Trueman Bradley - Aspie Detective (16 page)

“Yeah,” said Stokowski, into the phone.

Stokowski put down the phone and stood up.

“Buckley?” asked Stokowski.

“Yes, Chief,” said Buckley.

“Arrest Mr. Bradley,” said Stokowski.

“For what?” I asked.

“For the murder of Eddie Sipple,” said Stokowski.

“What?” I asked.

“I’ve just heard that Eddie was killed,” said Stokowski. “He was released from custody because of lack of evidence. A few hours later, he was found murdered at La Guardia airport.”

“But, that’s good!” I said. “It proves my equation was correct. My equation correctly predicted Eddie’s death!”

“No,” said Stokowski. “All it proves is that you knew Eddie was murdered before that information was released to the public. I didn’t even know Eddie was killed yet and I’m the chief here! So how comes it that you know about it, huh? I’ll tell you how you know it, because you killed him, right?”

“No!” I said.

“Chief!” said Buckley. “I was following Trueman for days! If he killed someone I would’ve seen it! Besides, Trueman’s just not capable of murder! I really object to this arrest!”

“What you object to doesn’t matter!” said Stokowski. “I’m the boss, not you. Maybe this doesn’t prove you killed Eddie, but the fact you knew about it is mighty suspicious and that’s good enough for me. That’s probable cause in my book. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got something I’ve gotta take care of.”

Stokowski walked out of the room and most of the police officers followed him. I was left alone with Buckley.

“Trueman,” said Buckley, “I hate to do this. But I’ll have to arrest you for the murder of Eddie Sipple. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

As Buckley read me my Miranda rights, the true horror of my situation became clear. I did not want to believe that I was being arrested for murder. I didn’t want to accept this reality. I closed my eyes and started counting prime numbers.

“2, 3, 5, 7…”

“10,627… 10,631… 10,639… 10,651…”

“Why do you keep counting like that?” asked Buckley.

“It relaxes me,” I said.

“Well, stop it, will ya?” he asked. “You’re driving me crazy with that. Besides, you got no reason to be tense.”

“Why not?” I asked. “I’m under arrest for murder.”

“Yeah, but you’ll go free. Don’t worry,” he said. “Now, let’s concentrate on this, please. I’ve got to ask you a few more questions for my paperwork. Pay attention, okay?”

It had been twenty-three hours since I first entered the police station, and I had been imprisoned in this holding cell for most of that time. Most of the time, a scowling and unfriendly police officer guarded me. But Buckley had come and sent the police officer away. He’d been questioning me for ten minutes. I was glad to see Buckley, but I was getting sick from this stuffy room, which smelled of sweat and metal polish and had no windows for sunlight to get in.

“Now…” said Buckley, looking at a clipboard that held his paperwork, “I think I’ve actually asked you all I need to know. But, personally, there’s a few questions I’d like to ask you…”

“What do you want to know?” I asked.

Buckley moved closer to the bars of my cell. He smiled and spoke to me in a low whisper.

“Off the record…” he said, “how did you know Eddie was dead? I mean, really? Did you witness the crime or what?”

“No!” I said. “I used my crime-fighting equation!”

“Come on!” he said. “Do you really expect me to believe that story? A mathematical equation cannot solve a crime.”

“It can!” I said. “I used New York City crime statistics from 1951 until the present. I inserted them as variables into a very long and complicated equation and applied a path integral structure to them. At first, I wasn’t sure if it worked. Even a very short time ago, I was doubting my equations. But now that I realize how accurately I predicted the murders of Malcolm Vrie and Eddie Sipple, I’m convinced my equations work!”

Buckley looked at me for a long time.

“Okay,” he said. “I can tell a lot about a person just from looking at them. Nineteen years of detective work’ll do that to you. I don’t think you’re lying to me. But it’s still kinda hard to believe, you know? A part of me thinks you’re crazy, I admit it. But another part of me thinks that, if this is true, your equations could be a real breakthrough.”

“A breakthrough?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “It means your equations could improve the lives of police everywhere. It’s a long shot, but I’m willing to give you a chance to prove it to me.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“I mean,” he said, “I’ll let you prove to me that your equations work. How would you like to work on a case with me?”

“Really?” I asked. “Me? Work on a real police case?”

“Yeah,” he said.

I was so happy, I felt like jumping around the jail cell.

“Yes!” I said. “I’d like that very much!”

I was tempted to dance, I was so happy. But my joy was soon ended, when I realized that I couldn’t help Buckley.

“But I can’t help you!” I said. “How can I help you solve a case if I’m imprisoned? I’m suspected of murdering Eddie.”

“Like I said, don’t worry about it,” he said. “You’ll be let free. The police can only hold you in jail for twenty-four hours. Unless we find some serious evidence to prove you killed Eddie, Stokowski has to let you free after twenty-four hours. Understand?”

I looked at the clock on my wrist TV.

“I’m free to go in ten minutes and five seconds!” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “There’s no way they could get any evidence to prove to the court you killed Eddie. Because during the time Eddie was killed, I was in a car watching you! You and that chauffeur of yours were sitting in an Italian restaurant at the exact moment Eddie is believed to have been killed.”

“I see,” I said. “So that proves I’m innocent.”

“It sure does!” he said. “There’s no way you could’ve done it! And you and me are gonna find out who did kill Eddie.”

“Is that the case you want me to help you with?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m investigating Eddie’s death. So far, I’ve got nothing. If your equations work the way you say they do, then I’d appreciate your help in this matter.”

“Of course I’ll help!” I said.

“Good,” he said.

The telephone rang and Buckley answered it.

“Yeah?” he asked, into the phone. “Okay, sure.”

Buckley put the phone down and put on his trench coat.

“You’ve got visitors, Trueman,” he said. “Seems like your friends from the agency are here to come get you. Just sit tight, I gotta go let them in, okay? Don’t you go anywhere.”

Buckley walked out the door and I stood with my hands grasping the prison bars.

“How could I go anywhere?” I asked. “I’m in jail.”

I looked at the ground and started counting the cracks in the concrete. I had already counted them fifteen times since I arrived in this holding cell, but I was curious if another one might have formed since the last time I counted.

“1, 2, 3, 4…” I said.

“What are you doing?”

I looked up from the cracked concrete and saw the large face of Chief Stokowski. He had a strange look in his eyes, which I’d never seen before. It was similar to fear, but also similar to the way a dog looked when it wanted to attack.

“I was counting the cracks,” I said.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “You were counting cracks. Now, listen. I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

“What questions?” I asked.

“How come you knew about the counterfeiting at Hickson warehouse?” he asked. “And don’t say it was because of your magic equations! I don’t buy that cock and bull story.”

“Cock and bull?” I asked. “You mean the animals?”

“What?” he asked. “Shut up and answer me!”

“Don’t be so rude to me!” I said.

“Listen,” he said. “I’m asking you one simple question. What do you know about the counterfeiting? Just how much do you know, huh? Someone told you about it? Is that it?”

“I don’t know what you mean!” I said. “No one told me anything! Like I said, I used my crime-fighting equation.”

Stokowski sighed and grabbed the bars of my cell with his big hands. It seemed to me like he wanted to pull the bars apart and strangle me. I moved a few steps away from him.

“Fine,” he said. “But let me ask you something. Do you like whiskey? Maybe you’d like a little taste of this?”

Stokowski pulled a small bottle out of his pocket and showed it to me. It was full of a brown liquid and had a label that said “Orkafend’s Blend Whiskey.” I noticed the bottle was not opened, it was shaped like a lopsided oval and the ink on the label was so faded that it was hard to read.

“No thanks,” I said. “I don’t drink alcohol. It makes no sense to drink something that is toxic to the body and kills brain cells. I need my brain functional for detective work.”

Stokowski stared at me and slowly moved the bottle of whiskey back into his pocket. He was examining me very closely.

“Yeah…” he said, “it kills brain cells.”

Someone opened the door. It was opened so forcefully that it swung and hit the wall. The loud bang caused Stokowski to jump and knock the whiskey bottle out of his pocket. It smashed on the floor and soon the entire room smelled like whiskey. Nora, Mrs. Levi and Sal had walked into the room and Buckley arrived soon after them. Buckley walked to Stokowski and looked down at the broken bottle of whiskey.

“You drop something, Chief?” asked Buckley.

Stokowski’s wide face became as red as a beet and his embarrassment was so obvious, I could interpret it instantly. He rubbed his face and sighed, looking down at his own feet.

“Yeah…” said Stokowski, “I was holding that for someone. It was evidence. Well, I guess it’s no good now, though, huh?”

I was not the best at interpreting emotions or subtle body language, but even I could discern the fact that Stokowski was lying. The whiskey wasn’t evidence. It seemed to me Stokowski was embarrassed because his smashed alcohol bottle made him seem like an alcoholic. Stokowski sighed again and left the room.

“Evidence, huh?” asked Buckley. “Detectives are usually pretty good liars. Chief Stokowski isn’t your usual detective.”

Buckley fetched a mop and started cleaning the whiskey and broken glass from the floor. He bent down to pick up the glass.

“Trueman! I’m so glad to see you!” said Nora.

Nora hugged me tightly.

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Levi. “We’re glad you’re alright! And I made your favorite dessert! Raspberry lemon cake!”

Mrs. Levi was carrying a small cake. My mouth watered at the scent and I realized I hadn’t eaten very much since I had been arrested.

“A cake, huh?” asked Buckley. “Doesn’t have a file in it, I hope? Or I just might have to confiscate it.”

Buckley laughed. No one else did.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Do you mean a paper file?”

“No,” said Buckley. “You know, that old movie or book or whatever… this guy’s in jail and his wife bakes him a cake with a metal file hidden inside it? Then the guy in jail uses the metal file to saw
the bars of his cell and he escapes?”

“Oh,” I said. “I’ve never heard of that before.”

The room was silent for a minute. Buckley coughed.

“Well, never mind,” said Buckley. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Trueman. We’ll talk about the case, yeah?”

“Oh, yes!” I said. “I’ll be waiting for your call!”

I followed Nora, Sal and Mrs. Levi out of the police station and out onto the street. Our Lincoln car was waiting for us.

“It’s good to have you back, Mr. Bradley!” said Sal, as he started the car and began driving us back home, to Reade Street.

“Thank you, Sal,” I said. “I’m happy to see you all.”

Nora hugged me.

“By the way…” said Mrs. Levi, “what did the detective mean? He said he’d talk to you about a case? What case?”

“Oh, I’m working on a police case!” I said.

“Are you kidding?” asked Nora. “A real police case?”

Everyone in the car began making excited noises. I could read enough of the emotion in their words to know they were happy about this new case. I was happy too; this was only our agency’s second case and we were already doing police cases.

“Good for you, Mr. Bradley!” said Sal. “You go into the station a murder suspect and you come out with a police case!”

“Yeah!” said Nora. “I’m so impressed with you, Trueman!”

Nora’s adoration made my face turn red with pleasure. I wanted to impress her, but I didn’t want her to know how much I wanted it. I had learned from my granddad that nobody likes a person who brags, so I decided to sound as humble as I could.

“Oh, it was nothing special,” I said. “It was just a few equations. I didn’t really solve the case, after all. Buckley helped me. And he’s the one who arrested the counterfeiters.”

“That’s not what the newspapers are saying!” said Nora.

“What?” I asked.

“Sal, throw that paper here, will you?” asked Nora.

Sal picked up a newspaper that was on his lap and threw it towards us. Nora picked it up and started reading.

“Private detective uses mathematical equation to expose counterfeiters,” she read, aloud. “Manhattan private investigator, Mr. Trueman Bradley, reportedly exposed the activities of a gang of counterfeiters whose existence was previously unknown to police. Preliminary reports indicate that Bradley is a mathematical genius who divined the activities of the criminals by way of a mathematical equation of his own design.”

“How do you like that!” said Nora. “You’re not only a free man, you’re famous! Our agency is famous! We’ll get all kinds of cases now!”

I sat in my chair, feeling numb. When I woke up this morning, I had expected to be convicted of murder. Instead, I had been given my liberty and I would soon be working on a real police case. And, in addition to all that, I was famous. I was a “mathematical genius.” Nora hugged me closer. I felt such bliss and contentment that I couldn’t speak a word. I never wanted to leave Nora’s arms. I never wanted to leave this perfect moment, where everything was just how I’d wanted it.