Suspects (19 page)

“May I help you, please?” An unctuous-faced man stepped from a doorway in the softly lighted hallway, dry-washing his plump hands. He was wearing a white carnation.

“A kid, a young man just came in here,” Moody said. “Where'd he go?”

“I didn't see him,” said the undertaker's man. “I was just in the bathr—”

The detectives ran to look in the viewing rooms, one off the hallway on the right, another to the left. Both were empty of humanity dead or alive, but the floral pieces remained in the right-hand room. Moody recognized the pitiful little basket sent by the homicide squad.

They trotted to the end of the hall. Moody turned and shouted at the carnation man, who had followed tentatively behind them.

“How do you get out this way?”

The man gestured fussily and came to join them. LeBeau flashed the gold shield at him.

“Oh, gosh,” the functionary gasped. “Right through there.”

The detectives went down a flight of stairs, opened another door, and were outside, at the edge of the asphalt parking lot. The hearse was drawn up at a big door farther along, and into it men were sliding the smaller casket.

“Where in hell
is
he?” Moody cried. “Did we miss him inside someplace? They bring the coffins down by elevator, I think.”

He went to look in the hearse while LeBeau questioned the undertaker's people. When they were back together, Moody said, “I can't find Larry, either. Come on!”

They returned to the building at the run. Acting on instinct, Moody now at last drew his weapon. They began a systematic search of the rooms on the main floor. The second door they tried was that of a tiny lavatory, a facility apparently used by the public, as opposed to the one from which the carnation man had come.

Larry Howland was there, backed against the wall in the space between the washbowl and the toilet stall, by the young man they had seen at the entrance of the building a minute or two earlier. The latter was pressing a large revolver against the midsection of Larry's dark suit.

Moody put the muzzle of his own short-barreled .38 an inch from the back of the man's skull and identified it for him as a gun. “We're police officers. Now, very carefully, you put your weapon into the washbasin. Don't drop it. Just reach over and put it down real careful, so it won't discharge.”

The young man failed to comply. It was as though he had not heard the order. He was short and slender, scarcely more than a boy. He could easily have been lifted off his feet from behind, or knocked off balance, but if his finger was on the trigger (Moody could not, at the close-quarter angle, see), such moves would be too dangerous to attempt.

Four men were crowded into a space that would have been uncomfortable for two, unless one remained in the stall. There was no urinal here. Was it a ladies' room?

“Come on, son,” Moody said. His heart was racing, but he simulated calm in his exterior self. “Give it up. You're not getting anywhere.”

Cowering against the wall, Larry was trying to speak. He finally succeeded in producing a sound between a whisper and a scream.
“He's crazy.”

The young man with the gun stayed silent. LeBeau was half behind Moody, half to his side. Moody could feel the tension in his partner. “Look, son,” he said in his avuncular tone to the fair-haired crown just beyond and below his chin. “Put the gun in the washbasin. Nobody's gotten shot yet. Let's keep it that way.”

LeBeau was suddenly struck in the shoulder by the outer door, which opened as far as it could, the smooth face of the man with the carnation peeping in through the aperture. “Will you be much longer?” he asked. “They're ready to start for the crematory.”

“Go away,” Moody told him. It was easier for him to reach around Dennis to slam the door than for the latter, at his angle, to bring up a hand.

“Crematory?” asked the lad with the gun. “You're cremating them?” He uttered a howl of anguish. He dropped the weapon on the tile floor, hung his head, and sobbed. While this sequence was in progress LeBeau reached around and seized him, flung him against the closed door, brought his wrists into the small of his back, and cuffed him. The boy offered no resistance whatever.

Moody picked up the heavy pistol. It was a blued-steel .357 magnum. All the cylinders were empty. He asked LeBeau to look for ammo in searching the young man's pockets.

He addressed Larry Howland, who had remained against the wall for the reason that there was noplace else to go at the moment. “Did he take anything from you?”

“He's my half brother,” Larry said.

“Let's get out where we can breathe.” Moody helped LeBeau open the door and move the prisoner into the hallway. The carnation man was lurking nearby. “Tell ‘em to turn off the motor,” Moody said. “Nobody's going anywhere at the moment. This is a criminal investigation. You don't want to obstruct it.”

“I certainly do not, Officer. You're absolutely right.”

“Is that the men's or ladies' room?”

“It's for anybody. It's the only public one.” The man hustled away.

“What did you do with the bullets?” LeBeau asked the prisoner, completing the body search.

The young man spoke for the second time. His face was wet. “I threw them away.”

“What's your name?”

“Lloyd Howland.”

“Where's your ID?” asked Moody.

“There's nothing on him,” LeBeau said.

“We've been wanting to talk to you for a couple days, Lloyd,” said Moody. “Where've you been?”

Lloyd's head fell. “I would have been here if I only knew. I would never have gone away.”

“Let me tell you something, Lloyd. When we ask questions, you have to answer them,” Moody told him. “It's a serious crime to menace somebody with a gun even if it's empty, and I'd be surprised if you had a license for it in the first place. So we got plenty to book you on.”

Lloyd raised his pale eyes, from which tears were suddenly flowing again. “He did it.”

“Who's he?”

“I should have killed him. I should have kept the bullets and killed him. But he's my brother.”

Moody asked LeBeau to read Lloyd his rights. Larry was staying in the bathroom. Moody returned there now and found him throwing cold water on his face and, inevitably, wetting his tie and shirt front.

“Do you want to tell us anything before we take him down to be booked?”

Howland turned his streaming face to Moody. “Do you have to arrest him?”

“He was menacing you with a deadly weapon.”

“It was unloaded. You said so yourself.”

“What were you doing, listening at the door? Then you must have heard him also say he wishes he had killed you.”

Larry winced. “He overreacts a lot. He's overemotional. He was real close to Donna.”

“What do you mean?”

The tall, soft man shook his head. “No, not that. He…well, he might be gay for all I know. I don't really think so, but at least he doesn't seem interested in sex. Anyhow, Donna wasn't either. I can testify to that.” Larry tore several paper towels from the dispenser, made a pad of them, and patted his now mottled cheeks. “I'm not saying he didn't throw a scare into me with that gun in my gut, but it's different if it wasn't loaded.”

“What about his regret he didn't kill you?”

“I don't believe it,” Larry said into the mirror. “Lloyd's a little screwed up, but he's no criminal. He was crazy about Donna and Mandy.”

“He thinks
you
murdered them.”

Larry turned to face him. “You shouldn't be talking like that!” “What did he say to you?”

Howland resumed patting his forehead with the pad of paper towels, though moisture could no longer be seen there. “He was babbling. I didn't understand what he was saying. He grabbed me. I was on my way out to follow the hearse. I didn't know what he wanted! He didn't say a coherent word. I was in shock, I guess. I mean, not only was he waving that gun, but I never had a slight difference of opinion with him, ever. This isn't like him.”

“I thought you said he overreacts a lot.”

“Oh.” Larry dropped the padded towels into a tall white waste can with a squeaky swinging top. “He's had run-ins with people everywhere he's ever worked, at least according to what he told Donna, and he changes jobs all the time. If you ask why, he mentions the boss or his coworkers having it in for him.”

“Think he ever got violent?”

“No,” Larry answered quickly. “I mean, I never talked to any of the people worked with him, but I wouldn't say from the way I've known him he was a violent person. I think he might do a lot of mouthing off.” He stared defiantly at Moody. “I refuse to press charges against him.”

“It's not your say-so. Two police officers were eyeball witnesses.”

“The gun was unloaded!”

“That might mean less than you think.”

Larry pushed past Moody without touching him, a feat in the constricted space. He turned at the door to say, “You let Lloyd go. He's harmless! And when can I get back to my house, for a change of clothes and some other personal items?”

“I think a supervised visit can be arranged,” Moody told him. “It might help if you're a little more cooperative in giving us simple information.”

“You've got my word on it.”

The detectives booked Lloyd Howland on as many charges as they could associate with the incident in the washroom of the mortuary, among them menacing, illegal possession of a deadly weapon, resisting police officers, battery, threatening bodily harm, and others, the purpose of the excess being so that some of it could be thrown out in the inevitable deal made between the state, the defense, and the judge. As cops they were only too aware that any lawyer could render most of these counts ineffectual, with an unloaded gun and a supposed victim who refused to testify against the alleged assailant, but their principal interest in Lloyd concerned the murders of his sister-in-law and niece and the arrest provided an excuse to keep him for a while at their disposal. Even so, a lawyer could have sprung him on low bail within a few hours.

But as it happened, Lloyd refused to seek legal counsel, which refusal, if immediately convenient, might well be troublesome in the longer run, for though it would be easier to interrogate him without the obstruction of an attorney, if he decided to get one at any time in the future the first thing the counselor would arrange was a repudiation of everything his new client had said without legal representation. The fact was, the entire system was run so as to keep cops at a disadvantage, or so it was seen by all law-enforcement personnel.

Moody assumed his paternal manner in the interrogation room. “Like something to eat or drink, son? Did you have lunch? How about a burger?”

The wan young man silently shook his hanging head.

“How'd you get that scratch on your face?” LeBeau asked. “Look at me. That cut or scratch, where'd you get it?”

Lloyd stared dully at him. “Shaving.”

Leaning back, as if relaxed and confident, Moody asked, “Where'd the three-fifty-seven come from?”

“What?”

“The gun.”

“I stole it.”

“Who from?”

“From a gun store.”

“It's not new,” said LeBeau.

“Don't they ever sell used guns?” The lad was not an experienced criminal, whatever else he might be. This sounded like a genuine question.

Moody asked, “Have you used this weapon to commit other crimes?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why did you want to kill your brother?”

Lloyd closed his eyes. “It's personal.”

“There you're wrong,” said Moody. “It's illegal to threaten to kill somebody. You want to fight with your brother, it's nobody's business only if you don't break the law.”

Lloyd's face suddenly looked as if threatened with disintegration, and he clutched at it. His shoulders were heaving. For an instant, until the tears came through the fingers and coursed down the backs of the young man's hands, Moody thought it might be a seizure of the epileptic kind.

LeBeau wore a faint sneer. He was always distrustful of suspects who interrupted the rhythm of an interrogation. He now coldly repeated Moody's earlier question. “Why'd you want to kill your brother?” But Lloyd, lost in his weeping, made no answer. Dennis became more contemptuous. “What are you really crying about? Because you got arrested?”

Moody carried a little packet of Kleenexes, which often came in handy throughout the day and cut down on his laundry, and he now produced it and peeled off a couple of sheets and gave them to Lloyd, who politely thanked him.

“It would make a better impression if you answered the questions,” LeBeau said ominously. “It really would.” He angrily rose from his chair and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him, in a display of fake emotion.

Moody settled back again and spoke paternally. “We wanted to talk to you for a couple days but had a hard time finding you. Mind telling me why you gave your brother's phone number to the Valmarket personnel people?”

“I didn't have a phone of my own.”

“And I hear from”—Moody flipped his notebook back to the appropriate page—“Jack Duncan, produce manager, that you didn't do much of a job. In fact he fired you—and you drew a knife on him?”

“That's a dirty lie!” Indignation superseded grief, to be replaced by bitterness. “But I doubt you want to hear the truth.”

“You seem intelligent,” Moody said. “Use your head. Why wouldn't I want to know the truth? Because this Duncan is paying me off in fresh cabbages? I'm trying to get your side of it. Give me some help.”

“I had a utility knife to cut cartons with. It was the store's property. When he fired me I was just trying to return it.”