Last Chance for Glory (4 page)

“Hard to say. But it could have been the murder weapon. The ME says she was killed with a blade at least five inches long. The perp cut her three times. Twice on the arm where she tried to defend herself, once in the throat. She bled out.”

“Any blood on Sowell’s clothes? There’d have to be blood on his clothes.”

Brannigan, having put the knife into an evidence bag, is examining Billy Sowell’s clothing, one item at a time. “Not that I could see, but he had two weeks to get rid of the clothes.”

“Yeah?” Adolphus Cobb shines his flashlight directly into Brannigan’s face. His unexpected laughter is deep and rich. “Well, it’s your case, Tommy, but if he got rid of the clothes, how come he kept the knife?”

11:45
AM

Q: I want you to imagine that you’re standing at the top of a flight of stairs. The flight has fifteen steps and as you descend, you will find yourself drifting back in time. Drifting back one day with each step. When you get to the landing you will be all the way back to the night of November twenty-seventh. You’ll awaken in your bed, relaxed and comfortable. Now, begin your descent, Melody. One step, then another and another. Perfectly relaxed.
(pause)
Melody?

A: Yes.

Q: Can you tell me where you are?

A: I’m in my bed.

Q: Does something wake you up?

A: Yes, it’s Roscoe. My dog. He’s whining and barking. He wants to go out.

Q: And how do you respond?

A: I know I have to take him. If I don’t, he’ll urinate in the apartment. Roscoe hates that. He feels humiliated. He doesn’t like being an old dog.

Q: Do you get dressed?

A: No, I put on my coat over my nightgown. Then my warm boots.

Q: Is it cold?

A: It’s cold outside. It was cold when I took Roscoe out after the news.

Q: What do you do next, Melody?

A: We take the elevator down to the lobby. Petya is standing by the door.

Q: Who is Petya?

A: Petya is the doorman.

Q: Can you see him?

A: Yes. He’s complaining about the cold.

Q: Look carefully. Can you tell me what Petya’s wearing?

A: He’s wearing his uniform.

Q: Can you describe this uniform?

A: Petya’s wearing a white shirt and a black bow tie. His jacket is tan. It has four buttons, but the last button is open. His trousers match his jacket.

Q: Does he always wear the same uniform?

A: No, he has a gray uniform as well.
(laughter)
But he always leaves the last button unbuttoned. That’s because of his potbelly.

Q: What happens next, Melody? What do you do?

A: I take Roscoe to the curb. I guess I’m still half asleep, because I don’t notice anything until Roscoe growls. I look down the street and I see a man standing by a car halfway down the block.

Q: I want you to slow down, now. I want you to go very, very slowly. Begin with his shoes. Can you tell me what color his shoes are?

A: No, I don’t remember the shoes. I didn’t look at his shoes.

Q: That’s all right, Melody. Just relax. Do you remember what we discussed earlier? About this not being a test?

A: Yes.

Q: And do you remember what I told you about not trying to see anything that’s not there? That you’re just a reporter, a camera?

A: Yes.

Q: Now I want you to let your eyes move up along his body. Can you see his hands?

A: Yes. He’s holding something in his right hand. Now he’s turning away, moving his hand behind his body. I, I …

Q: Easy, Melody. Take your time. Look at his hands again. Remember, it’s just like watching a videotape. You can stop it, reverse it, anything you like. Now, he’s holding something in his right hand. Is there a gleam? Does it reflect light? Is it metal?

A: Yes. I think he’s holding a set of keys.

Q: How is he holding them? Are they in his fist?

A: He’s holding them between his thumb and forefinger.

Q: How many keys can you see?

A: I can’t tell. I see a bunch of keys on a key ring. All dangling down.

Q:
Fine, Melody. You’re doing just fine. Now, let your focus drift upward, up to his neck. Tell me when you can see his chest and his neck.

A: I can see his chest and his neck.

Q: What is he wearing?

A: He’s wearing an overcoat.

Q: Can you describe it?

A: I would say it’s expensive, but I’m pretty far away and it’s night.
(pause)
It doesn’t seem to be dirty or torn.

Q: Is he wearing a tie?

A: His overcoat is buttoned to the top. I can’t tell.

Q: Can you see his throat above the collar?

A Yes.

Q: Do you see anything unusual? Any marks? Any scars?

A: No.

Q: All right. Take another deep breath. Good. Let it out. Your focus is moving upward again. Up and up until you’re looking directly at his face. Are you looking at his face, Melody?

A: Yes.

Q: Will you describe his face for me?

A: He has dark curly hair. It’s standing off his scalp, spilling onto his forehead. The streetlight is behind him and his hair is casting a shadow over the upper part of his face. His eyebrows are bushy. I can see that much. His nose is straight and his lips are full. He has a broad, square skull, a strong chin.

Q: Can you tell me the color of his eyes?

A: No, his eyes are in the shadow.

Q: Does he have a round chin or is there a cleft?

A: I can’t be sure.

Q: Are his ears flat against his skull or do they stick out?

A: Flat.

Q: Is he wearing an earring?

A: No.

Q: All right, now go back to his face. Focus on his face.

A: His eyes are in shadow. I can see a line. No. … It’s very hazy. It might be there and it might not. I just can’t be sure.

Q: Can’t be sure about what? What are you seeing?

A: No, no. I can see something, but I don’t know what it is.

Q: Shhhhhh. Just relax, Melody. Stop the video and take your time. Remember what I told you before we started? I only want you to tell me what you see. Don’t try to tell me what you don’t see. All right?

A: Yes.

Q: Good. You can go ahead, now.

“How are you feeling?”

Detective Brannigan is wearing his serious, sincere look. Melody wishes he’d smile.

“I feel fine,” she replies. “But I guess I wasn’t much help.”

“You remembered the keys, Ms. Mitchell. That puts whoever you saw
in
the car. He wasn’t just a passerby who didn’t want to get involved. The man you saw must’ve been the killer.”

Melody feels her chest tighten. It’s funny, she thinks, you hear, see, and read about crime every single day, but you don’t have any idea what it feels like until it happens to you. Or, at least, until you get close to it. “Well, Detective, if there’s anything else I can do for you …”

“There is one thing, Ms. Mitchell. Before you go, would you mind taking another look at those photographs?”

1:15
PM

Billy Sowell has been asleep for all of two hours when Sergeant Cobb enters the interview room. Billy is dreaming about his mother. She is telling him that he won’t have to go to school any more, that she is perfectly capable of teaching him every single thing he needs to know. Hasn’t she taught him the alphabet? Hasn’t she taught him to print his name? The other children are too fast for him. Too fast and too cruel.

Billy hears Sergeant Cobb shout his name, but in his dream, the sergeant’s voice becomes the voice of his mother calling him down to breakfast.

“Get up, Billy. Get up.”

Billy responds by rolling over on the cot, muttering, “In a minute, Mom.”

The next thing he knows, he’s crashing onto the floor of the interview room and his eyes are opening fast. Opening on Sergeant Cobb’s enraged face.

“When I tell you to do somethin’, you do it, boy. And you do it fast.”

Billy smiles. He looks for Detective Brannigan’s face. Looks for protection. Looks for his mother.

“You lookin’ for your girlfriend? Huh, sissy? You lookin’ for Dee-tec-tive Bran-ni-gan? Is he your sweetheart? Answer me, bitch.”

“I don’t understand …”

“Stand up. Right the fuck now.”

Billy starts to obey, but Sergeant Cobb’s hands are in his shirt before he can move. He feels himself propelled upward, finds his face within inches of Sergeant Cobb’s. Sergeant Cobb’s eyes are huge, and round, and red with anger.

“You killed that woman, Billy. We found your knife in that box you live in. We know you killed her.”

“No, I …”

“Yeah, you did. And here’s how it went down. First, you watched her park the car. Nice pretty blond like that. You watched her and you wondered just what her pussy would feel like. You wondered until you were so crazy, you didn’t know what you’re doing. Then she opened the door and you went up to her. You went up to her and told her exactly what you wanted to do.”

“Please, I don’t remember. I don’t …”

“She looked at you like you were a bug. Something she wanted to step on. A retarded, smelly, homeless bug. That made you angry, didn’t it, Billy? It made you so angry that you forgot all about your dick and how hot you were. You hit her. You hit her in the face and pushed her back into the car.”

“No.”

“Then you got in after her. You closed the door and looked at her. She wasn’t disgusted then, was she? No, she was afraid and you liked that. You took out your knife and stabbed at her. Once, twice, until the pain made her yank her arm down. Then, Billy, then you could see her throat, her soft white throat, and that’s exactly where the knife went. Into her soft, white throat.”

“Oh, God. Mama, help me. Mama, Mama, Mama …”

“You watched her choke on her own blood. There was lots of blood, wasn’t there? Lots and lots and lots of blood. Blood on the seat, blood on the windows, blood on the floor, blood on
you.
You knew you had to leave before somebody saw what you did, so you pushed her into the backseat, got out of the car, and locked the door. Then you heard a dog growl and you looked up. There was a woman staring at you. She
saw
you with the keys. You wanted to kill her, too, but you were afraid of the dog.”

“No …”

“She says you were there, Billy. You had the car keys in your fuckin’ hand.”

“I wasn’t there. Please, God, what are you doing to me? I want to go home.”

“Home? The only place you’re going to is hell. You understand that, bitch?”

Billy isn’t prepared for the punch that catches him in the stomach. He doesn’t realize what happened until he’s on the floor, trying to regain his breath.

“Now, you listen to me, you little fag. De-tec-tive Bran-ni-gan might be willin’ to take your shit, but I ain’t cut from that cloth. You sass me one more time, I’m gonna rip your heart out and make you eat it. Understand what I’m sayin’?”

“Yes.”

“Get up.”

Billy struggles to his feet, is spun around, cuffed, then spun again to face Sergeant Cobb. He looks into Cobb’s eyes and thinks that this is a man who likes to hurt people. Billy’s seen that look before. Seen it on the faces of men he learned to avoid. They were the reason he left the shelter and took to the streets.

“Now, you’re gonna do the right thing, ain’t you, Billy?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to repeat what I say. Exactly the way I say it, understand?”

“Yes.”

“And no bullshit, neither.
Exactly
what I say.”

“All right.”

“I was out beggin’ for spare change.”

“I was out begging for spare change.”

“And I saw this blond woman.”

“I saw this blond woman.”

December 14: 10:00
AM

“Now, don’t worry, Ms. Mitchell, this is a one-way window. You can see in, but the suspect can’t see out.”

Melody Mitchell barely hears Detective Brannigan’s words. She’s seen too many television cop shows to be surprised by any of this. Besides,
she
wasn’t the victim;
she
has no horrible experience to relive. Nevertheless, she waits patiently (and politely) for Detective Brannigan to finish.

“The platform is empty, now, but in a minute or two, nine individuals will come out and take their places. I don’t want you to rush this. Look at every single face before you make a decision. If you want to see their profiles or hear them speak, all you have to do is ask.”

“Fine, Detective. I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” When the men begin to file onto the platform, Melody is not surprised to find them equally seedy, equally nondescript. (That, she thinks, is what a fair lineup is all about.) No, what shocks her is a sudden burst of recognition that flows through her body, from her toes to the rising hairs on the back of her neck.

“My God,” she says, pointing to Billy Sowell, “that’s
him.”
She puts her hand over her mouth and steps backward onto Brannigan’s toes. “That’s the killer. That’s him.”

“Which one, Ms. Mitchell?”

“Number five. On the right.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I’m standing here. He’s a lot different in person. Different from his photo, that is. But now that I see him, I’m a hundred percent positive. That man, the one with the scar, is the man I saw by the automobile.”

“Will you testify to that in a courtroom? Think twice, Ms. Mitchell. Criminal trials have a way of getting rough in a hurry.”

Melody Mitchell turns to face the tall detective. She jams her hands into her hips. “It may surprise you to learn,” she declares, “that there are people in New York City committed to the idea of justice.
Ordinary
people, not policemen. I not only positively identify this man here and now, but I will do it as many times as necessary. And I will do it in front of anyone and everyone with a need to know. Is that enough for you?”

“Yes, Ms. Mitchell.” Detective Brannigan’s composed features suddenly jump into a huge grin. “That is definitely, absolutely, positively enough.”

1:00
PM

“I think it’s time, Billy. I think it’s time we got it over with.”

Billy Sowell looks up through tear-stained eyes, nods slowly.

“Don’t cry, Billy. It’s gonna be okay.” Tommy Brannigan lays his palms on either side of Billy’s face. His own eyes are brimming. “We tried to clear you, but we just couldn’t. It’s nobody’s fault.”