Ed McBain - Fat Ollie's Book

“Hello, Bob,” Nellie said, “where are they?”

“The Loot’s office,” O’Brien said, and the translator turned to him and said, “What?” and he said, “I’m talking to the DA,” and the translator said, “Oh, solly,” was what O’Brien actually heard her say, “solly.”

Nellie walked across the familiar squadroom to Lieutenant Byrnes’s office, knocked on the frosted glass panel in the upper half of the door, heard Byrnes’s voice yelling, “Come!” and opened the door and went in. She recognized Carella, of course…

“Hey, Steve.”

“Nellie.”

…and Ollie Weeks from the Eight-Eight.

“Hello, Ollie.”

“Hi, Nellie.”

She had been briefed on the phone, and knew that the two precincts were sharing the bust; Lieutenant Hirsch had already given permission for the Q and A to take place here at the Eight-Seven, since this was where Mrs. Henderson had been apprehended. A police stenographer was seated at a small table across the room, near the windows that fronted the street, closed now against the rain and the noise of the traffic below.

Pamela Henderson was sitting in a straight-backed chair alongside her attorney, a man named Alex Wilkerson, with whom Nelliehad crossed swords on many a previous occasion. Pamela was wearing a dark blue suit, a white blouse, blue pantyhose, and blue high-heeled pumps. Despite the expensive designer suit, she appeared somehow shabby, perhaps because the rain had dampened her hair and her clothes on her walk from the car to the front steps of the building. Nellie’s first impression was one of shoulder length hair that could only be described as mousy, matching eyes that were a trifle too large for the woman’s narrow face, a thin-lipped mouth devoid of lipstick.

“Hello, Alex,” she said.

“Nice to see you, Nellie.”

A man in his late forties, Wilkerson affected the long, lanky, languorous style of a young Abraham Lincoln, favoring dark suits and bow ties, a shock of black hair hanging boyishly over his forehead. He was smoking a pipe now, even though a sign on Byrnes’s desk readCANCER-FREE ZONE. Byrnes was frowning. He was thinking, Smoke your brains out, Counselor, we’re gonna fry your client.

Nellie introduced herself, explained that she was here from the District Attorney’s Office at the request of the arresting officers, and then asked if Mrs. Henderson knew she’d been charged with second-degree murder…

“My client has been so informed,” Wilkerson said.

“Has she been informed of her rights?”

“She has.”

“Does she understand she can stop the questioning at any time…?”

“I’ve advised her not to answer any questions at all,” Wilkerson said.

“Then we’ve got nothing further to say here,” Nellie said. “Let’s get her printed, boys, and take her downtown for arraignment.”

“I’d like to add,” Wilkerson said, “that you have no probable cause for arrest. Anything that’s brought out from this moment on—including any fingerprints you take—will be fruit of the Poisoned Tree.”

“We’ll take that risk, Counselor.”

“Be so advised.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d like to say something,” Pamela said.

“Mrs. Henderson, I strongly suggest…”

“I’d like to know why I’ve been arrested.”

“Well,” Nellie said, “the detectives here seem to think you shot and killed your husband, ma’am. If you’d like to convince us otherwise…”

“She’s not going to answer any questions, Counselor, so please don’t get fancy with us.”

“Well, fine, then let’s get on with it. Boys? You want to…?”

“I have nothing to hide here,” Pamela said.

Nellie was happy to hear this. The ones who had nothing to hide already had one foot on the path to life imprisonment.

“They’ve placed you under arrest,” Wilkerson said. “Answering their questions will onlyhelp…”

“My answers will be on the record, won’t they?” Pamela asked.

“Yes, but you have the right to remain silent,” Wilkerson said. “And if youchooseto remain silent…”

“I don’twantto remain silent!” Pamela said.

“I’m trying to say that your choice won’t be held against you in court. They cannot compel…”

“I’ll say it in court, too.”

“You may not wish to testify in…”

“I didn’t kill him!”

The room went silent.

“So what’ll it be?” Nellie asked. “Questions, no questions? It’s your call, Counselor.”

“I fear it’s my client’s call,” Wilkerson said.

“Mrs. Henderson?”

“Ask your questions. I didn’t kill him.”

“Counselor. That okay with you?”

Wilkerson spread his hands and sighed.

“Thank you,” Nellie said.

She took Pamela’s oath, elicited her name, address, and occupation, reaffirmed once again that she had been informed of and understood her rights, and then began questioning her.

“Mrs. Henderson, can you tell me where you were at ten-thirty on the morning of April twenty-second?”

“I was home.”

“Where was that?”

“26 Prospect Lane. In Smoke Rise. I gave you the address two minutes ago.”

The stenographer’s fingers were flying over her machine.

Q: Can you tell me what you were wearing?

A: A simple skirt and sweater.

Q: Do you remember what color they were? The skirt? The sweater?

A: It was a matching set. An olive green sweater and skirt. I have them at home. I can show them to you, if you like.

“Excuse me, Counselor, but where’s this going?” Wilkerson asked, and looked to Byrnes for sympathy and encouragement. Byrnes sat dead-panned behind his desk. “Why is my client’s wardrobe on the morning of her husband’s death of such importance to you?”

“Maybe because we have a witness who saw her wearing something entirely different that morning,” Nellie said.

“Oh, and who might…?”

“Alex, do you want me to swearyouin? Or may I continue questioning your client instead?”

“Mrs. Henderson?” he asked, turning to her.

“I have nothing to hide,” she said again.

Q: Mrs. Henderson, do you own a pair of blue jeans?

A: I do.

Q: Do you own a blue ski parka?

A: I do.

Q: Do you own white sneakers?

A: No.

Q: White running shoes then?

A: Yes.

Q: How about a black baseball cap?

A: No. I don’t own a black baseball cap.

Q: A cap with the letters SRA on it?

A: No.

Q: Weren’t you wearing such a cap on the morning of April twenty-second?

A: No. I was wearing a green sweater and skirt set.

Q: No hat.

A: No hat.

Q: Any idea what those letters might stand for?

A: The detectives have already told me what they think those letters stand for.

Q: And what’s that.

A: Smoke Rise Academy.

Q: Where your son goes to school, does he not?

A: That’s where he goes to school.

Q: Does your son own such a cap?

A: You will have to ask my son.

“Excuse me, Counselor, but what does her son’sschoolhave to do with any of this? I must again ask where you’re going. Mrs. Henderson has already told you…”

Nellie sighed heavily.

“No theatrics, please,” Wilkerson said. “We’re not in court yet.”

“Counselor, your client said she wants to answer my questions. If she’s changed her mind, fine. But if she still…”

“I just don’t know where you’re going,” Wilkerson said plaintively, and again turned to Byrnes for sympathy. Byrnes sat stone-faced.

“I don’t know where you’re going, either,” Pamela said.

“I’m going to King Memorial on the morning your husband was killed,” Nellie said. “I’m going to an alleyway on the western end of the building, where the murder weapon was recovered from a sewer there. I’m going to a man named Clarence Weaver who almost got knocked over by someone running out of that alley. The person he saw was wearing what I questioned you about a moment ago. Blue jeans, a ski parka, white sneakers…or maybe running shoes, hm?…and a black baseball cap with the initials SRA on it. I’m suggesting that the initials on that cap stand for Smoke Rise Academy, where your son goes to school, and I’m further suggesting that you were wearing your son’s hat on the morning of the murder when you ran out of that alley on St. Sebastian’s…”