“Do you understand all of your rights as I’ve just explained them to you?”
“No, I don’t,” the man answered, and grinned drunkenly.
Meyer sighed. “Breach,” he said, “are you getting that coffee?”
“Coming!” Breach called.
In the silence of the squadroom, they gave the man three cups of coffee to drink, and when Meyer was sure he was reasonably sober, he went through the entire Miranda-Escobedo bit again, and ended his warnings by saying, “Are you willing to answer questions without the presence of an attorney?”
“What?”
“Do you want a lawyer or don’t you?”
“Why do I need a lawyer?”
“That’s for you to decide. Are you willing to answer questions without one?”
“I am,” the man said.
“All right, what’s your name?”
“I refuse to answer that question.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want my mother to know I’ve been inside a police station.”
“Why? Are you afraid she’ll find out why we brought you here?”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Because I was drunk?”
“No, that’s not the reason.”
“Then what is the reason? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Do you remember what you said in the bar?”
“No.”
“Do you remember getting up on one of the tables and making an announcement to everyone in the bar?”
“No.”
“Patrolman Breach, would you tell this man what he said?”
Breach looked embarrassed for a moment. He shrugged, and then said, “Mister, you got up on one of the tables and said you killed some girl.”
“I never said anything like that.”
“Yes, you did. You were saying it to everybody in the bar even before I come in. By the time I got there, you were up on one of the tables waving your drink around and telling everybody you’d killed a girl and got away with it.”
“No.”
“Well, that’s what you said,” Breach insisted.
“I was drunk. If I said anything like that, I must have made it up.”
“You never killed anybody, is that right?” Meyer asked.
“Never.”
“Then why’d you make up such a thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have realized somebody would call the police.”
“Well, I was drunk,” the man said.
He had a polite, shy manner about him now that he was sober. Looking at him, Meyer saw that his immense hands were brown and calloused, like a farmer’s.
“Do you live here in the city, sir?” he asked.
“No, I don’t.”
“Where do you live?”
“Is there any more of that coffee?”
“Breach?”
“I’ll get some,” Breach said.
“Where do you live?” Meyer repeated.
“Upstate.”
“Where?”
“Carey. It’s near Huddleston. On route 190, the turnoff just before the road to Mount Torrance.”
“What are you doing here in the city?” Meyer asked.
“Just down for a few days.”
“On business or pleasure?”
“Business mostly.”
“What’s your business?”
“Woodenware. We’ve got a little shop up home, and we make coffee tables, bowls, spoons, things like that. Out of wood. I come into the city every so often to sell it.”
“When were you here last?”
“Oh, I guess it was April sometime.”
“When did you get to the city this time?”
“Last Thursday.”
“Mmm-huh,” Meyer said. “What about this girl you killed?”
“I didn’t kill any girl.”
“Who did you kill?”
“Nobody.”
“You said you killed a girl.”
“I said it when I was drunk. If I said it.”
“What’s your name, mister?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“We can find out, you know.”
“Then find out.”
“Look, mister, you’d better start leveling with me, because I can tell you this is a pretty serious matter here. A woman was found dead in her apartment about a mile from where we picked you up tonight, and indications are that she was killed last Friday night sometime. Now, suppose you tell me just where you were at that time?”
“When you were telling me my rights, you said I didn’t have to answer any questions if I didn’t want to.”
“That’s what I said.”
The man paused. “All right,” he said, “I don’t want to answer any more questions,” and that was when Cotton Hawes walked into the squadroom.
“A madhouse out there,” he said to Meyer, “gets worse every goddamn year.” He glanced at the man, turned away from him, turned back to him again, and then said, “Don’t I know you?”
“I don’t think so,” the man said.
“Sure, I do,” Hawes said, and walked closer to the desk and peered into his face, frowning, trying to remember. “Didn’t we... ?” he started, and then hesitated, thinking.
“Do you make him, Cotton?”
“Not yet. Why? What’s he done?”
“Says he killed a girl.”
“Yeah?”
“I was drunk when I said it.”
“Who was the girl?” Hawes asked, still staring at him.
“I don’t have to answer you,” the man said.
“Got it!” Hawes said, and snapped his fingers. “Your name’s Roger Broome, we talked to you about a refrigerator that was stolen from the basement of a rooming house. This must’ve been three, four years ago. Am I right?”
The man remained silent.
“Is that your name?” Meyer said.
“Yes,” he said at last. “That’s my name.”
“What’d you say that beef was?” Meyer asked Hawes.
“Landlady over on Twelfth had a refrigerator swiped from her basement,” Hawes said. “We questioned all her tenants. Mr. Broome here was one of them.” He turned to Broome and said, “I remember telling you I’d skied Mount Torrance. You live up there near Huddleston, don’t you?”
“Yes, in Carey,” Broome said.
“Sure, I remember,” Hawes said.
“So now you’re in trouble again,” Meyer said.
“I didn’t steal her refrigerator!” Broome said.
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know!”
“All right, don’t get so excited.”
“I want a lawyer,” Broome said. “I want to call my mother.”
“Just a little while ago, you said you didn’t want a lawyer.”
“I want one now.”
“Why? You going to tell us what happened?”
“Nothing happened. I didn’t steal her refrigerator.”
“But you did kill some girl, huh?”
“No. What’s one thing got to do with the other?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Broome. Suppose you tell us.”
“I want to call my mother.”
“Why?”
“To tell her... to let her know everything’s all right. To... to... I want to call her.”
“I thought you wanted a lawyer?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Can you afford one, Mr. Broome? Or shall we get one for you?”
“I don’t know any lawyers in this city.”
“Shall we get one for you?”
“Yes. If you’re going to trick me into saying things—”
“We’re not going to trick you into anything,” Meyer said. “Cotton, call Legal Aid. We need a lawyer up here right away.”
“I asked for some coffee,” Broome said. “Where’s my coffee?”
“Breach!” Meyer yelled.
“Coming!” Breach yelled back.
It is difficult to determine why a man who has lived with guilt for such a long time will suddenly decide to tell everything. Go ask Theodor Reik. Perhaps, in the case of Roger Broome, it was merely the sudden appearance of Hawes that convinced him the jig was up. But then, how would that explain his getting up on a barroom table and announcing to the world that he had killed a girl and got away with it?