‘The stock?’
‘That’s right. And the other thing, the thing that holds the bullets?’
‘The magazine?’
‘Yeah, it was a foot long and it was in front of the trigger. And believe me, it caught my full attention. I was concentrating so hard on the guy with the gun that I didn’t even notice the other guy who was with him until the first guy ran back to the car. The second guy was also wearing a mask and gloves. And he had the same kind of gun.’
‘Describe the men,’ I said. ‘Were they short, tall, slim, heavy..?’
Although the initial image the Hinckles carried, of cold-blooded murder, was indelibly imprinted in their memories, they disagreed on most of the smaller details. Height, weight, who got into the car first, who was driving, what the men wore besides gloves and masks. They didn’t remember any of these things clearly and their hesitant answers reflected their confusion. But they did agree on the dark-red color of the getaway vehicle, which was why Murrano had put out an alert.
‘Did you notice anything else about the car?’ Adele asked. ‘Maybe a logo?’
Oscar shook his head. ‘When I was a kid, I could tell you the year, make and model of any car drivin’ down the street. Now they all look alike.’
‘How about damage to the exterior. Dents or rust?’
Oscar and Eva stared at Adele for a moment, then shrugged. They just didn’t remember. Myself, I would have let it go at that point. In my experience, when you push friendly witnesses, they fill the blank spaces in their memory with false details simply because they want to please. Better to leave a business card, or come back a few days later, when stray recollections surface on their own.
But Adele had other ideas. ‘Think hard,’ she told her witnesses. ‘Is there anything else you remember? I don’t care how insignificant.’
The Hinckles exchanged the sort of pregnant look only possible between long-married couples. Then Eva crossed her arms over her chest before turning to Adele. A decision had been made.
‘I think they were black.’ Eva again looked at her husband, her expression this time defiant. ‘The way that gun was twisted around, it’s how black gangsters hold their guns. You know, in the movies.’ She gave her husband a poke. ‘And the way they walked back to the car, with that shoulder thing they do, and bouncing up and down? That swagger? That’s a black thing.’
Oscar Hinckle was quick to reply. ‘I didn’t see nothin’ like that.’ He ran a finger across his snow-white mustache, the wiry hairs rippling beneath his touch like an animal seeking affection. ‘Those two guys, they were all business. They didn’t say one word to each other. They just got in that car and peeled the hell outta there.’
THREE
Ellen Lodge met us at the door of her single-family home and quickly ushered us through the living and dining rooms. Our progress was followed by eight, very silent children. Adele and I had been able to hear the children as we approached the front door, a muffled din we expected to become raucous when the door was opened. Instead, everything stopped the minute we came into view. The kids were toddlers, old enough to walk, old enough to have minds of their own. They pinned us with unwavering stares. Who were we? What were we doing here? Was something bad about to happen?
A second woman, not introduced to us, knelt beside a bench covered with little bowls of paint. She was staring at us, too.
We were finally led into a large kitchen and the door closed behind us. Like the outer rooms, the kitchen had been pressed into service. Two trays stacked with sandwiches on paper plates rested on a table in the center of the room. A bubbling crock pot on a chipped counter was flanked by packages of Oreo cookies.
‘I haven’t said anything to the kids, but they know somethin’s wrong. No sense makin’ it any worse than what it is.’ Ellen Lodge was a small, bony woman just entering middle-age. She had a noticeably slender neck, a droopy nose and lobeless ears set very close to the side of her head. Thick and wiry, her graying hair was cut short enough to be termed butch, especially in a conservative neighborhood like Ridgewood.
‘I’m sorry about your loss,’ I said. ‘But we need to ask you some questions.’
Ellen walked over to a cabinet, pulled down eight plastic tumblers and set them on the counter. The tumblers came with spill-proof caps and she began to speak as she removed them. Her movements were quick and precise, a counter to her weary gray eyes and the smudged pouches beneath them. ‘I gotta keep workin’,’ she explained. ‘You got questions, fire away.’
‘We understand you told Sgt Murrano that your husband was released from prison yesterday.’
‘Yeah, from Attica.’
‘Did you pick him up?’
‘Does it look like I have time to drive upstate?’
‘So you didn’t pick him up?’
Ellen Lodge paused long enough to wipe her hands on her apron. When she spoke again, her tone was a little softer. ‘I’m a cop’s wife,’ she told us, ‘and I know where you’re goin’ with this. So, let’s just cut to the chase. I didn’t love my husband. I admit it. The only reason I didn’t divorce him was because I couldn’t afford a lawyer.’
‘Mrs Lodge, I only asked…’
She threw up her hands. ‘Alright, already. I don’t know how Dave got here. The bus, probably, or a train.’
‘You’re sure nobody else gave him a ride.’
‘If they did, he never mentioned it.’
Though Mrs Lodge’s tone was challenging, I refused to respond in kind. I wanted her help, if she had help to give, and I wanted to get her on the record. Those were my immediate priorities.
‘But he didn’t just show up, right? You did invite him to stay with you?’
‘I felt sorry for him, OK?’ She opened the refrigerator, removed a gallon container of apple juice and began to empty it into the plastic tumblers. ‘Look, there’s something you gotta understand. When Dave killed that pimp it turned my life upside down. You see what I do here five days a week? Well, on weekends, I’m a telemarketer for Time Warner. That’s right, I’m the one you curse at before you slam down the phone. So if I sound bitter, it’s most probably because I am.’
‘I understand, Mrs Lodge, believe me. I’ll try to keep this as brief as possible.’
But Ellen Lodge was having none of my sympathy. ‘Ya know, after it happened, me and Dave were tossed out of the family. You’re cops and I don’t have to tell you that I’m talkin’ about the Great Cop Family. Me, I don’t see what I did to deserve that, but I been scrambling to survive ever since. Now, you want the story, it goes like this. I wrote to Dave from time to time and I went to see him maybe twice a year. About three months ago, he mails me a letter sayin’ he’s gonna be released soon and could he stay with me until he gets back on his feet? It’s either that or a homeless shelter. Nice, right?’
‘He didn’t have any family? Mother, father, siblings?’
‘His mother’s dead and his father lives somewhere out west.’ She turned away from me, lifting the lid on the crock pot to release the fragrance of simmering vegetables.
‘Mrs Lodge,’ I asked, ‘do you know any reason why somebody would want to kill your husband?’
She laughed out loud. ‘How about one of the monkeys who spit on us whenever we came in or out of the courthouse?’
‘You mean the protesters?’
‘Yeah, the protesters.’
‘Anybody else? Anybody specific?’
‘No, but Dave was worried about the possibility of revenge. Definitely. He mentioned it to me a number of times in his letters and-’
‘We’ll need to see those letters.’
Ellen stopped short, her eyes rising to mine, then jumping away. ‘I didn’t keep them,’ she admitted after a long moment. ‘I mean, they weren’t love letters or anything like that.’
‘Can you remember what he wrote?’
‘Besides how he was worried?’
‘Yeah, besides.’
Ellen shrugged. ‘The usual stuff. How tough the screws were. How bad the food was. How he was trying to stay positive.’