Suspects (25 page)

Dr. Gilbertson asked him to tell her about Artie's death.

“Yes, ma'am.”

When he had finished the account, the doctor said, “Thanks. I know that wasn't easy.”

“No, ma'am.”

“You don't have to address me so formally, and you don't have to sit at attention. This isn't a disciplinary hearing, and I don't have any authority over you. Authority's something police officers worry about a lot, I know. And they should. That's their profession.”

“Doctor, if I can just say this before we go further: I'm not in any danger of committing suicide or anything like that. I just regret not doing more to stop Officer McCall from endangering his life.”

“What more could you have done?” Dr. Gilbertson asked. “You warned him to wait for the backup.”

Marevitch winced. “It wasn't exactly a warning: I don't wanna take credit for that. It was more like a suggestion.”

“But he heard you, didn't he?”

“I guess so.”

“But he decided he knew better, didn't he?” Dr. Gilbertson said, her eyes bright. “He was a younger man, with less experience, but he knew better.”

“I wouldn't put it that way,” said Marevitch, staring into his lap.

“But it's true, isn't it?” the doctor asked implacably. “The fact that your partner was killed doesn't change the truth, does it? Officer McCall was taking a risk that shouldn't have been taken.”

“Too much is being made of that, too goddam much.” Marevitch suddenly seethed with emotion. “How could we have known what was going on inside there without looking? The windows, even the door, were all covered with signs advertising cut-rate prices. Somebody might have been dying inside: we wouldn't know. We don't have X-ray vision, for God's sake.”

Dr. Gilbertson nodded briskly. “I think you're right. McCall was doing the only thing he could have done in view of the existing circumstances. He wasn't taking an unreasonable, unprofessional risk. In a situation like that, time counts, doesn't it? Waiting even a minute or two for the backups to arrive could be too long. The perps might be going out the back door or they might be hurting people, even killing them. Every second matters. He was doing his job. He was doing the right thing. Being a cop is always a risky business.”

Marevitch's head had been lowered during her remarks. His face came up slowly now. “That's what the perps did anyway: they exited the alley door after they killed Artie. There were just two of us; we couldn't cover the back. The SWATs were only half a block away by then, with a vanload of men with automatic weapons, stun grenades, what-have-you. We didn't hear a sound from inside. They weren't shooting anybody at that point. They had already killed everybody in the store and were probably looting the place. Probably if we had just sat tight they would have been there when the SWATs arrived. They might not even have known we were there: we killed the siren before we hit the neighborhood.”

“Well,” Dr. Gilbertson said solemnly, respectfully, “then it was
not
the right thing to do.”

“No.” He was relieved by the admission.

“What you really feel, underneath it all, is resentment. Artie shouldn't have done it. He shouldn't have got himself killed, depriving you of the best partner you ever had.”

So as to avoid the ultimate capitulation a while longer, Marevitch squinted at her and asked, “How did you know that?”

“Because a cop's current partner is always the best he's ever had. Am I right?”

“Because you've got to rely on him,” Marevitch said in assent, but he was almost annoyed that she knew so much.

Dr. Gilbertson answered his unspoken question. “My dad was a police officer all his adult life, and so was my late husband, though for a shorter time.”

Marevitch felt as though a burden had been lifted from him. He looked again at the nameplate on her desk: “Gilbertson.” He could not remember anybody with that name. “Our force?”

“My dad was Anthony Accordino.”

“Chief of detectives, what, twenty years back? He passed away some time ago, didn't he?”

“He did,” said Dr. Gilbertson. “My late husband, Trooper James Gilbertson, was a rookie in the state police. He was shot through the head by a driver he had stopped for a broken taillight. He didn't have a partner.”

“Yeah,” Marevitch said. “I recall: wasn't that on a state road west of Summitsburg somewhere? About fifteen years ago?”

“Nineteen,” said the doctor. “Anyhow, that's why I know more about police work than I learned at college.”

“I think you do,” Marevitch said with gratitude.

“But what really matters is if you yourself understand how you feel about what happened the other day at the liquor store. I'll tell you how
I
felt when Jim was killed: for a while I hated
him
for letting them do it to him, for leaving me stranded. And I felt so guilty about feeling that way that for a while I thought I might shoot myself with the gun that, goddamn him, he never drew to save his own life!”

The sight of her distress after all these years evoked Marevitch's paternal sympathies. “I'm sorry about that,” he said. “I'm real sorry—a young man like that. Artie was young, too. His wife is just a kid, with her first baby on the way.” He shook his head vigorously. “But you're right: I guess I feel deep down pretty much like you say. But that's while I'm awake. Sometimes when I'm sleeping it's a different thing.” He told her about his bad dream.

Dr. Gilbertson wore a faint, sad smile. “Notice who the victim was in your nightmare.”

“Yeah.” He snorted sheepishly. “Me.”

“That's healthy.”

“It is?”

“You're alive, aren't you?”

“I see what you mean. I mean, I think I do.”

“My job is a lot simpler than police work,” Dr. Gilbertson told him, smiling widely for the first time. “It's just calling attention to the obvious.… You'll be okay. I can recommend something to help you sleep, if you want.”

“No, thanks. I might get too fond of it.” Marevitch moved his tongue across his lower teeth. “Uh, you're going to give me a clean report for the captain?”

“Count on it.” She rose and put out her hand. “I'm real sorry about your partner. He sounds like a fine officer and a fine man. He won't be forgotten by those who served with him.”

“Thanks, Doctor.” He wanted to tell her she was doing her dad proud, but not knowing whether it was his place to make such a comment, he refrained. He could not wait to tell Steph how well it had turned out, but he had no intention of doing the same with Novak, lest the captain think he had had a real problem.

“All of a sudden,” said the younger detective, the one named LeBeau, “you've got all kinds of friends to bail you out and give you a roof over your head and all.”

“Yeah, well.” Lloyd did not know what he should say: it was not really a question. He stood alongside the detectives' car. What with the din from Joe's machines out back, it was only by chance he had seen them getting out of the vehicle after a quiet arrival. He had gone to cut them off before they came in. He did not want Joe's generosity to him repaid by the intrusion of policemen.

“Who's Joseph Littlejohn?”

“A guy I know.”

“Is that him making that noise back there? Running machinery?”

“He's got a carpentry shop.”

Moody had not spoken except politely to say, “Hi, Lloyd.” He had not offered to shake hands as he had always done at the jail. Now he suggested that they conduct the conversation in the car. Lloyd was directed to take the front passenger's seat, with LeBeau behind the wheel.

LeBeau asked, “Littlejohn an old friend of yours?”

“He's not exactly a friend. He's a guy I work for.”

“What kind of job is it?”

“He needed somebody to be his helper. Clean up, carry tools, and so on.”

“So you get out of jail only a few hours ago,” LeBeau said dubiously, “over on the other side of town, and right away you've got a so-called job over here.”

Moody leaned close to the back of the front seat. “Lloyd, who is Martha Sparks?”

Lloyd was half turned in the seat, but it was difficult to see much of Moody at the angle. The name honestly meant nothing to him, and he said so.

“You
don't know
the woman who went bail for you?” It was LeBeau's harsh question.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Lloyd said. “I guess I forgot her last name. I only heard it once. I never knew her formal first name. She calls herself Molly.”

“Well, who is she?”

If they already knew her name, presumably by reason of the bail thing, he could not see how he could keep Molly entirely out of it, but maybe he could restrict their interest in her to the minimum. “She's a girl I met hitchhiking. She's not involved in anything you're accusing me of.”

“That's not quite accurate,” Moody said. “It's not against the law to put up somebody's bail, but naturally we're interested in the person who did it in your case, when we never heard of her before and you didn't seem to have any friends.”

“And now,” LeBeau chimed in, “you got two real good ones, it looks like, ready to bail you out on a felony charge, even hire you and give you a place to live.”

Lloyd found nothing to reply to here.

Moody asked, “That gun of yours, the one that got you in trouble: you wouldn't have borrowed that from your friend Joe, would you?”

“I told you, I stole it from a store.”

“Thing is, all handguns sold by legitimate gun shops have serial numbers which the shop owner keeps a record of,” said Moody. “Yours wasn't reported stolen or purchased by any shop in the state.”

“I didn't say it was this state.”

“What state was it?” asked LeBeau.

“Hey, Lloyd!” The distant shout could only have come from inside the workshop.

“Do you mind?” Lloyd asked the detectives. “Can I just go see what he wants?”

Moody gestured with his left hand. “Why not?” LeBeau turned his head away in apparent disgust.

Joe was standing in the doorway when Lloyd reached him. “Is that a car back there?” His van was blocking most of it from view. “Somebody to see me?”

Lloyd had neglected to ask Molly what she had told Joe of his problems. “They're some guys I know,” he said, which was strictly true.

“Oh, sure. Go on back. I didn't mean to interrupt you.”

“That's okay. They'll wait. Did you want something else?”

“Your room okay?”

“It's fine.”

“It's not much,” said Joe. “The whole place needs work, I know that, but I just can't seem to find time for it.”

“Maybe I can do something,” Lloyd brightly offered. “Maybe I could finish painting the front room.”

Joe's mouth was thin-lipped but broad. He used all of it now in a full smile. “Hey, that's an idea.”

“I'll start in on it as soon as I get finished with these guys.”

“Swell.”

Lloyd returned to the car and appealed to Moody. “Since I'm ready to take my punishment for what I did, can't you just let it go at that, without involving anybody else?”

LeBeau asked eagerly, “You're admitting you killed your sister-in-law and niece?”

“Why don't you just stop asking that?” Lloyd said. “You know I'm talking about having the gun.”

“Where'd you get it, Lloyd?” This was from Moody.

“I stole it.”

“What became of the knife you threatened the produce manager with?” asked LeBeau.

“What's the use of talking to you?” Lloyd said. “You don't listen to anything.”

“What
do
you suppose happened to that utility knife?” Moody asked.

“Some cops took it away from me.”

“Cops?” LeBeau shouted. “What cops? What are you trying to pull?”

Moody's face was close to the front seat. “Now we're interested,” he said. “Tell us what you mean, Lloyd.”

Lloyd told them about the aborted shoplifting of the rubber duck.

Even Moody now seemed irritated. “Why didn't you tell us this before?”

“I didn't think of it! They didn't arrest me. They let me go. The manager didn't press charges, so I thought the whole thing was over. It didn't seem important enough to tell you about.”

“Lloyd,” said Moody, his face still there, “you let us decide what's important. Now try real hard to remember anything else that happened to you that you haven't told us about.”

“Was the knife in your pocket when you went to see Donna?” LeBeau asked with a sneer.

Lloyd kept telling himself the detective was only doing a job, but it was hard to keep from disliking him. “You can keep that up as long as you want, but I already told you everything I know.” He saw no point in revealing his theft of the bottle from the liquor store. Policemen desperate to make an arrest could not be trusted to make fine discriminations. “If I remember anything else, I'll be in touch.”

Moody patted him on the shoulder, but it was not a friendly gesture. “Oh, we won't be far away, Lloyd. You want us any time, just turn your head and look.” Both detectives had taken out their notebooks. Moody said, “Let's go over the shoplifting incident again.”

* * *

In their tracking of the utility knife, which for them took precedence over all else at the moment—the search of the dump was postponed—the detectives soon determined that the patrolmen who had made the confiscation were Marevitch and the late Art McCall, but neither had turned the knife in at their precinct.

“Lot of coincidences,” LeBeau said at the wheel as they went looking for the car, which was back on patrol with a new team. “Same two officers: first at the Howland crime scene, then this business with Lloyd, then McCall is killed.”