Carolyn Wilder said quietly, “Even a fucking killer has rights under the law. You said last night, ‘He kills people.’ And I believe I said, ‘Tell me about it.’ We both know the purpose of this room. If you feel you have a case against Mansell, let’s bring him in and find out. Until then, leave him alone… All right?”
The lady lawyer rose from the bench.
Raymond was dismissed.
He had felt this way standing before judges who had the final word and would pound a gavel and that was it. He had felt the urge to punch several judges. He had once felt the urge to punch Alvin Guy just as he felt the urge now to punch Carolyn Wilder. It seemed a natural reaction. The strange part was-he realized now, in the same moment-he did not have the urge to punch Clement Mansell.
He could see himself killing Mansell, but not hitting him with a fist, for there was no emotion involved.
It stopped him, brought him back to where he could say something and not be afraid of his tone, of an edge getting in the way. She had moved past him and was almost to the door.
“Carolyn? Let me ask you something.”
She waited, half-turned, giving him a deadpan look. No person inside. Let him try to get through if he could.
“How come in the hall before, you said, ‘Don’t ever do that to me again’? About picking Clement up and bringing him in. How come you didn’t say don’t ever do that to him again?”
Carolyn Wilder turned without a word and walked out.
Raymond felt better, but not a whole lot.
NORBERT BRYL SAID, “You didn’t question him in the room?”
“Nobody was here by then. I sat right where you’re sitting, he was over at Jerry’s desk.”
Hunter said, “Jesus, I better check the drawers.”
Bryl said, “What’ve you got that he’d want?” And swivelled back to Raymond Cruz. “So how’d you get to the nine people?”
The phone rang. Hunter said, “Take that, will you, Maureen? Act like you’re the secretary.”
Maureen, at her desk next to the file-room door, said, “Sure,” and picked up the phone. “Squad Seven, Sergeant Downey-”
Wendell Robinson entered with a young black male wearing a T-shirt and a wool watchcap, motioned him into the file room to wait and closed the door. “Another boyfriend of Liselle Taylor. Says he believes Alfonso killed her, and if we can get his traffic tickets tore up-like three hundred dollars’ worth and a suspended license-he’ll tell us things so we’ll believe it too.”
“Tell him what the food’s like across the street,” Hunter said.
“He’s been there. Probably likes the food.”
Raymond said, “Before you go in-what’d Clement say to you, something about having a black friend?”
“He said one of my best friends,” Wendell answered. “I said what’s his name? He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Yeah-” Raymond, thoughtful, looked from his desk to Hunter. “He mention a friend to you?”
Hunter said, “How could that asshole have a friend?” But then squinted, closing one eye. “Wait a minute. He did say something. He wouldn’t sign the rights sheet and he said, yeah, he said he had a friend who wouldn’t sign it either and nothing happened to him.”
“The Wrecking Crew,” Raymond said, “they ever use a black driver?”
No one answered him.
“Then before the Wrecking Crew. You see what I’m getting at? He knows a black guy who was brought in here. The black guy wouldn’t say anything about whatever it was. Which could be the reason Mansell thinks of him as a friend. Why, because the black guy wouldn’t talk? A matter of principle? No, because the black guy wouldn’t talk about Mansell. How’s that sound?”
“That’s not bad,” Bryl said. “Let me go consult the great computer, see what it says.”
Raymond said, “Check with Art Blaney in Robbery. He’s got a memory better than a computer. Ask him if he recalls a black guy that ever ran with Mansell.”
Bryl went out. A uniformed officer stood holding the door open. He said, “Judge Guy was shot four times with a .38, right?”
Hunter looked up. “Five times.”
“Shit,” the uniformed officer said, “I went and played four-three-eight.”
The door swung closed.
Hunter said, “Probably boxed it, too, the dumb shit.”
Raymond said, “He tells me he’s killed nine people. I say, oh, in Detroit?”
The door swung open. A black officer in shirtsleeves, wearing a .44 magnum revolver in a white shoulder rig, came in with a stack of papers, licked his thumb, took off the top sheet and said, “Who wants it? Schedule for the play-offs, nine-thirty, Softball City. Homicide versus Sex Crimes.”
The door swung closed.
Maureen hung up the phone. “MCMU. Mansell and Sandy Stanton just left 1300 Lafayette in a cab.”
Inspector Herzog listened with his hands clasped as though in prayer, fingers pressed together, pointing straight up.
“He’s telling me he’s killed nine people,” Raymond said, “without going into detail, two there, seven here, and I’m trying to get him to be a little more specific. With the Wrecking Crew? He says no. Well, we know he performed the triple on St. Marys and that was with the Crew. So what he meant was none of the others. But he was with somebody. He said the guy was along but didn’t do anything.”
“This is the black guy?” Herzog asked.
“He didn’t say he was black,” Raymond said. “He only told me another guy was along. But he told Wendell he had a black friend. See, first he keeps throwing ‘nigger’ in Wendell’s face, then he tells him, ‘One of my best friends is a nigger.’ He tells Jerry he’s got a friend who was questioned here and refused to say a word or even sign the rights sheet. He tells me a guy was with him when he killed some people and now we put the pieces together and Norb consults the computer, checking out Mansell in depth, all his arrests for whatever, all the times he was picked up on suspicion, brought in for questioning, to see if he’s got a black guy in his past anywhere.”
Raymond’s gaze moved to the window framing Herzog’s mane of gray hair. He could see the top floors of the highrise in the near distance.
“Incidentally, Clement and Sandy, about an hour ago they took a cab out to the Tel-Twelve Mall. They went inside, MCMU lost them.”
“They’re not using the Buick,” Herzog said. “How come?”
“I think he cleaned it up,” Raymond said, “doesn’t want to touch it again.”
“Maybe you should’ve picked it up yesterday.”
“Well, as I mentioned to you,” Raymond said, “it was a judgment call. MCMU followed Sandy around, they’re pretty sure she didn’t dump anything. And if they hadn’t followed her, then Mr. Sweety wouldn’t be the important man he is today.”
“Who’s Mr. Sweety?”
“You remember yesterday Sandy went to a place on Kercheval, Sweety’s Lounge?”
Herzog nodded. “Came out with a guy and went in the house next door.”
“Came out with Mr. Sweety and went to his house,” Raymond said. “It’s where he lives.”
“I think you said yesterday the guy’s black.”
“Yes, and according to the sheets on Mansell, so is a guy by the name of Marcus Sweeton who did some work with Clement back when he first came here and before he joined the Wrecking Crew. Sweeton’s had two convictions-one probation, two years on a gun charge and I guess he’s not looking forward to that third fall, because he’s been pure ever since, now operates Sweety’s Lounge.”
“How’d he get a liquor license?”
“It’s in his brother’s name. Sweeton says he’s only a bartender; but he runs the place and lives next door with his girlfriend, Anita. The brother works out at Chrysler Mound Road. So we know Marcus is the original Mr. Sweety of Sweety’s Lounge. Art Blaney remembers him-”