Rodriguez hadn’t left town. Kunkle found him at work, contentedly etching frost curlicues on a custom mirror. On first mention of Wendy Stiller’s name, he didn’t even know who she was. He’d been reminded dramatically by the time I got to see him in one of the basement holding cells.
That part of the building isn’t designed to boost morale anyway. The cells line one wall of a low-ceilinged beige room lit with bare bulbs and spotlights. They’re fancy kennels, really, with one steel fold-away cot and a porcelain toilet per cell. Surveillance cameras are mounted on the opposite wall.
Rodriguez was our only tenant. He was sitting on the cot with his hands between his knees when I walked in. He sprang to his feet as soon as he saw me. “You’ve got to get me out of here. This is a mistake. I haven’t done anything.” His voice was high-pitched and tinged with hysteria.
“Relax. It feels worse than it is.”
“But I’m in jail.” He grabbed the bars and shook them to demonstrate his point.
“Not for long. Sit down and calm yourself. Come on. Sit.”
He sat reluctantly. He was about thirty years old, good-looking, with a full head of dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was wearing denim work clothes, also neat and clean.
“Good. Now hold out your hands, palms down.”
He looked at me as if I’d lost my marbles, but he did it. There was a wicked triple scratch running across the center of the eagle tattoo on his right hand. It looked infected and painful.
“How did you get the scratch?”
He looked at it as if for the first time, thrown further off balance. His words came out more slowly now. “My cat. I threw him out of the house a couple of days ago and he clawed me. We don’t like each other-he belongs to my kids.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll send someone down to look at it.” I turned to go.
He leaped to his feet, revved up again. “Wait. Don’t leave me. I don’t want a Band-Aid. I want to get out of here. I don’t belong here. I’m innocent. I didn’t rape anybody.”
“The police report says you got a call last night that sent you on a wild goose chase. Is that right?”
“Yes, I swear. I had some tools stolen a few days ago. The man on the phone said he’d found them; that his brother had stolen them, and that he felt bad about it and wanted to return them. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.”
I paused at the bottom of the steps. “Mr. Rodriguez, I’m sure it is true. We picked you up on the available evidence, that’s all. I’ve just got to make a couple of calls to clear this up, and I’m pretty sure we can get you out within the hour. By the way, what color are your eyes?”
“Brown. What about a police record?”
“No record. We’ll clea S We abr it up with your boss, too. If it all works out, the only thing you’ll have to worry about is keeping your mouth shut. If you go to the press, or talk to them if they come to you, you’re the one who’s going to get the bad publicity. Fair or not, that’s how it works. Ask any celebrity.”
I went upstairs and knocked on Murphy’s door. I was sorry to see Kunkle sitting in his guest chair. “I’ll talk to you later, Frank.”
Kunkle got up before I could leave. “Did you see Rodriguez?” As usual, he was abrupt and hostile-a man on perpetual simmer.
“Yeah. I just talked to him.”
“Why?”
“Maxine told me about the scratch on his hand.”
“What about it?”
“Wendy Stiller didn’t mention it.”
“So?”
“So I thought I might ask her if she’d seen it.”
Kunkle gave me a hard stare. I decided I’d better not leave it there. I asked Murphy if I could use his phone. He pushed it across his desk to me, and I dialed the hospital and asked for Stiller’s room.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Miss Stiller. This is the man who spoke to you this morning about the attack.”
“Oh, hi.”
“When you saw that tattoo, was there a scratch running across it? maybe a Band-Aid or some makeup or something?”
“No, it looked like it did at the trial.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Thank you. One last thing: do you remember the man’s eye color?”
“They were blue-pale blue.” The answer was immediate. I didn’t question how she could be so positive.
I thanked her again and hung up. “We’ve got the wrong man. The scratch wasn’t on the attacker’s hand, and his eyes were blue.”
Kunkle snorted and looked at the ceiling. “Jesus, that’s pretty slim. I mean, the man lathered her up and flicked her tit. You think she’s going to take time out to catalogue his eye color and the odd scratch here or there? Give me a break.”
I felt my face flush with anger. He brought back the image of every self-confident, stupid bully I’d ever known in grade school-the guys who made ignorance a martial art. The fact that he was actually a pretty smart guy who was drowning in his own troubles made no difference; he’d been on this kick for too long.
I spoke directly to Frank. “That scratch is a mess. It’s infected and a couple of days old. No way either she could have missed it or he could have gotten it between midnight and now. Show her Rodriguez’s hand, and his eyes. She’ll tell you he’s not the man.”
Frank nodded and I turned to leave. Kunkle grabbed my arm. “Pretty sure of yourself.”
I shook him off. “I’m also right.”
I walked into my own office and slammed the door. Stan Katz was sitting on the edge of my desk. “Get out, Stan; you’re trespassing.”
“Testy, testy.”
I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and shoved him toward the door. Kunkle’s style was catching. Stan opened the door and paused. “I just wanted to get your side before I started writing.”
“My side of what?”
“The events of last night, and the night before.”
“What about them?”
He gave me a smile custom-made for a fist. I buried my hands in my pockets. “You ought to know. You’ve been involved with all of them, according to the scuttlebutt. What’s going on?”
That cooled me down a notch. He was fishing. “Investigations are going on, like they always are. This is a police department, Stan. We bust people. And Woll was just a screwup.”
“Why are you the hot man, all of a sudden? You’re popping up all over. I heard DeFlorio pulled the Woll case, but you’ve been poking around in it. I also heard Kunkle was pissed off that you were treading on his turf.”
I put my hand on his shoulder and pushed him-gently-out into the hall. “We always get into each other’s hair; it’s standard. Besides, I’m their lieutenant; I’m supposed to keep an eye on ’em, you know that. Your problem is you don’t have enough to keep you busy. That happens when things are slack. Don’t take it out on me, okay? Go see a movie.” I closed the door in his face.
I had just sat down when Murphy stepped in. He leaned against the wall and smiled. “Well, well, Mr. Diplomacy.”
“Lay off, Frank. Kunkle’s a jerk. If he’s got problems, you can change his diapers.”
“I won’t have to. He just told me I might as well hand the Stiller case over to you since you stole it anyway. I must say, you two aren’t very friendly.”
“I’m tired of trying.”
“By the way, I sent a unit over to fetch Stiller. We probably ought to dot the i’s and so forth before we kick Rodriguez loose.”
“Fine. I just threw Katz out, by the way. He’s sniffing the air like a hyperactive pointer. You better make sure any paperwork he’s liable to see doesn’t have any names on it and that all this shit is on a need-to-know basis, or he’s going to start making the same connections I have.”
Frank sat down and shut the door with his foot. “Which are what so far?”
“Rodriguez makes it the fifth jury member in two days. Whoever’s doing this really did his homework. He stole Phillips’s dog, Rodgriguez’s tools, spent days terrorizing Reitz, and cased both Wodiska’s and presumably St Spree siller’s daily habits. He’s been working on this for a long time.”