The Judgment (43 page)

This was getting to be like déjà vu all over again. In her growing desperation, Sue had decided that a small child would certainly trust his or her teacher, so naturally Ms. Dieberman seemed to her to be a natural suspect.

To date, it had not been established if the serial killer was a man or a woman; in fact, so little had been established that frustration levels were running at an all-time high. This was, after all, a small community where practically everyone was on a first-name basis with one another. Now three children had been murdered, and the killer was unaccounted for. Doris Dieberman was next up at bat.

“You said they kept asking you questions, Ms. Dieberman, even though you’d made it clear you wanted me here. What were the questions?”

“I don’t know. I tuned them out.”

“Tuned them out?” That was a strange response.

“Yes, I do that all the time with my kids in school. I don’t think I could survive all that noise if I didn’t tune them out. I just put my mind on something else and don’t listen.”

“That’s a fascinating technique,” I said. “Nevertheless, I’m sure you want to get back to your kids, noise and all, and get away from here, so let’s assume they’ll want to know about the three children who were murdered.

They’ll want to know if they knew each other and which adults they may have known that might have driven them home.”

“I’ll have to think about that.”

Another peculiar response.

“They’ll probably also want to know if you can account for your time on the evenings that the children were murdered.”

“You mean, do I have an alibi? Three alibis?”

“I don’t think it’s come to that, at least not yet. Just tell them what you remember. Are you married?”

“No, but I live with someone.”

“Then,” I said, “you can give his name, and I’m sure he’ll vouch for you.”

“Her name. We share a house.” She seemed embarrassed.

“Okay, hers.”

“I remember we went to the movies in Port Huron the night that Catherine Quigley died. The other nights I have no idea.”

“Tell that to them; all the details you can come up with will help. But it would be better if you could recall where you were when Lee and Billy were found.”

A serious expression fixed upon her face and she gave a nod of agreement.

“And I’ll be sitting beside you all the while. If they ask something I think is improper, I’ll say so to them, and I’ll advise you not to answer it.”

“Right in front of them?”

“Right in front of them,” I declared. “One thing I would caution you about, however. Just answer the question. Don’t give them more than they ask for. Ready?”

“I suppose so.”

We got up and went across the hall to Interrogation Room Three, settling into two chairs behind the table. I gave her a critical look before questioning began. She had a strong profile, a long, prominent nose, and a firm chin. I hadn’t noticed that, talking with her in the other room.
She didn’t seem intimidated by Sue or Larry Antonovich. It was the situation that caused her some distress.

There was something about the way that she responded to their questions that kept them at a safe distance. There was a rising inflection in her answers, which gave them a positive tone. And I noticed she would hold her chin a bit higher when she spoke. She was addressing the two detectives with the same authority she would have displayed before her class of second-graders.

There was only one incident during more than an hour of interrogation that would have counted against her. It turned, as it happened, on a point of honor. Doris Dieberman had finally accounted for her time during those evenings when the three children were murdered, but she had done so without mentioning that she lived with another woman. Sue seemed suspicious; I guessed she knew something about this coming in.

“You say you went to the movies in Port Huron?”

“That’s right.”

“Were you alone?”

“No.”

“Who were you with?”

There was a long silence from Ms. Dieberman. I glanced over and saw that she was literally biting her lip.

“I’d like to be cooperative,” she said, “but I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“What?” Sue was overacting. She jumped from her chair, rolling her eyes in irritation. “You can’t do that. You can’t simply refuse to answer.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know about me, but I won’t talk about other people, or even give you their names.”

“All right, tell me this, then. Do you live alone at the address you gave?”

Again Ms. Dieberman chewed lightly on her lower lip, then gave a sharp, negative shake of her head. “No, I do not, but I won’t give you the name of the person I live with. I’m sorry, but it’s a matter of principle.”

I cleared my throat to announce myself. “May I intercede here?”

“What is it, Mr. Sloan?” Cold irony fairly dripped from Sue’s polite inquiry.

“I just wanted to say at this point that since you have my client’s address, you have it in your power to secure the name of the party with whom she shares her residence. Why demand it from her? If you care to pursue the matter, you may also find confirmation on this matter of the trip to the movies, without her help. If we respect your right to interrogate her where you choose, why not also respect her right to withhold names?” I ended that with a smile; sweet reason always speaks with a smile.

Sue pursed her lips and said nothing. Then, after a considerable pause, she seemed to back off. “Perhaps she can tell us something about the children in her class who’ve been murdered.”

As it turned out, she had a couple of interesting bits of information to impart. First of all, she mentioned that from time to time Father Albertus collected some of the children from his parish after school for events at the Catholic church in Hub City. That was always arranged beforehand. Then she pointed out that all three victims were on the same bus route, that much she had noticed. Sue asked her the name of the bus driver, and Ms. Dieberman said she did not know and would not tell her if she did.

That seemed unnecessarily provocative, especially since it was clear that the bus driver would be brought in for questioning next, and so I signaled her to hold it down. She did. All proceeded quietly between Sue and Doris Dieberman from that point on. The interrogation ended shortly thereafter, not with a bang or a whimper, but rather with a curt “That’ll be all” from Sue Gillis.

Following that, there was some discussion between us as to whose responsibility it was to return Ms. Dieberman to Hub City Primary School. Sue pointed out that I was, after all, the woman’s attorney, which was certainly true.

Then I countered that it was they who had brought her there in the first place, and besides, I had business in Detroit. Larry Antonovich, who had been little more than a witness to the entire proceeding, seemed not a bit surprised when he was asked to play chauffeur to the teacher.

“Don’t forget tomorrow, Charley.”

I must have blinked two or three times. “Tomorrow?”

“Thanksgiving.”

With her reminding me about it every other minute, how could I?

It was raining by the time I hit 1-94. Even in good weather it was best to allow an hour for the trip to Detroit. Since they had predicted rain that would turn to snow in the evening, I gave myself an extra fifteen or twenty minutes to get there. By the time I reached Harper Woods, traffic began to pack together and slow down. It looked like I should have allowed myself even more time than I had.

I’d agreed to meet the limousine in front of Parkview Convalescent Hospital at the hour Ismail Carter had stipulated. I didn’t want the driver to decide I wouldn’t show up and head back to the garage. Ismail had demanded a limo. And while the demand may have seemed a bit excessive at the time, he was right to insist that we arrive in something grander than my Chrysler. They didn’t know that its predecessor was a lowly, beat-up Ford Escort, a reminder of how low my fortunes had plummeted. Detroit, even on its uppers as it had been for years, was a place where putting up a front really mattered. I’d played by their rules all through that long chapter in my life as a big-time trial attorney in Motor City. I’d driven Cadillacs and finally a red Rolls-Royce, which I lost to creditors when I was suspended from the Michigan Bar.

Although traffic remained tight, speed picked up as the rain slacked off. Having driven the route once before, I knew just where to leave the Interstate and made good time on the surface streets to Parkview and Jefferson. I
glimpsed the limo as I shot across Jefferson and made my way for a parking spot on the side street. As I hurried along on the rain-puddled sidewalk, coat collar turned up, wishing I’d worn some sort of hat, I glanced at my watch and saw that I’d actually made
it
five minutes early. It was three-twenty-five.

I tapped on the limo driver’s window. “You don’t need to yell,” he said. People tend to talk loud in the rain; I guess I’m no exception. “You want to get in the back?”

“No, we’re picking up somebody here,” I said. “I’ll see if he’s ready.”

“Give me your credit card, and I’ll write up the order.”

Frustration, annoyance, as I pulled out my wallet, clumsily dropped it to the sidewalk, retrieved it, and managed to extract the card he’d asked for. Handing it over, I turned and jogged up the stairs and into the building. There I was stopped by a pair of frowning faces, neither of them Ismail’s.

The receptionist and the floor superintendent glowered down at me through the bulletproof plastic window. I approached it and leaned forward, about to explain my mission when the buzzer sounded, unlocking the door and admitting me.

Inside, I looked around and spotted Ismail, sitting quietly on a cushioned bench, bundled in a coat, wearing an impressive homburg hat, and holding an aluminum cane in his hand. He looked up at me and smiled tentatively. I started over to him but found my way blocked by the floor superintendent.

“Surely,” she said, “you’re not taking him out on a day like this.”

I have to confess at this point that I hadn’t given much thought to the weather and how it might affect someone in Ismail’s weakened condition. The truth is, I hadn’t given any thought to it at all.

“Don’t pay no attention to them, Charley,” he said. “They been talkin’ like this ever since I sat down here. I can come and go from here anytime I’ve a mind. They
know that. Now, if the limo is down there waitin’ …”

With no small effort, he rose, pushing up with his weight on the cane until he stood to his full, shrunken dimension. I saw then that the cashmere coat hung loosely on him, as if it belonged to a man two or three sizes larger.

“I see you don’t have an umbrella,” said the superintendent, pulling one from the stand behind her and shoving it at me. “You will return this when you bring our Mr. Carter back safe, sound, and uninfected. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am. Very clear.”

“Charley?” Ismail nodded at the metal cylinder left on the bench. It was about a foot long and three inches in diameter and looked remarkably like a bomb. “I wonder, could you stick that in your pocket? It’s my portable oxygen.”

I managed to get it inside my coat. It was much heavier than I had expected.

“Take him out by the ambulance entrance,” said the floor superintendent. “There’s a ramp. It’ll be easier for him.”

“To hell with the ambulance entrance,” he said. Then to me: “All right, Charley, let’s give it a try.”

We moved forward slowly at first, then a little faster as the receptionist pushed open the door for us. Ismail was leaning hard upon my arm and picking his way with the cane. He was moving along pretty well.

But then we came to the stairs, and these presented a considerable difficulty to him. Descending, he teetered on each one, carefully regaining his balance before attempting the next. It was very slow going.

Just as I was beginning to wonder if it might not be wise to turn around and return him to his room, the door at the bottom of the stairs opened and the limo driver popped his head inside.

“You look like you could use some help,” he said.

“We sure could.”

He held open the door and steadied Ismail as he hobbled forward and through it. By this time he was panting
from his exertions. I opened the umbrella, glad to see that for now at least the rain had slowed to a cold, steady drizzle.

“Hey, I got an idea,” the driver said to me. “What do you say we carry him down? Grab my two hands, and we’ll make a chair for him.”

I handed the umbrella to Ismail and did as the driver directed. Ismail sank back, putting his faith in us. Our shoulders gave support to his back, and he nodded his approval. We gingerly took him down the few steps to the sidewalk and across the short space to the waiting limo. He was light as a child in our arms.

He let out one of his surprising cackles. “This is what you call traveling in style. It’s the cat’s ass.”

We set him down carefully at the car door. Once on his feet again, he took a moment to steady himself, then gave us his okay. I preceded him into the Cadillac and was there to settle him into the backseat. He let forth a great sigh.

“Well done, well done, you two! I might just keep you on the payroll to move me around like that.”

I signed the order that the driver handed across to me along with my credit card.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Manoogian Mansion,” I said.

“I believe we have some time,” said Ismail, his voice rising slightly. “I wonder, driver, if you would take us on a bit of a drive through downtown. I’ve been cooped up in that place so damn long I practically forgot what this city looked like.”

“Be glad to, sir,” said the driver. “I’ll take you on my special twenty-five-minute tour. You want the front-seat window up or down?”

“Down, by all means. I have no secrets.” He laughed again. “And if you believe that, I’ve got a nice bridge I’d like to sell you real cheap.”

We drove off into the rain, the windshield wipers moving silently, revealing our roundabout route back on Jefferson toward the Renaissance Center, still visible in spite
of the wall of clouds and mist that had descended. The neon lights along the way seemed to vibrate and shimmer, as they do in wet weather. It seemed much later than it was. A kind of twilight had fallen over the city.