"No!"
"You just kill them?"
"Ye— No!"
"What were you going to do with that brooch, you filth? Give it to your lezbo sister?"
"Aaarrugh!" Engels screeched.
"Did your unholy sister teach you to eat cunt, lover-boy? Did you hate her for it? Is that why you hate women? Did she piss on you? Did she make you lap her on your knees? Is that why you kill women?"
"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes," Engels screamed, his voice a shrieking, cacophonous soprano. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!"
Dudley threw himself on Engels, lifted him from the bed and slammed his back repeatedly into the wall. "Tell me how you did it, killer! Tell me how you croaked lovely Margaret and we won't tell your mommy and daddy about the others. Tell me!"
Engels went limp as a rag doll in Dudley's hands. When Dudley finally released him he crumpled to the bed and moaned hideously.
Dudley pointed to the bathroom. I followed him in. There was a giant cockroach crawling out of the filthy bathtub. "Cock-sucking cockroaches," he said. "They sneak into your bed at night and suck your blood. Dirty cocksuckers." He bent down and let the bug crawl onto his hand, then he closed his fist around it and squashed it into a greenish-yellow pulp. He rubbed the oozy remains on his trouser leg and said to me: "He's about to crack, lad."
"I know that," I said.
"You'll be the one to give him the final push."
"How?"
"He likes you. He's queer for you. His voice goes queer whenever you're close to him. You're his savior, but you're about to become his Judas. When I loosen my tie, I want you to hit him." I looked into Dudley's mad brown eyes and hesitated. "It's the only way, lad."
"I . . . I can't."
"You can and you will, Officer," Dudley hissed in my face. "I've had enough pretty-boy prima donnaism from you! You want a piece of this collar and you'll crack that fucking pervert in the face, hard! Do you understand, Underhill?"
I went cold all over. "Yes," I said.
We reassembled in the little room that now looked as battered as Eddie Engels himself. Dudley gestured to Mike Breuning's steno pad: "Every word, Mike."
"Right, skipper."
I brought Engels a glass of water. Knowing what I had to do, I didn't compound it by being nice to him. I just handed him the water, and when he gave me a smile, I gave him a deadpan in return.
"All right, Engels," Dudley said. "You admit to knowing Margaret Cadwallader?"
"Yes."
"And being intimate with her?"
"Yes."
"And hitting her?"
"No, I couldn't. She . . . look, I could turn snitch for you." Eddie tried desperately. "I know lots of people I could turn over. Dope addicts, pushers. I know some stuff from my navy time."
Dudley slapped him. "Hush, handsome Eddie. It's almost over now. We're going to fly your lovely sister, Lillian, down here. She wants to talk to you about lonely Margaret. She wants you to confess and spare your family the anguish of an indictment on five counts of murder."
"No, please," Engels whimpered.
"Lieutenant, I won't have it," I said angrily. "We've got no evidence. All we've got is the Cadwallader croaking. We can indict on that."
"Oh shit, Inspector. We can get indictments on at least five counts. We can go the whole hog! Let's get Lillian Engels down here, she'll drum some sense into little Eddie's head, like she's always done!"
"Please, no," Engels whimpered.
"Eddie," I said, "do your parents know you're homosexual?"
"No."
"Do they know that Lillian is a lesbian?"
"No. Please!"
"You don't want them to find out, do you?"
"No!" He screeched the word, his voice breaking. He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth.
"We can spare them, Eddie," I said. "You can confess to Margaret, and we won't file with the grand jury on the others. Listen to me, I'm your friend."
"No . . . I don't know!"
"Sssshhh. Listen to me. I think there were mitigating circumstances. Did Margaret taunt you?"
"No . . . yes!"
"Did she remind you of Lillian? Of all the bad things in the past?"
"Yes!"
"Evil things? Dreadful, awful things that you hate to think about?"
"Yes!"
"Do you want it to be over?"
"Oh, God, yes," he blubbered.
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes. You're nice. You're a sweet person."
"Then tell me about Margaret."
"Oh, God. Oh, please, God."
I put my hands on Engels's knee. "I care, Eddie. I really do. Tell me."
"I can't!"
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dudley loosen his necktie. I steeled myself, then got up and faced Engels. He looked up at me, beseeching me with wide brown eyes. I curled my hand into a fist and swung it full force at the side of his nose. It cracked, and blood and cartilage fragments burst into the air. Engels grabbed at his bloody face and fell back on the mattress.
"Confess, you goddamned murderer!" Dudley screamed.
I stood there, shaking. Engels rolled to his side on the mattress and blew out a noseful of blood. When he spoke his voice was resigned and sorrowful. "I killed Maggie. No one else. It was all mine. No one else's. I killed her and now I have to pay. She didn't deserve it, but she had to pay, too. We all have to pay." Then he passed out.
Breuning was scribbling furiously, Dudley was grinning like a sated lover, and I stood there trying to drum up some exhilaration for my compromised victory.
No one spoke, and then I realized I had to move fast to salvage even this compromised glory. I left the room abruptly, then ran across the street and found a pay phone. I dialed Lorna at work.
"Lorna Weinberg," she answered.
"This is Fred, Lorna."
"Oh, Freddy. I—"
"He confessed, Lorna. To Margaret Cadwallader. We're taking him in. Probably to the Hall of Justice jail. I don't think it's a grand jury case. I think he'll plead loony. Will you get the papers ready?"
"I can't until I have the arrest report. Freddy, are you all right?"
"I do . . . yes, sweetheart, I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine. Will you call me when Engels is booked?"
"Yes. Can I see you tonight?"
"Yes, when?"
"I don't know. I might be wrapped up tonight writing reports."
"Just come over when you're finished, all right?"
"Yes."
"Freddy?"
"Yes?"
"I . . . I'll . . . tell you when I see you. Be careful."
"I will be."
Engels was in handcuffs when I got back to the interrogation room. He was wearing tan slacks, sandals, and a Hawaiian shirt that Carlisle had brought from his apartment.
Breuning was taking down his statement: ". . . And I panicked. I thought I heard noises from upstairs. I hopped out the kitchen window. I was afraid to get my car. I ran to some bushes by the freeway ramp. I hid out for . . . hours . . . then I took a cab home . . ." Engels's voice trailed off. He looked at me and spat blood on the floor. His nose was purple and hugely swollen, and both his eyes were black.
"Why, Engels?" Breuning asked.
"Because someone had to pay. It shouldn't have been someone as sweet as Maggie, but it just happened."
Dudley clapped me on the back. "Mike and I are taking Engels to the H.O.J.J. You go home. We have to corroborate on our statements. You were brilliant, lad, brilliant. The sky's the limit for you once this thing has been sorted out."
"Wrong, Dudley," I said, making my move at last. "I'll go with you. It's my collar. You can file your report, and Engels's confession, but it's my collar. I filed my report with the D.A.'s office the day before we arrested Engels. It tells the truth from the beginning. You've been meaning to fuck me out of this collar and I won't have it. You try, and I'll go to the papers. I'll tell them your little Dahlia story and how you kidnapped Engels and beat the shit out of him. I'll throw my career down the toilet if you try to take this collar away from me. Do you understand?"