Last Chance for Glory (3 page)

“You want me to bury the original, Lou? Like it doesn’t exist?”

“Are you kidding me? We’re tryin’ to show good faith here. We’re tryin’ to show that we’re tryin’ to respect this scumbag’s civil rights. Tag it and turn it in.”

9:15
PM

Melody Mitchell, upon opening the door, is relieved to find a smiling Tommy Brannigan standing in the hallway. She is relieved to find him alone. Detective Kosinski reminded her of those construction workers who once upon a time (and not
that
long ago) verbalized their most obscene fantasies as she walked down the street. By contrast, Detective Brannigan, with his quick broad smile and mop of unruly hair, looks almost boyish. He looks like an overgrown elf.

“Come in, Detective. Please.”

“Thanks. I’m not keeping you up, am I?” Brannigan stops to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “So, this is the famous Roscoe. Without Roscoe’s bladder, where would the criminal justice system be?”

Melody finds herself returning the detective’s smile. How can she do otherwise? His good humor is infectious, even though he’s only trying to put her mind at ease.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Detective?”

“As a matter of fact, I would. And if you don’t mind, we can use the kitchen table to set up the photo array.”

“Is that what it’s called? A photo array?”

“That’s how the lawyers say it.”

Melody sits Brannigan down and turns to the cabinet above her sink for cups and saucers. “How does it work? This photo array?”

“What I’ve done, Ms. Mitchell, is arrange eighteen photos of nine individuals on a single sheet of paper. All you have to do is look them over and tell me if you see the man you saw on the night of the murder. Believe me, it’s a lot easier than going through hundreds and hundreds of mug shots.”

“Does that mean you know who the killer is?” Melody comes back to the table, her hands filled with cups and saucers, spoons and napkins. She notes Detective Brannigan’s concentration. Whatever he’s thinking, she decides, he wants to make sure he gets it right.

“I guess that’s obvious enough, but I have to inform you that the man in question is only a suspect. He hasn’t been arrested yet. A lot depends on your identification. If you can
make
an identification. I don’t want to prejudice you.”

Melody pours the coffee, sets sugar and milk on the table, sits down. “You seem to be treading on water, Detective.”

“It’s the courts, Ms. Mitchell.” Brannigan shrugs his shoulders, sighs. “If the judge throws out the photo array, he’ll most likely throw out any further identification you make. In fact, he’ll probably throw you out altogether. Believe me, the suspect’s attorney will question you closely on what we do here tonight.”

“I understand.” The thought of being cross-examined in an open courtroom sobers Melody up. What, she thinks, will I do if there are reporters present? Or if it’s
televised?

“Would you explain the procedure, please?”

“I’m going to set the photo array down in front of you. I want you to look at it for a full minute before you say anything. Take as long as you want, but even if you can make an identification the instant you glance at the sheet, keep looking for a full moment. Look at every single face.”

Melody, peering down at the nine faces, the eighteen poses, thinks that Detective Brannigan needn’t have bothered with that last instruction. The men seem no more distinct than the faces she’s already seen. Still, she goes over them, one by one, trying to view each man as an individual, reminding herself that there’s an actual suspect on the page. A minute goes by, then another, then a third before she finally raises her head.

“I don’t know,” she explains. “Nothing jumps out at me. I’d have to say that number three and number nine come the closest. But I don’t remember the scar.”

“If the scar wasn’t there, would you identify number three as the man you saw that night? Take another look. Please. Give your memory a chance.”

Melody stares at the young man in the black overcoat, trying to excise the scar beneath his eye. He does, she admits to herself, look familiar. Something about the dark eyes and the coarse dark hair.

“If I’d only known the man I saw was a killer when I first saw him,” she says, “I’d be able to remember. He looked right at me, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

“Even though it was almost three o’clock in the morning?”

“It was Saturday night, Detective Brannigan. In New York City. But I will say there was nothing about the man that alarmed me.”

Brannigan drains the cup, sets it back on the saucer. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You said numbers three and nine look most like the man you saw. Is that right?”

“Number three is closer. Except for the scar.”

“But you wouldn’t be able to identify him in court.”

“No, I’m not that sure.”

Brannigan straightens up. He leans over the table, his features composed and serious, his eyes intense. “Ms. Mitchell, do you know what hypnotic regression is?”

“Yes, of course. I hope you don’t intend to hypnotize me.”

“Not me,” Brannigan manages a laugh. “See, I don’t know how far you’re willing to take this. Hypnosis has worked for us in the past, but not if the subject feels coerced.” He taps the tabletop with a finger, turns his head away for a moment. “What I’d like to do is identify or eliminate this particular suspect. To be honest, I don’t really care which way it goes. I mean I don’t want to spend a lot of time pursuing a dead end, but if the suspect is actually the perpetrator, I don’t want to see him walk away, either. I don’t want to put a killer back on the street.”

The implication, as Melody understands it, is that if she refuses to be hypnotized,
she
will be the one putting a killer back on the street. Her first reaction is resentment. She doesn’t appreciate being pressured, but she can’t deny the truth of what Detective Brannigan says, either. After all, she saw the body for herself.

“When would you want to do this, Detective? The hypnosis.”

“I can set it up for tomorrow morning. We’ll be using a clinical psychologist, Doctor Elizabeth Kenton. We’ve used her before.”

“Well, I guess I can spare a few hours in the interest of justice.” She grimaces. “Being as I have nothing else to do, anyway.”

Brannigan’s grin spreads from ear to ear. “Great, that’s just great. Listen, you think I could use the phone for a couple of minutes?”

“Certainly. Take the one in the living room. I’ll tidy up the kitchen.”

December 12: 4:40
AM

Tommy Brannigan enters the Thirteenth Precinct, nods to the sergeant, then charges into the toilet. Three containers of coffee after four hours of sleep have strained his bladder to the breaking point. He thinks of Roscoe, Melody Mitchell’s dog, as he stands in front of the urinal.

“Roscoe,” he says out loud, “I know just how you fucking feel.”

“How’s that?”

Brannigan turns his head (while, fortunately enough, keeping the rest of his body pointed in the right direction) to find Sergeant Adolphus Cobb standing right behind him.

“Jeez, Sarge, don’t walk so soft. I didn’t hear you.”

“Jeez, Tommy, don’t piss so loud. You wouldn’t have heard an elephant if he blew a kiss in your ear.”

Cobb stands with his legs apart, hands jammed on his hips. He is every inch the spit-and-polish professional, the veteran sergeant with a hard-on for every cop above or below his rank. Brannigan, however, is not intimidated. He knows that Adolphus Cobb entered the job at a time when a black cop’s fellow officers left King Kong posters in his locker. Bunches of bananas. Watermelons. Now Cobb has to order these same cops around.

“I took care of business for you, Tommy. Just like you asked. I gave the perp a sandwich right after you called. Took it out of my own lunch pail. Around one, I brought in a cot and told him to go to sleep.”

“He give you any trouble?”

“He made noises like he wanted to go home, but I reminded him that it’s nice and warm in here. ‘Son, it’s twenty degrees outside,’ I said. “And the wind is blowin’ up a storm. Plus, you got to walk all the way back to the river and sleep in a box. And it ain’t gonna do you no good, neither, ’cause we’re just gonna come lookin’ for your sorry ass tomorrow.’”

“Did he get the message?”

“Yeah, he’s dumb, but he ain’t crazy. Fact, he’s a nice kid. Don’t seem like the type to go out and kill nobody.”

“Shit, Sarge, most of the time Billy Sowell’s so drunk he doesn’t know what he’s doing or when he’s doing it. He couldn’t even tell me where he was the day before yesterday. Look, I owe you for this. You need a favor and I can do it, it’s yours.”

“Understood.”

“By the way, you want a piece of this collar? Being as my partner’s off and I could use a little help.”

“What kind of help?”

“I’m gonna start turning this perp around and I could use someone to play the bad cop. I don’t know why, but I got this feeling you’ll do just fine.”

5:15
AM

Billy Sowell wakes from a deep, almost drugged sleep to find a very somber Detective Brannigan leaning over him. For once, Detective Brannigan isn’t smiling. In fact, he seems puzzled and worried and sad all at the same time. Billy rubs his eyes, attempts to pull it together. He needs a drink and he knows it. His hands are shaking and he can’t seem to focus very well. Nevertheless, he has no problem seeing the face that suddenly appears behind Detective Brannigan’s shoulder.

“Drag the boy off that cot,” the face says. “He’s fakin’.”

Faking what? Billy thinks. I just woke up.

“Billy,” Detective Brannigan says, “this is Sergeant Cobb. He’s gonna be working with us this morning.”

“Hello,” Billy says. He notes Cobb’s black skin, but that doesn’t bother him. He’s been living on the streets too long to be automatically afraid of a black face, although it wasn’t always like that. No, when his mother died and he had to go to the shelter, the only thing he knew about black people was what he’d seen on television. For the first two weeks, he thought every black man in the shelter was out to kill him.

“Billy, we have a big problem here,” Detective Brannigan says calmly. “Try to wake up and pay attention.”

“I need a drink.” Billy smiles when he says it, smiles apologetically. He knows his problem is getting worse, but he doesn’t know what to do about it.

“I understand, Billy.” Detective Brannigan lays a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “But we’ve got to clear this up first. You can have some coffee, if you like.”

“Don’t give him no damn coffee,” Sergeant Cobb barks. “Don’t give him nothin’.”

Detective Brannigan turns to face Sergeant Cobb. “Take it easy, Sarge. We could
all
use some coffee.”

Sergeant Cobb fixes Billy with a threatening stare, one Billy has seen many times. In the past, the stare always meant that somebody wanted something—his alcohol, his shoes, his toothbrush, even his body. Most of the time, Billy gave up what they wanted, because he didn’t know how to fight. He hadn’t grown up that way. Living with his mom, there hadn’t been anyone to fight with.

Billy watches Sergeant Cobb walk out of the room, wishing, as he has so many times, that his mother was still alive, that he was back in their little apartment. He imagines them sitting down to dinner, watching television, doing a puzzle. They had lived as if they were the only two people in the world.

“Are you with me, Billy?” Detective Brannigan is smiling again.

“Yes.”

“We showed your picture to a witness, Billy, and she thinks you were there when Sondra Tillson was murdered.”

“But I wasn’t. I wasn’t there.”

“How do you know, Billy? How do you know that you weren’t there?”

“Because I didn’t do it.”

“That’s what I used to believe, Billy. But I’m not so sure, now. Maybe you did do it.”

“No, I …”

“Hush, Billy. Just listen for a minute. Maybe you killed that woman and forgot about it. Maybe you were very drunk that night. Do you know what a blackout is?”

“No.”

“When people drink, sometimes they can’t remember. Sometimes they lose whole days and nights of their lives. It’s very common, Billy. People who drink forget what they’ve done.”

“I wouldn’t forget that. I couldn’t forget something like that.”

“How do you know? See, if you could just tell me where you were on the night Sondra Tillson was murdered, I could check it out, but you can’t tell me anything. So, what am I supposed to do? I have to go by the evidence and right now it’s all against you.”

Billy doesn’t know what to say. Detective Brannigan must be right about the blackouts, because he, Billy, definitely doesn’t remember Sondra Tillson or what he’s come to think of as “that night.”

“Look, Billy,” Detective Brannigan says, “if you’re really innocent, I still want to clear you. Maybe, if I go to your place by the river and look through your things, I can find something to help you.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to find.”

“We won’t know unless we look, will we?”

“I guess not.”

“Now, I’m going to need your permission. I can’t do it unless you let me. Please, Billy, it’s for your own good.”

“Have you lost your goddamn mind, Brannigan?”

Billy looks up to find Sergeant Cobb standing in the doorway. The Sergeant is angrier than ever.

“What we oughta do,” he says, pointing a finger at Billy, “is lock him up in a cell. Let the boys fuck his killer ass for a few days. Loosen the little prick up.”

6:15
AM

“I just know there’s fleas in these fucking blankets.” Adolphus Cobb shines his six-cell flashlight around the interior of Billy Sowell’s packing-crate home.

“Don’t worry about it. We’re not gonna be here long. I’m not lookin’ for a written confession.”

“Just what
are
we lookin’ for, Tommy? What are we doing here at six o’clock in the goddamned morning?”

“We’re lookin’ for this, Sarge. This murder weapon right here.” The knife Brannigan holds between his thumb and forefinger sports a six-inch blade.

“Oh, man,” Cobb complains, “that don’t prove shit. A man sleeps on the street, he’s gotta keep somethin’ with him. You see blood on it?”