Ed McBain - Blood Relatives

“Yes.”

“And then left for California the next day.”

“Yes.”

“Where in California?”

“San Francisco, I think she said. Or maybe Los Angeles.”

“Or maybe San Diego,” Kling said.

“Well, no, it was either San Francisco or Los Angeles.”

“If that was where she was going,” Carella said, “and if she left yesterday—”

“That’s when she left, sir,” Donatelli said.

“We can check with the airlines. There aren’t that many lateafternoon flights to California, and there couldn’t have been too many girls named Betsy—”

“Well, I’m not even sure it was California,” Donatelli said.

“Mr. Donatelli,” Carella said, “are you aware of the fact that we’re talking about a homicide here? Are you aware of that? Are you sure you realize that a girl was brutally murdered on Saturday night and that—?”

“Yes, I’m aware of it, I realize it.”

“Then why are you giving us this bullshit about a bowling alley, and a girl you met in the park, now what is that supposed to be, Mr. Donatelli? Are we supposed to believe that goddamn story? If you want my advice — I’m not supposed to give you this kind of advice, Mr. Donatelli — I’d get a lawyer in here right away, because the bullshit you’re giving us, it sounds to me like you’re going to be in very serious trouble before too long. Now that’s my advice.”

“I don’t need a lawyer,” Donatelli said. “I didn’t kill that girl you’re talking about.”

“Mr. Donatelli,” Carella said, “I think we’re going to have to hold you in custody, in what amounts to something more than a routine interrogation, and that being the case, I’ll have to advise you of your rights. In keeping with the Supreme Court decision in Miranda versus Arizona, we are not permitted to ask you any questions until you are warned of your right to counsel and your privilege against self-incrimination. First, you have the right to remain silent if you so choose. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Second, you do not have to answer any police questions if you don’t want to. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Third, if you do decide to answer any questions, the answers may be used as evidence against you. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“You have the right to consult with an attorney before or during police questioning. If you do not have the money to hire a lawyer, a lawyer will be appointed to consult with you. Do you understand everything I’ve told you?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Are you willing to answer questions without an attorney here to counsel you?”

“Yes,” Donatelli said. “I didn’t kill that girl.”

“Then what did you do?” Carella asked at once. He was able to question Donatelli more freely now; the man had signified that he understood all the warnings, and had waived his right to have an attorney present. This did not give the police license to keep him there for four days and four nights while successive teams of interrogators bludgeoned him with questions. As a matter of fact, if Donatelli changed his mind at any point during the questioning, he could simply say, “I don’t want to answer any more questions,” and that would be that; the police would have to respect his wishes and cease all questioning at once. In many respects, America is a very nice country.

“I didn’t do anything,” Donatelli said.

“Where were you on Saturday night? And please skip the bowling-alley bullshit, if you don’t mind.”

“I told you where I was.”

“We don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s where I was.”

“If you’re hiding something, Mr. Donatelli, it can’t be anything as serious as this homicide, I’m sure you realize that. So if you’re hiding something, I suggest you tell us about it, because otherwise we’re going to start thinking things you don’t want us to think, and then you’d better change your mind and get a lawyer in here to help you. What do you say?”

“I can’t tell you where I was Saturday night.”

“Then you weren’t at the bowling alley, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Where were you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I tell you that... no, I can’t tell you that.”

“Mr. Donatelli, we’ve got an eyewitness to the murder. We’ve got a girl who can identify the man who killed Muriel Stark. Now we can bring that girl up here, Mr. Donatelli. We can have a car pick her up, and she’ll be here in five minutes flat, and we can ask her to identify that man for us, we’ll put him in a lineup with six detectives and ask her to pick out the man who killed her cousin. Do you want us to do that, Mr. Donatelli, or do you want to tell us where you were on Saturday night between ten-thirty and eleven-thirty?”

“Well, I... I wasn’t at the bowling alley,” Donatelli said.

“Where were you?”

“With a girl.”

“What girl?”

“A girl I know.”

“Betsy?”

“No. I made Betsy up.”

“Then what girl?”

“Well, what’s the use?” Donatelli said.

“Who’s the girl, Mr. Donatelli?”

“It won’t help me. If I tell you who she is, it won’t help me.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’ll lie. She’ll say she doesn’t know me.”

“Why would she do that?”

“It’s what I told her to say. I told her if ever anyone asks her about me — her mother, her father, a policeman, anyone — what I want her to say is she’s never even heard of me.”

“Why’s that, Mr. Donatelli?”

“Well,” Donatelli said, and shrugged.

“How old is this girl?” Carella asked.

“Well,” Donatelli said.

“How old is she?”

“She’s pretty young,” Donatelli said.

“ How young?”

“She’s thirteen.”

Carella turned away, walked toward the far end of the narrow room, and then came back to where Donatelli was sitting.

“Were you with her Saturday night?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Her house.”

“Where were her parents?”

“They went to a movie.”

“What time did you go up there?”

“At about ten.”

“And what time did you leave her?”

“At a quarter to twelve.”

“What’s her name?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Donatelli said. “If I give you her name, and you ask her about me, she’ll say she doesn’t know me. She knows I can get in trouble for being with her, she knows that. She’ll lie.”

“What’s her name?”

“What difference does it make?”

“What’s her goddamn name? ”

“Gloria Hanley.”

“Where does she live?”

“831 North Sheridan.”

“How long have you known her?”

“I met her six months ago.”

“How old was she then?”

“Well, I... I suppose she was twelve.”

“You’re a very nice man, Mr. Donatelli,” Carella said.

“I love her,” Donatelli said.

The object of Mr. Donatelli’s affections was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when she opened the door to the apartment on North Sheridan. Gloria Hanley was a tall, angular girl with tiny breasts, boyish hips, green eyes, a dusting of freckles on her cheeks, and sun-washed blonde hair cut in a Dutch Boy bob. They had announced themselves as police officers, and she had asked them to hold up their shields to the peephole before she would open the door. She stood in the open doorway now in jeans and short-sleeved blouse, studying them with only mild interest.

“I was just having lunch,” she said. “What is it?”

“We’d like to ask you some questions,” Carella said. “Would it be all right if we came in?”