pretty sketchy in my mind.”

“When I showed you the postmortem pictures of Cheryl, you were sober?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Then you saw Cheryl had her hands bound with a bow tie.”

Whitman didn’t answer.

Decker said, “What happened to your tux, Chris?”

Whitman paused. “Everything’s off the record?”

“Not exactly. But what you’re telling me now can’t be used against you if we go to trial.”

“Whatever that means.”

“What happened to your tux?”

“Yeah, I saw the bow tie. I knew it was evidence against me. I stuffed my monkey suit in my cello…cellos. You looked carefully, but I hid it really well. Since I knew you couldn’t take them apart, I knew I was safe.”

“How’d you get them apart?”

“Cellos are held together by glue joints. Loosen the glue, the top pops off.” He poured himself a glass of water and drank it up in a few gulps. “I forgot about the sketches of Terry. She wanted them back after she stopped tutoring me. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to her.”

“Why’d she stop tutoring you?”

“I guess I scared her. But even so, I knew she still liked me. She would have taken me back—as her student or something more intimate. Chemistry is chemistry. It was hell holding back from her.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“Because I was engaged to someone else. Believe it or not, I didn’t want to hurt her.”

“What about Cheryl? You didn’t mind hurting her?”

“I meant I didn’t want to hurt Terry
psychologically
. As far as Cheryl was concerned, I would never hurt her physically on purpose.”

“How about by accident?”

“Look, maybe I did something nasty to her. But if I did, I don’t
remember
it! I was
blitzed
, don’t you understand?”

“Chris, you remembered seeing the night clerk watching TV in the back room when you left. How can you remember seeing a night clerk…remember what he was doing…but not remember murdering someone.”

“When you’re drunk, it’s weird how the mind works.”

“You’re selling, I’m not buying.” Decker kept his face flat. “What’s the last thing you recall about the hotel?”

Whitman ran his hand over his face. “Can I have another smoke?”

Decker gave him another lit cigarette.

“Thanks.” Whitman took a deep drag. “What do I remember about the hotel? I remember watching fuck films in the room. I remember Bull Anderson loading me up with shots of Jack Daniel’s. I recall feeling horny, vaguely recall having sex. And now that you mention it, I do remember leaving and seeing Henry Trupp in the back room watching TV. The desk was unattended when I left.”

“Do you remember Cheryl telling you she was pregnant?”

“Yeah, but that happened way earlier in the evening.”

“How’d you feel about that?”

“I told you it wasn’t mine.”

“And you were positive?”

“Yes. I’m still positive. Enough to give you blood and semen.”

“Go on. What else do you remember about your night in the hotel?”

“That’s really it. Next thing I can
actually
recall is getting up with a headache the next morning—”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Decker ran his hands through his hair. “Chris, I’m tired. Don’t give me shit. What do you suddenly remember?”

“I think…” Whitman flicked ashes from his cigarette. “I think Terry might have called me. I’m not sure because it was a hang-up. But I seem to remember a phone call waking me up. It might have been her.”

Decker said, “What time?”

Whitman shrugged. “Three, four, five in the morning. She’d know better if she made the call. She wasn’t pickled.”

“You tied Cheryl up that night, Chris?”

“Probably…because tying and fucking are routine things for me.”

Decker said, “It’s the killing that sticks in my craw. Unless killings are routine for you, too.”

“I was shitfaced drunk. I don’t remember killing Cheryl. Just like I didn’t remember blowing a
hole
in my stomach. And yet here it is.” Whitman stood, lifted up his shirt, pulled down his waistband, and pointed to a small circle of glistening white flesh above his pubic bone. “While I’m stripping, want to see my scar from my spleenectomy? Or the cigarette burn—”

“Sit down, Chris.”