“Hell, mister,” Kolcicki grunted, “My job is to make an investigation, to interrogate a guy. I get the facts. The D.A. uses them the way he wants. Hardly expect a guy to sign himself into the chair. Trouble with reporters is you don't see being a dick is a business, operated about the same as you'd run a grocery store. Of course, some lousy bastards like Anthony think they can get away with anything because they're loaded. Maybe they can with some cops, but with me it's business.”
“You mean he offered to bribe you?”
“Naw. I never gave him a chance to. I pinned him one-two-three. Bastards like him operate like amateurs, think they can fool a professional investigator.”
“What does that mean?” he mouthed 'investigator' as if it was a piece of cake he was tasting.
All that fat settled back in the chair. “What I was telling you about it being a business. The guy that's been doing it for years knows the ropes; the newcomer don't know his ass from his elbow. See, I been a cop for a lot of years, most of them a big city cop. Sonofabitch like Anthony, all this police crap he's been writing, guess he figured himself for a sharp cop. But it boils down to being a business. Like this: you got a store and the store across the street runs a sale on coffee. Well, what the hell, it's like a rule, then you got to run a sale, too. Ain't no doubt about it. They got rules in my business, too. When a guy threatens to kill somebody, in this case his wife, and a couple hours later she's dead—and I don't care if they say a friggin flying saucer dropped out of the sky on her —I know damn well this guy killed his wife! That's what I told Anthony, told him this wasn't no crappy book, that I knew he'd done it and was there to bag 'im. Maybe in detective stories it ain't so, but in this business 99% of the time a suspect is guilty. Or he wouldn't be a suspect. Follow me?”
I had a time keeping a straight face. “The law states a man is innocent until proven...?” I began.
“The law my ass,” Kolcicki cut in flatly. “I know the law. It's my job to enforce it. Look, if a car is stolen and then I come upon you sitting in it, or even leaning against it— that's enough for me. I bag you. Sure, this big bastard Anthony started giving me the bunko about his wife having an accident, and all that. You know all I said?”
I shook my head.
“Every time he tried giving me the sauce I just said, 'Bull.' That's all, one word. It done the trick.”
He waited for me to say anything. I didn't say a word. Kolcicki suddenly didn't seem comical, just as a moron behind a wheel or a gun ceases to be funny. If anything, he somehow seemed evil.
“That works when you're interrogating certain kind of jokers. He got all flustered after I told him that a couple times, kept changing his story. Then he didn't talk and I says, 'Anthony, you're a big writer, why don't you stop handing me this baby shit?' So he looks kind of sick for a second, then he says, 'I suppose you're right. Yes, I'll tell you how it really happened.' So I listened and since he was sitting in front of a typewriter, I told him to say it again and I typed it up. He read it and signed it. Easy, huh?”
“Sounds that way.”
“That's from years of knowing my business.”
“Then you believe he hit his wife and she fell against the side of the boat... as he confessed?”
“Of course, I believe it. I just told you how he confessed. What's there not to believe?”
I wanted to ask if he thought Matt was guilty but it would have sounded silly. Perhaps he read my mind, for he sucked on the cigar for a long second, said, “Mister, he was arrested, wasn't he? That means he's guilty. Sure, he's still got to stand trial. But they'll find him guilty. Once a bastard gets himself bagged, he's sure as hell guilty.”
I wondered if everybody who was arrested became a bastard in Kolcicki's tiny mind. I stood up. “Thanks for your time.”
“Think nothing of it, part of my job. Mister, I can tell my saying he's guilty if he's arrested didn't set with you. Maybe you think I'm a hick cop only out to get a conviction. Part of that is right, I am out to get a conviction. But I don't collar nobody unless I'm sure. Why I say, once he's bagged, he's guilty. I ain't perfect, maybe I make a mistake now and then, but in this business when you find 99% of suspects turn out guilty, you're batting pretty goddamn good. And it ain't only me. Take your big corporations, they think the same way.”
My face must have been an absolute blank. He gave me a thick grin as he added, “That's a fact. You ever see an employment questionnaire for a big company?”
“Not recently.”
“Look one over. Know what they ask? Was you ever arrested? Get it? They don't ask if you were found guilty or innocent, just if you were ever collared. Well, a big company knows all the business rules, of course, and they use the same rule I do—because it is a rule—if you're arrested you're guilty. Any business goes by rules. Like, you can be pretty damn certain the last person to see the victim killed 'im. I'm not kidding, if I threatened to kill you and tonight you was found dead, I'd arrest myself. Get what I mean? If you write me up, don't make me out no friggin wonderman, but just an investigator who knows his business, goes by the rules. Don't worry, that confession will stand up in court Must have been fifty photographers taking his picture the same night I brought him in—and not a mark on the smart bastard, either. He just saw I was on to him.” He raised his arms to his head and yawned—even his teeth were stubby. “Is there any chance of my seeing Anthony?”
“How long you been a reporter, bud? Ought to know you can't see no prisoner without a special okay.”
I thanked him again and walked out—fast. I headed for New York and it took a long time for the sun to warm me up.
Joel Hunter
I was back in New York before one, feeling absolutely wretched. I still had no idea as to what I should do about Wilma, yet I had the feeling I should be doing something. I dropped into the apartment to change my suit and shave. The apartment gave me an acute guilt feeling, and I found myself doing such dopey things as suddenly trying to decide where I'd put the crib.
I made a few calls. Miss Park said she had received my card and how did I like Montauk? There wasn't anything happening at the office. Frank had returned the galley proofs that morning. Marty Kelly asked me to phone. I told Miss Park I'd be in touch and phoned Kelly, who wanted me to okay space in a couple of literary quarterlies for one of our books. Marty looked like a woman chaser, and I was tempted to ask him for the name of a doctor but didn't.
Phoning the school, I talked to this Edith, the teacher who had the house, and told her I wanted to buy it. “Have you been up to see it?”
“No, but... you know Michele had to go to Paris, her folks are ill, and I want to give it to her as a surprise when she returns.”
“If you want to drive up, I can get the keys over to you and—”
“Michele saw it. And I'm pretty busy.”
“As you wish. I think it's a good house. I don't know about deeds and titles and the rest. Suppose I phone my lawyer and have him call you to settle the details?”
“That will be fine. I'll be is the office tomorrow. Let me send you a check as a binder.”
“Oh, that won't be necessary, Mr. Connor. It's yours.”
After I hung up I mixed some tobacco and finally told myself to stop stalling: I phoned Wilma. A deep man's voice answered, said she was out. “This is Joel Hunter. Who's calling?”
“Norman Connor. I merely wanted to—”
“Say now, this is something. I phoned your office less than an hour ago, and they said you were out of town. I'm ready to talk to you, Mr. Connor.”