Thomas Cook - Blood Innocents

“He should be here in an hour or so. Piccolini offered to have the questioning done at the kid’s place, but the kid’s father said that he’d rather it all be done down here.” Mathesson grinned. “He probably thought we’d come roaring up with our sirens blasting, and that wouldn’t look too good on Fifth Avenue.”

Reardon pulled out the arrest sheet for the morning the fallow deer were killed and looked at it. “Winthrop Lewis Daniels,” he said.

“His father must be scared shitless.” Mathesson popped a piece of hard candy into his mouth and started moving it from one side of his mouth to the other. “The old man probably figures we’re gonna try to pin a heavy rap on his darling boy.”

“Heavier than possession of cocaine?”

Mathesson flicked his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Ah, they won’t even pin that on him. This will be strictly a probation rap. You don’t stick a possession charge on an Upper East Side kid. You know what I mean. This is strictly a bad bust, a lot of paperwork for nothing.” Mathesson winked at Reardon. “Like the Spics say in the Barrio, ‘Nada, nada and more nada.’”

Reardon nodded. It had always been this way, he thought. But it was becoming more difficult for him to accept it.

Mathesson started buttoning his overcoat. “Well,” he said, “have a jolly time of it. I got to be in court this morning. I got to testify against this nigger whore.” He smiled. “She wasted her pimp – stuck a blade in his guts and pulled up on it.” He thrust an imaginary blade in his abdomen and jerked upward. “Hari kari pickaninny style.” He shook his head in disgust. “Hell, I don’t know why they bother to charge her. Son of a bitch got what he deserved. He was a white dude, too – honky, ofay, you know what I mean? Probably a lot of goddamn feeling went into that blade, you know what I mean? Getting even in spades you might say.” Mathesson shook with laughter and slapped his leg. “Goddamn, I’m in a good mood,” he said.

Reardon could not imagine why.

Mathesson told him. “I believe we busted this case. I believe we got that Petrakis cold.”

“Yeah,” Reardon said weakly.

Mathesson straightened his tie and stood erect. “Well,” he said, “do I look – what do the lawyers call it? – credible?”

Reardon nodded.

“Well, take it easy.” Mathesson started toward the door. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“Right,” Reardon said. Or wrong, he thought, dead wrong.

When Reardon returned to his desk, he stared down at the night update for the day the fallow deer were killed. It was full of names that ended in “a” and “o” and “ski,” along with a number of names that were familiar enough; in most cases, Reardon knew, these were black names, old slave names like Johnson or Phillips. Beside these, the clean contours of the name Winthrop Lewis Daniels stood out like a silver spoon in a dung heap. Winthrop Lewis Daniels was the kind of name that had a stiff upper lip, knew its whereabouts at all times, and moved about with its own predetermined and resolute self-confidence. It was the kind of name that had an opinion on every issue and expected to be heard whenever it wished. It was not the kind of name that waited bleeding in the chaotic emergency receiving room of Bellevue Hospital or held close affection for a mongrel dog.

When Winthrop Lewis Daniels finally arrived at the precinct house, he was not alone. Reardon recognized him instantly even though he had never seen him before. Daniels was flanked on either side by two well dressed men, each holding tightly to a briefcase. Not many teenage offenders came through the precinct house doors like that. From his desk Reardon watched as the three men approached the desk sergeant, who responded to one of their questions by pointing to Reardon.

“Detective Reardon?” one of the men asked as they approached his desk.

“That’s right.”

“My name is Colin Tower.” He was a very tall, very thin man with coal black hair slicked down flat across his head. He did not offer his hand.

The bald, stocky man on his left Mr. Tower introduced as Mr. Arington. “We are here to represent Mr. Daniels in this matter,” Mr. Tower said. He nodded toward the tall, thin young man to his right.

“Have a seat,” Reardon said. He did not expect this to be easy. He had dealt with lawyers of the Tower-Arington variety before. It would be part of their strategy to frustrate him as much as possible. Once they had taken seats across from his desk, however, they looked somewhat less formidable.

Before Reardon could ask his first question, Mr. Tower spoke again. “Let me begin by saying that Mr. Daniels is quite willing to cooperate with the police. He has come of his own free will and any statement which he wishes to make will be regarded as completely voluntary.”

Reardon nodded indifferently. He had heard it all before.

“If at any time Mr. Daniels wishes to conclude this interview,” Mr. Tower went on, “we will have to insist that it be immediately terminated. We also reserve the right to advise Mr. Daniels of those questions upon which we feel he would be better served to remain wholly silent.”

“I understand that you represent Mr. Daniels,” Reardon said brusquely. “As far as I’m concerned Mr. Daniels is here voluntarily. But this is a serious investigation, and I think he would be well advised to cooperate with us.”

“Pardon me,” Mr. Arington said, “but we will decide the extent of Mr. Daniels’ cooperation.”

“That’s fine,” Reardon replied dryly.

Reardon looked at Mr. Tower. “According to an arrest sheet for last Monday in this precinct, Mr. Daniels was arrested for possession of cocaine.”

Mr. Tower chuckled. “Absurd charge.”

“I’m not trying the case,” Reardon said.

“Of course not,” said Mr. Tower. “It’s just that the charge is so ludicrous.”

“Absolutely no evidence,” Mr. Arington said.

“I don’t care about that,” Reardon said. “But the fact is that he was arrested.”

“He was arrested,” Mr. Tower muttered reluctantly. He glanced knowingly at Mr. Arington, then back to Reardon.

Reardon pulled a map of Central Park from his desk drawer and unfolded it on top of his desk.

“What is this all about?” Mr. Tower asked. “We’re perfectly aware of where Mr. Daniels was arrested. We don’t require a map.”

“I’m not investigating a cocaine bust,” Reardon said. “That’s not what I’m doing here.”

“Then what are you doing?” Mr. Tower said. “Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea of the kind of lawsuit you’re going to be facing if you persist in your harassment of this young man?”

“I haven’t harassed anybody,” Reardon declared. “I’m trying to investigate two murders.”

Mr. Tower popped to his feet. “Murders?”

Reardon looked at Mr. Tower wearily. “I told you that this is an investigation. Nobody is accusing Mr. Daniels of anything.”

“What kind of murders?” Daniels asked quietly.

Mr. Tower leveled a cold stare at Daniels. “Don’t bother yourself about it. We’ll handle this.” He looked at Reardon. “This is outrageous. We understood from Mr. Piccolini that some police matter would be discussed this morning. We assumed that it would pertain to the utterly false charge already made against Mr. Daniels. But we had no idea that any attempt would be made to associate him with homicides.”

“Are they homicides?” Daniels asked quietly.

“Winthrop, please,” Mr. Arington pleaded. “You must let us handle this.”

Reardon spoke directly, and quietly, to Daniels. “There’s more than the homicides. We’re not sure if they are connected with the rest.”