Thomas Cook - Blood Innocents

“Is that what you’re going to say to Piccolini?”

“That is just about it.”

“Forget it,” Mathesson said wearily. “Petrakis will be in the slammer tonight no matter what. Piccolini won’t buy any of this.”

“Maybe so,” Reardon said.

“For sure,” Mathesson said. “And I’ll tell you something, John. I don’t buy it either. You’ve gone a little crazy on this case. Don’t ask me why, but you’ve been a little crazy on it from the beginning, from the first day when you saw those deer. And you’re going to fuck yourself up royally. And it’s all going to be for nothing. For that little shit out there. Who cares about him? He did it. Everything connects. I believe he did it. And I hope to hell that Piccolini locks him up, because he may have wasted more than those deer. He may have wasted two women in the Village. Remember, the one with the face like a child? I don’t want him on the streets because you have a hunch he didn’t do it.”

For a moment Mathesson glared furiously at Reardon, then he strode out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Reardon, exhausted, sat down in the empty office at the empty desk, the light streaming through the window, illuminating cascading clouds of city dust, alone.

When Reardon emerged from the office he walked directly past Petrakis and straight to Piccolini’s office. He entered it without knocking and closed the door behind him. Piccolini’s head shot up, startled. But when he saw Reardon standing stiffly in front of his desk, he relaxed, placed a hand behind his head and leaned back in his chair. He smiled. “Finished?”

“I don’t think so,” Reardon said.

“What’s the problem? Have you finished the interrogation?”

“Just about.”

“Did he confess?”

“No.”

Piccolini smiled. “He will,” he said confidently. “Maybe not right away, but he will.”

“No,” Reardon said, “he won’t.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway, does it?”

“Well…”

“Just go over the basics again,” Piccolini said.

“Well,” Reardon said, “we found the weapon. A Parks Department ax. Only one set of fingerprints; they belong to Petrakis. According to Daniels, Petrakis was near the Children’s Zoo just before the deer were killed. He was mad at his landlord, according to Bryant. His landlord was Wallace Van Allen. Petrakis knew the deer were given to the zoo by Van Allen because he worked there when they were donated.”

“Did you confront him with those facts?” Piccolini asked.

“Yes.”

“And he didn’t confess?”

“No.”

“Arrest him,” Piccolini said matter-of-factly.

“No,” Reardon said. “I don’t think we have a complete case.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t believe we do.”

Piccolini leaned forward in his chair and folded his hands in front of him. “That’s it? That’s your whole explanation?”

“Yes.”

“Based on nothing.”

“Based on Petrakis. I don’t believe he connects with the facts of the case.”

“He connects with the physical evidence,” Piccolini said, “and that’s enough of a connection for me. Arrest him.” He turned casually to get a book from the shelf behind his desk.

“No,” Reardon said, his whole body growing taut.

Piccolini wheeled around to face Reardon. “Arrest him!” he said coldly.

“Have him arrested if you want to, but not by me. I won’t do it. Get somebody else, not me.”

“Petrakis had a motive for the crime and the occasion to commit it,” Piccolini insisted.

“What motive?”

“What motive?” Piccolini said. “Are you kidding? He was in a rage at his landlord and his landlord was Wallace Van Allen. That’s a motive in anybody’s book.”

Reardon shrugged. “Petrakis thought his landlord was Julio Robles.”

“Who is Julio Robles?”

“The super in Petrakis’ old building.”

Piccolini grinned. “That’s just a cover. I’ve heard stuff like that a thousand times. So have you.”

“I believe he did not know that Wallace Van Allen owned the building he lived in,” Reardon said.

Piccolini leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Reardon, but something is.”

Reardon said nothing. He was not sure he disagreed with Piccolini about that. He was not sure but that something terrible was in fact wrong with him, but he could not name it.

“Do you have any real reason to hold off on the arrest of Petrakis?” Piccolini asked.

“No,” Reardon said immediately.

“Then arrest him.”

“No.”

“You’re off the case,” Piccolini said abruptly. “Send Mathesson in here. And tell Petrakis to wait right where he is.”

Reardon nodded. He felt like Petrakis. He felt as though there was nothing left of him.

That night Reardon could not sleep. He sat by his window watching the life of the street coil and strike beneath him. His mind was filled with the grotesque opera of his life: the hideous dismemberments, the familiar molestations. He remembered Whitmore, a confused and lonely boy from whom the detectives had gently nudged a false confession the way a kindly grandparent might coax candy from a grandchild. That’s what Mathesson and the others will do to Petrakis, he thought. Piccolini was right: Petrakis would confess to everything. He would embrace a confession as the fulfillment of his mother’s curse.

Reardon shook his head. He was off the case. He had been reassigned. It was his duty to take the reassignment, to forget about Petrakis, to let Mathesson and Piccolini handle it. Tomorrow morning there would be another homicide. The city offered up unexplained corpses with every dawn.

World without end, amen.

Toward dawn the walls of Reardon’s apartment seemed to be closing in on him. He had smoked three packs of cigarettes since eight o’clock, and the room floated before him in a haze of smoke. He crushed out the last cigarette of the third pack and walked down to the street.

Outside the early-morning delivery trucks lined the streets and avenues. The veins of the city were receiving their daily injections of food and drink and produce. The delivery men hustled from their trucks to the stores and back to the trucks again. It seemed to Reardon that they purposely made as much noise as possible, banging their carts on the curb or letting their packages drop from shoulder height to the sidewalk.

At 86th Street he took the Lexington Avenue express uptown toward the Bronx, something he often did when he felt the need for escape. Soon the train came out of the subway tunnel’s grimy darkness, and he was in open air again. From the tracks he could see the streets below him, but the sounds of the city were distant, less threatening, muffled by the whirr of the train. From the el the world seemed small and salvageable. The complexities of the city, its sprawling, unmanageable life, were reduced to a miniature version of itself. All its problems, and all of his, appeared less colossal from the vantage point of the train.

For years it had been Reardon’s final escape. It took him above everything, above the bickerings of family life, the rigors of work, the austerities of religion. It was the place where he regained himself, calmed himself, somehow took on the armor of endurance.

Between the Burnside Avenue and 183rd Street stations the train suddenly stopped. After a few moments the conductor announced over the public address system that there was a train out of service up ahead and that there would be a short delay. Reardon took the delay as a gift, a moment simply to rest, suspended between the city and the sky.

His eyes patrolled the windows that faced him on the other side of the tracks, probably only fifty feet away. The building was old and weather-beaten, but the apartment windows were large and full. Curtains or Venetian blinds covered most of them, so Reardon’s eyes fastened onto the one window open to his view. He could see a man pacing in a circle around a small boy. The man was dressed in work clothes and was very animated, throwing his arms in the air as he circled the child. Then he hit him, hard, with his open hand, and the child fell back into a chair.