Arthur Hailey - Detective

* * *

At Police HQ, Jensen was in the course of being processed fingerprinted, photographed, his pockets emptied, their contents stored and recorded, other paperwork proceeding. He was, he knew, enmeshed in the cogs of an impersonal machine. Who knew when he would be free from it, if ever? While concerned, at this moment he found himself not worrying all that much.

Ever since the detectives' arrival at his apartment, his thoughts had been in a curious limbo. He had long feared what had so recently occurred; at moments in the past it had been a haunting nightmare. But now that it was reality the immediate fear was gone perhaps, he thought, because of the inescapability of whatever lay ahead. In a foolish moment of passion and emotion he had committed a capital crime, and now, according to the law and in whatever way the judicial system chose, some punishment was likely. Being human, he would use every possible means to escape or diminish that punishment, though only later would he know how good those chances were.

Of course, at this point he still did not know what had changed to prompt his arrest so suddenly, but he knew enough of the system to realize it was something important and compelling. If it were not, he would have been brought in for questioning before a warrant was procured.

After the routine processing, Jensen, still handcuffed, was taken in an elevator up several floors to Homicide. There he was escorted to an interrogation room nowadays, in official "soft-speak," referred to as an interview room.

Jensen was hardly through the doorway when he saw on a table ahead the opened box bearing Cynthia Ernst's personal blue sealing tape. And, beyond the box, its contents laid out one by one in a neat, highly visible, condemning row.

Involuntarily Patrick stopped, all movement frozen, as enlightenment, despair, and a sudden hatred of Cynthia exploded in his mind.

Moments later, having been pushed forward by his uniformed police escort, he was directed to a chair, handcuffed to it, and left alone.

* * *

It was a half hour later. Malcolm Ainslie, Ruby Bowe, Curzon Knowles, Stephen Cruz, and Patrick Jensen were all, by now, gathered in the interview room. Leaving Jensen alone for the intervening time had been deliberate on the detectives' part.

"I'm quite sure you recognize all of this," Ainslie said to Jensen, gesturing to the assortment on the table. Everyone was seated except Ainslie, who circled the table as he spoke. "Especially the gun that killed your former wife, Naomi, and her friend Holmes. Incidentally, the gun has your fingerprints all over it, and it fired the bullets that killed them both all of that has been certified by experts who'll testify in court. And, oh yes, there's a tape recording, unmistakably your voice, in which you describe exactly how you killed them both. Would you like me to play that?"

"Don't answer that question," Stephen Cruz advised. "If the sergeant wishes to play a tape, let it be his decision. Also, you do not need to respond to those other things he said."

Cruz, a small-boned figure in his late thirties, with a sharp, decisive voice, had arrived soon after Jensen was delivered in custody. While waiting, he had chatted amiably with Knowles and Newbold, then was brought to the interview room.

Jensen, visibly distressed, looked directly at Cruz. "I need to talk with you alone. Can we do that?"

"Sure." Cruz nodded. "That's your privilege anytime. It'll mean transferring you to "

"No need for that," Knowles interjected. ''The rest of us will go, and leave you here. Okay with you, Sergeant?''

Ainslie answered, "Of course." He collected all of the evidence and followed Knowles and Ruby Bowe out.

Jensen shifted uncomfortably in his seat; earlier his handcuffs had been removed. ''How do we know they're not listening?" he asked.

"Two reasons," Cruz informed him. "One, there's something called lawyer-client privilege. Two, if they listened and got caught, they'd face disciplinary action." He paused, surveying his racquetball partner and new client. "You wanted to talk, so go ahead."

Jensen took a deep breath and released it, hoping his muddled thoughts would clear. He was weary of concealment, and here and now at least he wanted to disclose the truth. Also, in whatever way the police had obtained the damned box, he decided, the blame was Cynthia's. Long ago she'd led him to believe she would destroy it all. Instead, despite all he had done and risked to protect and aid her, she had kept it, and it had betrayed him. In return, he knew that he would hold true to a promise of his own.

Jensen looked up at Cruz and began, "You heard what they said just now. Well, Steve, those are my fingerprints on the gun, I guess those bullets really match, and on the tape you didn't hear, it is my voice. So what do you think?"

"My strong impression," Cruz answered, "is that you are in deep shit."

"Actually," Jensen said, "it's deeper than you think."

"I'm going to tell you everything," Jensen said. still sitting in the Homicide interview room with Stephen Cruz.

As Jensen poured out his story, Cruz listened, his face trying to mask shock, incredulity, and finally resignation, yet not succeeding. At the end, after a long and thoughtful pause, he said, "Patrick, are you sure you're not making all this up, that it isn't just another novel you're about to write? You're not bouncing the plot off me to find out what I think?"

"There was a time when I might have done just that," Jensen replied dolefully. "Unfortunately, every word is true."

Jensen felt some relief that at least in this limited sense everything was out in the open. Even sharing seemed to ease the load he had carried alone for so long. Common sense, though, warned him that the feeling was an illusion. Cruz's next words confirmed it.

"I'd say that your first need isn't so much a lawyer, but a priest, or someone of that ilk to say a prayer."

"That may come later if I get so desperate," Jensen said. "Right now I have a lawyer, and what I want from you is the bottom line: Where do I stand? What should I aim for? What are my chances?"

"All right." Cruz had risen from his chair and began to pace the length of the small room, glancing at Jensen as he talked. "According to what you've told me, you are heavily involved in the murders of five people. There's your ex-wife and her man; and the guy in the wheelchair, Rice. Then there are Gustav and Eleanor Ernst, who were important people, and don't think that doesn't make a difference; also, that Ernst case is clearly murder one. Certainly for the Ernsts, and maybe also those first two people, you could face the death penalty. How's that for a bottom line?"

Jensen started to speak, but Cruz silenced him with a gesture. "If you'd killed only your ex-wife and the man, I could have claimed it was a crime of passion and have you plead manslaughter, which, in cases where a firearm's used, carries a maximum sentence of thirty years. Since you'd have had a clean record, I'd have argued for less and maybe got fifteen, even ten. But with those other two killings in the wings..." Cruz shook his head. "Those change everything."

He looked out the window. "There's one thing you should come to terms with, Patrick. Even if you avoid the death penalty, there's no way you can escape prison time probably a lot of time. It's unlikely, I think, that you and I will ever play racquetball again."

Jensen grimaced. "Now that you know the kind of person I am, I doubt you'd want to."

Cruz waved the remark away. "I leave judgments like that to the judges and juries. But while I'm your attorney and by the way, sometime soon you and I have to talk money, and I warn you I'm not cheap anyway, as an attorney, whether I like or dislike my clients and I've had some of each they all get the utmost I can give, and the fact is I'm good!"