“Well,” I said, “let me see what I can get out of him.”
Magruder cocked an eyebrow and asked, “You think maybe the old man would like to see him personally?”
“Maybe. If he’s got something. If not, we’d be wasting his time. And especially on this case, I don’t think...”
“Yeah,” Magruder agreed.
I left Magruder and walked over to the little man. He looked up when I approached him, and then blinked.
“Mr. Struthers?” I said. “I’m Detective-Sergeant Cappeli. My partner tells me you have some information about the...”
“You’re not the Chief, are you?”
“No,” I said, “but I’m working very closely with him on this case.”
“I won’t talk to anyone but the Chief,” he said. His eyes met mine for an instant, and then turned away. He was not being stubborn, I decided. I hadn’t seen stubbornness in his eyes. I’d seen fear.
“Why, Mr. Struthers?”
“Why? Why what? Why won’t I tell my story to anyone else? Because I won’t, that’s why.”
“Mr. Struthers, withholding information is a serious crime. It makes you an accessory after the fact. We’d hate to have to...”
“I’m not withholding anything. Get the Chief and I’ll tell you everything I saw. That’s all, get the Chief.”
I waited for a moment before trying again. “Are you familiar with the case at all, sir?”
Struthers considered his answer. “Just what I read in the papers. And what I saw.”
“You know that it was the Chiefs wife who was mugged? That the mugger was after her purse and killed her without getting it?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Can you see then why we don’t want to bring the Chief into this until it’s absolutely necessary? So far, we’ve had ten people confessing to the crime, and eight people who claim to have seen the mugging and murder.”
“I did see it,” Struthers protested.
“I’m not saying you didn’t, sir. But I’d like to be sure before I bring the Chief in on it.”
“I just don’t want any slipups,” Struthers said. “I... I don’t want him coming after me next.”
“We’ll offer you every possible protection, sir. The Chief, as you can well imagine, has a strong personal interest in this case. He’ll certainly see that no harm comes to you.”
Struthers looked around him suspiciously. “Well, do we have to talk here?”
“No, sir, you can come into my office.”
He deliberated for another moment, and then said, “All right” He stood up abruptly, his fingers still roaming the hat brim.
I led him to the corridor, winking over my shoulder at Magruder as we went out When we got to my office, I offered him a chair and a cigarette. He took the seat, but declined the smoke.
“Now then, what did you see?”
“I saw the mugger, the man who killed her.” Struthers lowered his voice. “But he saw me, too. That’s why I want to make absolutely certain that... that I won’t get into any trouble over this.”
“You won’t, sir. I can assure you. Where did you see the killing?”
“On Third and Elm. Right near the old paint factory. I was on my way home from the movies.”
“What did you see?”
“Well, the woman, Mrs. Anderson — I didn’t know it was her at the time, of course — was standing on a corner waiting for the bus. I was walking down toward her. I walk that way often, especially coming home from the show. It was a nice night and...”
“What happened?”
“Well, it was dark, and I was walking pretty quiet, I guess. I wear gummies — gum sole shoes. The mugger came out of the shadows and grabbed Mrs. Anderson around the throat, from behind her. She threw up her arm, and her purse opened and everything inside fell on the sidewalk. Then the mugger lifted his hand and brought it down, and she screamed, and he yelled, ‘Quiet, you witch!’ Then he lifted his hand again and brought it down again, all the time yelling, ‘Here, you witch, here, here,’ while he was stabbing her. He must have lifted the knife at least a dozen times.”
“And you saw him? You saw his face?”
“Yes. She dropped to the ground, and he came running up the street toward me. I tried to get against the building, but I was too late. We stood face-to-face, and for a minute I thought he was going to kill me, too. But he gave a kind of a moan and ran up the street.”
“Why didn’t you come to the police at once?”
“I... I guess I was scared. Mister, I still am. You’ve got to promise me I won’t get into any trouble. I’m a married man, and I got two kids. I can’t afford to...”
“Could you pick him out of a lineup? We’ve already rounded up a lot of men, some with records as muggers. Could you pick the killer?”
“Yes. But not if he can see me. If he sees me, it’s all off. I won’t go through with it if he can see me.”
“He won’t see you, sir. We’ll put you behind a screen.”
“So long as he doesn’t see me. He knows what I look like, too, and I got a family. I won’t identify him if he knows I’m the one doing it.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about.” I clicked down Magruder’s toggle on the intercom, and when he answered, I said, “Looks like we’ve got something here, Mac. Get the boys ready for a run-through, will you? And set up a screen for the witness.”
“Right. I’ll let the Chief know.”
“Buzz me back,” I said, and hung up.
“I won’t do it unless I’m behind that screen,” Struthers said.
“I’ve asked for a screen, sir.”
I was still waiting for Magruder to get back, when the door opened. A voice lined with anguish and fatigue said, “Mac tells me you’ve got a witness.”
I turned from the window, ready to say, “Yes, sir,” and Struthers turned to face the door at the same time.
His eyebrows lifted, and his eyes grew wide.
He stared at the figure in the doorway and I watched both men as their eyes met and locked for an instant.
“No!” Struthers said suddenly. “I... I’ve changed my mind. I... I can’t do it. I have to go. I have to go.”
He slammed his hat onto his head and ran out quickly, almost before I’d gotten to my feet.
“Now what the hell got into him all of a sudden?” I asked.
Chief Anderson shrugged wearily.
“I have no idea,” he said.
Every Morning
Two of the major characters in the 87th Precinct novels are Detective Arthur Brown and Deputy Chief Surgeon Sharyn Cooke. They’re both black. But long before these two characters were born, I was experimenting with writing from the viewpoint of blacks. In 1954, the same year I tried to become Gregory Miller in The Blackboard Jungle, this story by Richard Marsten appeared in Manhunt.
He sang softly to himself as he worked on the long white beach. He could see the pleasure craft scooting over the deep blue waters, could see the cottony clouds moving leisurely across the wide expanse of sky. There was a mild breeze in the air, and it touched the woolly skullcap that was his hair, caressed his brown skin. He worked with a long rake, pulling at the tangled sea vegetation that the norther had tossed onto the sand. The sun was strong, and the sound of the sea was good, and he was almost happy as he worked.
He watched the muscles ripple on his long brown arms as he pulled at the rake. She would not like it if the beach were dirty. She liked the beach to be sparkling white and clean... the way her skin was.
“Jonas!”
He heard the call, and he turned his head toward the big house. He felt the same panic he’d felt a hundred times before. He could feel the trembling start in his hands, and he turned back to the rake, wanting to stall as long as he could, hoping she would not call again, but knowing she would.