Evan Hunter - Candyland

While they sit in Manzetti's office, trying to decide what they can do here to balance the Eddie Nelson lineup scales a bit, Morgan asks one of the Homicide dicks to fax the L.A.P.D. for a routine check on a Benjamin Thorpe out there in Topanga Canyon. Manzetti suggests they can maybe transport some other felons from the holding pen at the Two-Six, but then their attorneys would start squawking about God knows what technicality endangering their rights to a fair trial. It's not as if they have three or four suspects here. All they have is Nelson, who claims he was home asleep while someone was raping and strangling Cathy Frese.

This is now twenty minutes past eleven, and Rabinowitz is beginning to squawk already about holding his client too long without charging him. He was earlier protesting that under the Miranda rules they couldn't run a line-up on Nelson without a court order, which they know, and he also knows, is complete and total bullshit. They realize, however, that they better get this thing rolling soon, or Rabinowitz will find a genuine technical reason to spring his man out of here.

There aren't too many civil-service people working in the building at this hour, just your usual cop grunts and your cleaning people, so they put Nelson up on the stage with a uniformed cop they pull off patrol in the Two-Six, two Homicide detectives from right here on the fourth floor, and two guys who a minute ago were scrubbing sinks and toilet bowls. One of the cleaning men is black. One of the Homicide dicks is black, too. This means there are two blacks, three whites, and Nelson — who is also white — up on the stage.

Morgan suggests that maybe he ought to join the group of usual suspects, give it a heavier tilt toward the white side since the two witnesses described the guy they saw this morning as white, and it might be nice if they were presented with a reasonable choice. Manzetti thinks this might be a good idea, but then they'd run into the initial problem of loading the stage with too many law-enforcement types. If Morgan stepped out there with the others, that'd be four cops, three of them white, two civilians, and Nelson, who is also a civilian — of sorts. He opts for the original six. Actually, it's a good mix.

The black detective is about six-feet tall and weighs about a buck-ninety. In contrast, the black cleaning man is about five-eight, Emma guesses, a slight slender balding man with a thin mustache over his lip. The white detective is about the size and weight the two witnesses described. So is the uniformed cop, who is now wearing a lightweight trenchcoat over blue jeans and a cotton sweater. Three of the six men are wearing trenchcoats. The other three are wearing suits or sports jackets. Manzetti explains to the two witnesses that if they want the suspects to do anything for them, take off a coat, for example, or walk across the stage, or even say anything in particular, that's perfectly all right within the Miranda guidelines.

The two witnesses are sitting in the front row of chairs in what looks like a small theater, with three rows of chairs arranged before a raised platform behind a thick pane of glass. One of them is the white bartender who saw someone getting out of a cab to join a blonde outside the XS Salon at four this morning. The other is the black cleaning woman who saw a man "beating on a blonde" on the corner of Seventieth and Second about fifteen minutes later. Manzetti, Harmon, Morgan, and Emma are all sitting in the very back row of chairs, the idea being that no one can later say they influenced the witnesses in any way, either by hand signal or voice prompt. Rabinowitz is sitting in the middle row, his legs crossed. He is what Emma's father would call a "dapper little man." Someone in the room behind the glass panel throws a switch and the stage is filled with bright light.

The six men walk, out in single file and take positions in front of the big black number markers on the white wall — one, two, three, four, and so on. There are also height markers painted in black on the white wall behind the stage. In smaller numbers, they sprout vertically, five feet, five-feet-one, five-feet-two, and on up to six-six. Nelson enters first, walks stage left, takes a position in front of the number 6 marker, and then turns to face the glass. The black detective is next, number 5, then the white detective, 4, and so on, the black cleaning man, the white officer, and lastly the white cleaning man, all of them taking positions in front of the number markers. The black female witness intently studies each man as he crosses the stage and occupies his numbered position. Emma thinks they all look as if they could easily have slain their own mothers in their beds this morning.

It would be nice if you could have a line-up for the participants in a divorce, she thinks. It would be nice if you could parade the disputing parties before an objective witness, have that person say "Yes, he is the guilty one, she is the guilty one," pick from the pair up there the one who is responsible for the dissolution of the marriage. Although in her case it would be an academic exercise, wouldn't it? We all know why this marriage is ending in divorce. It is ending in divorce because Andrew Cullen plays around. That is the long and the short of it, ladies and gentlemen, you need not scrutinize that couple on the stage any longer. Andrew Cullen plays around with other women, and his beloved wife Emma cannot abide such behavior.

But then, of course, and on the other hand, what did Emma contribute to this volatile mix? Was she attentive enough, loving enough, sexy enough, whatever enough? Was she plainly and simply enough! Andrew blamed it on her job. How many times in the throes of hot embrace had Emma been summoned to the squadroom or the hospital to interrogate yet another woman or girl raped or abused by yet another man? How many times? Try a hundred and sixty-five rapes in the borough of Manhattan so far this year, how does that sound for the number of times Emma Boyle Cullen was called out of bed in the middle of the night, try that for size, honey. And how many times had she seen that look of knowledgeable forbearance cross Andrew's face and flash in his eyes when the lady detective was called away to do her duty in the middle of the night, or in the middle of dinner, or in the middle of an afternoon stroll in the park with their two-year-old daughter, how many times had the telephone on the bedside table or in her tote bag summoned her to work? And how often could a man endure coitus interruptus… well, surely you exaggerate, madam, surely there are other rape-squad detectives who share the duty with you, surely you did not answer each and every one of those calls this year, surely you overstate your case.

Okay, shall we divide the number of rapes by — what? Six? Seven? Even ten? How long could a man tolerate such intrusion into his private life before seeking solace and companionship elsewhere, how long? Not long enough, she supposes. Because now they are separated and now a male judge has decided — as apparently Andrew himself previously decided — that being a rape-squad detective is not an occupation compatible with either a seven-year-old marriage or a two-year-old daughter — and yes, by the way, it is a rape squad. Never mind what they're calling it these days. It is a rape squad. Rape is what We deal with here. Women being violated by men. Yes. And believe me, Your Honor, playing around with another woman — a multitude of women, in fact — is rape. I submit, Your Honor, that Emma Boyle Cullen was repeatedly raped by Andrew Cullen during the past two years of her marriage, which are all the years she knows about for sure, ever since her daughter was born, in fact, but God knows how many years before then. Raped. Yes, Your Honor. And you have the gall to take my daughter away from me? You have the fucking balls to do that, Your Honor? To join in the fucking rape? To join the fucking club?