I nodded. And of course I was thinking, Jesus, this really is fucked up.
Eight days on and Jennifer Rockwell is still laid out like a banquet dish in the walk-in freezer on Battery and Jeff.
March 13
Time for Trader.
My first thought was this: I’d send Oltan O’Boye and maybe Keith Booker up to Trader’s department at CSU, in a black-and-white, and have them jerk him out of a seminar. Yeah, with lights but no sirens. Have them yank him out of the lecture hall or wherever, and bring him downtown. The hitch was we’d be up against probable cause way too early. And whatever Colonel Tom thought we had, we didn’t have probable cause.
So I just called his room on campus. At six a.m.
“Professor Faulkner? Detective Hoolihan. Homicide. I want you downtown today at Criminal Investigations. As soon as you humanly can.”
He said what for?
“I’ll send the wagon. You like me to send the wagon?”
He said what for?
And I just said I wanted to straighten something out.
In truth it’s perfect for me.
Around eight in the morning, and we’re three hours into a blizzard that has upped and hurled itself down from Alaska. You got hail, sleet, snow, and spume skimmed off from the ocean, plus faceslapping gouts of iced rain. Trader will be trudging along from the subway stop or clambering out of a cab down there on Whitney. He’ll look up, for shelter, at the Lubianka of CID. Where he will find a succession of drenched and dirty linoleum corridors, a slow-climbing, heavy-breathing elevator, and, in Homicide, a forty-four-year-old police with coarse blonde hair, bruiser’s tits and broad shoulders, and pale blue eyes in her head that have seen everything.
And Trader will find hardly anybody else. It’s Tuesday. In Homicide the zoo contains only a smattering of witnesses, suspects, malefactors and perpetrators. The weekend, which for us is just a code word meaning a regular bender of citywide crime, has come and gone. And there is also the bad weather: Bad weather is the big police. For company, while he waits in the zoo, Trader will have only the husband, the father and the pimp of a bludgeoned prostitute, and a Machine executioner (presently top of the money list) called Jackie Zee who has been asked downtown to elaborate on an alibi.
The phones are silent. The midnight shift is falling apart and the eight-to-four is limping in. Johnny Mac is reading an editorial in Penthouse. Keith Booker, big black motherfucker with scars and whole gold ingots on most of his teeth, is trying to watch a college ballgame from Florida on the faulty TV. O’Boye is painfully bent over his typewriter. These guys are kind of in on it. Only Silvera has the full picture, but these guys are kind of in on it. Trader Faulkner will be receiving no words of condolence from anybody here.
At 08:20 the Associate Professor checks in downstairs and is shunted up to the fourteenth. I watch him step out. In his right hand he is holding his briefcase, in his left the pink card issued him by building security at the front desk. The rim of his fedora, which has lost its definition in the rain, is starting to droop over his darkened face, and his overcoat gives off a faint vapor under the tube lighting. His gait is deliberate and kind of wide at the knees. His inturned shoes are squelching toward me.
He says, “It’s Mike, isn’t it. Good to see you again.”
And I say, “You’re late.”
Johnny Mac gives him a leer, and Detective Booker does a good job of chewing gum in his direction, as Trader is led into the zoo. I point to a chair. And walk away. If he likes, Trader can talk philosophy with Jackie Zee. A half-hour later I return. In response to a wag of my head Trader gets to his feet and I reescort him back past the elevators.
At this point, as arranged, Silvera strolls out of the door marked Sex Crimes and says hey Mike, what we got?
And I say something like: We got the dead hooker that was turning ten-dollar dates in AllRight Parking. We got that murdering asshole Jackie Zee. And we got this.
Silvera looks Trader up and down and says need any input?
And I say nah. And I mean it. This will be the sum total of Silvera’s participation. None of that good cop-bad cop bullshit, which doesn’t work anyway. It’s not just that Joe Perp is on to it, having seen good cop-bad cop a million times on reruns of Hawaii Five-O. The fact is that since the Escobedo ruling, which was thirty years ago, bad cop has lost all his moves. The only time bad cop was any good was in the old days, when he used to come into the interrogation room every ten minutes and smash your suspect over the head with the Yellow Pages. And besides: I had to do this alone and in my own way. It’s how I’ve always worked.
I turned, and preceded Trader Faulkner to the small interrogation room, pausing only to slide the key off its nail.
Overdoing it slightly, maybe, I locked him up alone in there for two and a half hours. I did say he could bang on the door if he wanted anything. But he never stirred.
Every twenty minutes I go and take a look at him through the mesh window, which of course is a oneway. All he sees is a scratched and filmy mirror. What I see is a guy of around thirty-five in a tweed jacket with leather patches sewn on to his elbows.
Axiom:
Left alone in an interrogation room, some men will look as though they’re well into their last ten seconds before throwing up. And they’ll look that way for hours. They sweat like they just climbed out of the swimming pool. They eat and swallow air. I mean these guys are really going through it. You come in and tip a light in their face. And they’re bug-eyed—the orbs both big and red, and faceted also. Little raised soft-cornered squares, wired with rust.
These are the innocent.
The guilty go to sleep. Especially the veteran guilty. They know that this is just the dead time that’s part of the deal. They pull the chair up against the wall and settle themselves in the corner there, with many a grunt and self-satisfied cluck. They crash out.
Trader wasn’t sleeping. And he wasn’t twitching and gulping and scratching his hair. Trader was working. He had a thick typescript out on the table beside the tin ashtray and he was writing in corrections with a ballpoint, his head bent, his eyeglasses milky under the bare forty-watt. An hour of this, then two hours, then more.
I go in and lock the door behind me. This trips the tape recorder housed beneath the table where Trader sits. I feel a third party in the room: It’s like Colonel Tom is already listening in. Trader’s looking up at me with patient neutrality. From under my arm I take the case folder and toss it down in front of him. Clipped to its cover is a five-by-eight of Jennifer dead. Beside it I place a sheet headed Explanation of Rights. I begin.
Okay. Trader. I want you to answer some background questions. That’s fine by you, right?
I guess so.
You and Jennifer were together for how long?
Now he keeps me waiting. He takes off his glasses and measures up his gaze to mine. Then he turns away. His upper teeth are slowly bared. When he answers my question he seems to have to move past an impediment. But not an impediment of speech.
Almost ten years.
You two met how?
At CSU.
She’s what? Seven years younger?
She was a sophomore. I was a postdoc.
You were teaching her? She was your student?
No. She was math and physics, I was philosophy.
Explain it to me. You do philosophy of science, right?