The Murder Book (12 page)

“Detective,” said the black man. Offering him the
suspect
chair.

On the table was a big, ugly Satchell-Carlson reel-to-reel tape recorder, the same gray as the twins’ suits. Everything color-coordinated — like some psychology experiment and guess who was the guinea pig…

“What’s going on?” he said, remaining in the doorway.

“Come in and we’ll tell you,” said Pinkie.

“How about a proper introduction?” said Milo. “As in who are you and what’s this all about?” Surprising himself with his assertiveness.

The suits weren’t surprised. Both looked pleased, as if Milo had confirmed their expectation.

“Please come in,” said Black, putting some steel into “please.” He came closer, stepped within inches of Milo’s nose, and Milo caught a whiff of expensive aftershave, something with citrus in it. The guy was taller than Milo — six-four or -five — and Pinkie looked every bit as big. Size was one of the few advantages Milo figured God had given him; for the most part, he’d used it to avoid confrontation. But between these guys and the Wagnerian Dr. Schwartzman it had been a bad day for exploiting body type.

“Detective,” said Black. His face was strangely inanimate — an African war mask. And those eyes. The guy had presence; he was used to being in charge. That was curious. Since the Watts riots, there’d been some race progress in the department, but for the most part it was lip service. Blacks and Mexicans were despised by the brass, shunted to dead-end patrol jobs in the highest-crime segments of Newton, Southwest, and Central, with scant chance for advancement. But this guy — his suit looked like mohair blend, the stitching on the lapels, hand-sewn — what kind of dues had he paid and who the hell was he?

He stepped aside and as Milo entered the room, nodded approvingly. “In terms of an introduction, I’m Detective Broussard and this is Detective Poulsenn.”

“Internal Affairs,” said Poulsenn.

Broussard smiled. “In terms of why we want you here, it would be better if you sat down.”

Milo settled on the folding chair.

Poulsenn remained in the far corner of the interrogation room, but cramped quarters placed him close enough for Milo to count the pores in his nose. If he’d had any. Like Broussard, his complexion glowed like a poster for clean living. Broussard positioned himself to Milo’s right, angled so Milo had to crane to see his lips move.

“How do you like Central Division, Detective?”

“I like it fine.” Milo chose not to strain to meet Broussard’s eyes, kept his attention on Poulsenn but stayed inert and silent.

“Enjoying homicide work?” said Broussard.

“Yes, sir.”

“What about homicide work do you like, specifically?”

“Solving problems,” said Milo. “Righting wrongs.”

“Righting wrongs,” said Broussard, as if impressed by the originality of the response. “So homicide can be righted.”

“Not in the strict sense.” This was starting to feel like one of those stupid grad school seminars. Professor Milrad taking out his frustration on hapless students.

Poulsenn checked his fingernails. Broussard said, “Are you saying you enjoy trying to achieve justice?”

“Exactly—”

“Justice,” said Poulsenn, “is the point of all police work.”

“Yes, it is,” said Broussard. “Sometimes, though, justice gets lost in the shuffle.”

Slipping a question mark into the last few words. Milo didn’t bite, and Broussard went on: “A shame when that happens, isn’t it, Detective Sturgis?”

Poulsenn inched closer. Both IA men stared down at Milo.

He said, “I’m not getting the point of—”

“You were in Vietnam,” said Broussard.

“Yes—”

“You were a medic, saw lots of action.”

“Yes.”

“And before that you earned a master’s degree.”

“Yes.”

“Indiana University. American literature.”

“Correct. Is there some—”

“Your partner, Detective Schwinn, never went to college,” said Broussard. “In fact, he never finished high school, got grandfathered in back when that was acceptable. Did you know that?”

“No—”

“Nor did Detective Schwinn serve in any branch of the military. Too young for Korea, too old for ’Nam. Have you found that a problem?”

“A problem?”

“In terms of commonality. Developing rapport with Detective Schwinn.”

“No, I…” Milo shut his mouth.

“You… ?” said Broussard.

“Nothing.”

“You were about to say something, Detective.”

“Not really.”

“Oh, yes you were,” said Broussard, suddenly cheerful. Milo craned, involuntarily. Saw his purplish, bowed lips hooked up at the corners. But Broussard’s mouth locked shut, no teeth. “You were definitely going to say something, Detective.”

“I…”

“Let’s recap, Detective, to refresh your memory. I asked you if Detective Schwinn’s lack of higher education and military service had posed a problem for you in terms of rapport and you said, ‘No, I…’. It was fairly obvious that you changed your mind about saying what you were going to say.”

“There’s no problem between Detective Schwinn and myself. That’s all I was going to say. We get along fine.”

“Do you?” said Poulsenn.

“Yes.”

Broussard said, “So Detective Schwinn agrees with your point of view.”

“About what?”

“About justice.”

“I — you’d have to ask him.”

“You’ve never discussed weighty issues with Detective Schwinn?”

“No, as a matter of fact, we concentrate on our cases—”

“You’re telling us that Detective Schwinn has never verbalized any feelings about the job to you? About righting wrongs? Achieving justice? His attitude toward police work?”

“Well,” said Milo, “I can’t really pinpoint—”

Poulsenn stepped forward and pushed the
RECORD
button on the Satchell-Carlson. Kept going and ended up inches from Milo’s left side. Now both IA men were flanking him. Boxing him in.

Broussard said, “Are you aware of any improper behavior on the part of Detective Schwinn?”

“No—”

“Consider your words before you speak, Detective Sturgis. This is an official department inquiry.”

“Into Detective Schwinn’s behavior or mine?”

“Is there a reason to look into
your
behavior, Detective Sturgis?”

“No, but I didn’t know there was any reason to look into Detective Schwinn’s behavior.”

“You didn’t?” said Poulsenn. To Broussard: “His position seems to be that he’s unaware.”

Broussard clicked his tongue. Switched off the recorder, pulled something out of a jacket pocket. A sheaf of papers that he waved. Milo was craning hard now, saw the front sheet, the familiar layout of a photocopied mug shot.

Female arrestee, dead-eyed and dark-skinned. Mexican or a light-skinned black. Numbers hanging on her chest.

Broussard peeled off the sheet, held it in front of Milo’s eyes.

Darla Washington, DOB 5-14-54, HT. 5-06 WT. 134.

Instinctively, Milo’s eyes dropped to the penal code violation:
653.2

Loitering for the purpose of prostitution…

“Have you ever met this woman?” said Broussard.

“Never.”

“Not in the company of Detective Schwinn or anyone else?”

“Never.”

“It wouldn’t be in the company of anyone else,” said Poulsenn, cheerfully.

Nothing happened for a full minute. The IA men letting that last bit of dialogue sink in. Letting Milo know that they knew he was the least likely man in the room to engage a female hooker?

Or was
he
being paranoid? This was about Schwinn, not him.
Right?

He said, “Never saw her anywhere.”

Broussard placed Darla Washington’s sheet at the bottom of the stack, flashed the next page.

LaTawna Hodgkins.

P.C. 653.2.

“What about this woman?”

“Never saw her.”

This time, Broussard didn’t push, just moved to the next page. The game went on for a while, a collection of bored/stoned/sad-eyed streetwalkers, all black. Donna Lee Bumpers, Royanne Chambers, Quitha Martha Masterson, DeShawna Devine Smith.

Broussard shuffled the 653.2 deck like a Vegas pro. Poulsenn smiled and watched. Milo kept outwardly cool but his bowels were churning. Knowing exactly where this was going.

She was the eighth card dealt.

Different hair than last night’s red extravagance — a bleached blond mushroom cloud that made her look ridiculous. But the face was the same.

Schwinn’s backseat tumble.

Tonya Marie Stumpf.
The Teutonic surname seemed incongruous, where had
that
come from—

The mug shot danced in front of him for a long time, and he realized he hadn’t responded to Broussard’s, “And this woman?”

Broussard said, “Detective Sturgis?”

Milo’s throat tightened and his face burned and he had trouble breathing. Like one of those anaphylactic reactions he’d seen as a medic. Perfectly healthy guys surviving firefights only to keel over from eating peanuts.

He felt as if
he’d
been force-fed something toxic…

“Detective Sturgis,” Broussard repeated, nothing friendly in his tone.

“Yes, sir?”

“This woman. Have you seen her before?”

They’d been watching the unmarked, surveilling Schwinn and
him
— for how long? Had they been spying the Beaudry murder site? Snooped during the entire time he and Schwinn had been riding together?

So Schwinn’s paranoia
had
been well justified. And yet, he’d picked up Tonya Stumpf and had her do him in the backseat, the stupid, no-impulse-control, sonofa—

“Detective Sturgis,” Broussard demanded. “We need an answer.”

A whir from the table distracted Milo. Tape reels, revolving slowly. When had the machine been switched on, again?

Milo broke out in a full-body sweat. Recalling Schwinn’s tirade in front of Bowie Ingalls’s building, the sudden, vicious distrust, convinced Milo was a plant, and now.…

Told you so.

“Detective,” said Broussard. “Answer the question.
Now
.”

“Yes,” said Milo.

“Yes, what?”

“I’ve seen her.”

“Yes, you have, son,” said Broussard, crouching low, exuding citrus and success.

Son.
The asshole was only a few years older than Milo, but it was clear who had the power.

“You definitely
have
seen her.”

They kept him in there for another hour and a half, taping his statement then replaying it, over and over. Explaining that they wanted to make sure everything had copied accurately, but Milo knew the real reason: wanting him to hear the fear and evasiveness in his own voice in order to instill self-loathing, soften him up for whatever they had in store.

He copped only to the basic details of Tonya’s pickup — stuff they knew already — and resisted the pressure to elaborate. The room grew hot and rancid with fear as they changed the subject from Tonya to Schwinn’s comportment, in general. Picking at him like gnats, wanting to hear about Schwinn’s political views, racial attitudes, his opinions about law enforcement. Prodding, pushing, cajoling, threatening Milo subtly and not-so-subtly, until he felt as alive as chuck steak.

They returned to probing sexual details. He maintained his denial of witnessing any actual sexual encounters between Schwinn and Tonya or anyone else. Which was technically correct, he’d kept his eyes on the road, had harbored no desire to rearview peep the blow job.

When they asked about the conversation between Schwinn and Tonya, he gave them some bullshit story about not hearing because it had all been whispers.

“Whispers,” said Broussard. “You didn’t think that was unusual? Detective Schwinn whispering to a known prostitute in the backseat of your department-issue vehicle?”

“I figured it for work talk. She was an informant, and Schwinn was pressing her for info.”

Waiting for the obvious next question: “Info on what?” But it never came.

No questions at all about Janie Ingalls’s murder or any other case he and Schwinn had worked.

“You thought she was an informant,” said Poulsenn.

“That’s what Detective Schwinn said.”

“Then why the whispering?” said Broussard. “You’re Detective Schwinn’s alleged partner. Why would he keep secrets from you?”

Because he knew this would happen, asshole.
Milo shrugged. “Maybe there was nothing to tell.”

“Nothing to tell?”

“Not every snitch has something to offer,” said Milo.

Broussard waved that off. “How long were Schwinn and Tonya Stumpf in the backseat of the car as
you
drove?”

“Not long — maybe a few minutes.”

“Quantify that.”

Knowing the car had probably been observed, Milo kept it close to the truth. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

“After which Tonya Stumpf was dropped off.”

“Correct.”

“Where?”

“Eighth Street near Witmer.”

“After she left the unmarked, where did she go?”

He named the Ranch Depot Steak House, but didn’t mention Schwinn’s funding of Tonya’s dinner.

“Did money exchange hands?” said Poulsenn.

Not knowing how much they’d seen, he chanced a lie. “No.”

Long silence.

“During the entire time,” Broussard finally said, “you were driving.”

“Correct.”

“When Detective Schwinn asked you to stop to pick up Tonya Stumpf, you weren’t at all concerned about being an accessory to prostitution?”

“I never saw any evidence of prosti—”

Broussard’s hand slashed air. “Did Tonya Stumpf’s mouth make contact with Detective Schwinn’s penis?”

“Not that I—”

“If you were driving, never looked back, as you claim, how can you be so sure?”

“You asked me if I saw something. I didn’t.”

“I asked you if oral-genital contact occurred.”

“Not that I saw.”

“So Tonya Stumpf’s mouth might have made contact with Detective Schwinn’s penis without your seeing it?”

“All I can say is what I saw.”

“Did Detective Schwinn’s penis make contact with Tonya Stumpf’s vagina or Tonya Stumpf’s
anus
?”