In the van, he says, "Got the bread, let's go," and Katie -pulls her T-shirt away from her body, encouraging the cool flow from the air conditioner.
They were afraid he might Spock. They had read him his rights and taken him back to the precinct, and now they were fearful he might not say another word. He was still in tears. They didn't want him to collapse entirely, so they decided to let Carella handle it alone, less threatening that way. They were in the Interrogation Room now. The other detectives were behind the one-way mirror in the room next door, watching, listening, scarcely daring to breathe. Carella turned on the video camera, and read Roselli his rights again.
Sometimes they-spooked when they heard the Miranda recitation for the second time. It made everything seem irrevocable beyond that point.
Made them think Hey, maybe I should ask for a lawyer. With professionals, there was never any question. They always asked for a lawyer first thing. With the amateurs, like Roselli, they either figured they could outsmart the police, or else they were so guilt-ridden they wanted, to spill it all. Carella waited. Roselli nodded.
Yes, he understood his rights and was willing to answer questions without a lawyer present. Carella needed it in words.
"Okay to go on then, Mr. Roselli?”
"Yes.”
No more Sal. Now they were equals. Mr. Roselli and Mr. Carella, two old friends sipping cappuccino and discussing politics at a round outdoor table in the sunshine. But the light was fluorescent, and the table was long and cigarette-scarred, and the coffee was made down the hall in the Clerical Office and served in cardboard containers, and the subject was murder. "Want to tell me what happened, Mr. Roselli?”
Roselli sat there, looking at his hands. "Mr. Roselli?”
“Yes.”
"Can you tell me?”
"Yes.”
Carella waited.
"I spotted her by accident.”
“Katie?”
“Yes?”
"Katie Cochran?”
"Yes. I hadn't seen her in four years, she'd changed a lot.”
He fell silent, remembering.
"She used to look like a teenager," he said. "Now she looked ... I don't know. Mature?”
Carella waited.
"She seemed so ... serious," Roselli said. "I didn't know she was a nun, of course. Not just then. Not when I first saw her.”
He began weeping again.
Carella moved a box of tissues closer to where Roselli was sitting. The tears kept streaming down his face. Carella waited. The room was still except for the sound of Roselli's sobbing and the faint whirring of the video camera. Carella wondered if he should risk a prod. He waited another moment.
"Where'd you run into her?" he asked.
Gently. Softly. Casually. Two gents sipping their coffees. Sunshine gleaming on white linen.
"Mr. Roselli?”
"At St. Margaret's.”
He took another tissue from the box, blew his nose. Dried his eyes.
"The hospital," he said, and blew his nose again. He sighed heavily.
Carella was hoping he wasn't about to quit. Call it off. That's it. No more questions. He kept waiting.
"I thought a friend of mine had OD'd, I rushed him to the emergency room," Roselli said. "It turned out he was okay, but Jesus, his face had turned blue! Katie just walked through, I couldn't believe it. I was busy with my friend, I thought he was going to die. I see this woman who looks like Katie, but doesn't look like Katie. I mean, you.
had to know Katie back then. When she was singing.? A million kilowatts, I swear. This woman looked so ... I don't know ... serene? Walking into the emergency room. Straight out of the past. Composed.
She stopped to say a few words to one of the nurses, and then whoosh, she was out the door and gone. I asked-the nurse who she was. She said That's Sister Mary Vincent. I said What? Sister Mary Vincent, she salct again. She-s a nun. works upstairs in Extensive Care. Sister Mary Vincent? I thought. A nun? I figured I'd made a mistake?”
He shook his head, remembering, remembering. Carella glanced up at the video camera. The red light was still on. The tape was still rolling.
Don't quit on me now, he thought. Keep talking, Sal.
"I went back. I had to make sure this wasn't Katie. Because if it was her, I wanted to ask her about that night four years ago. The way you want to ask your mother things about when you were a kid, do you know? I wanted to ask Katie about what had happened that night. Wanted to make sure that night had really happened. That night with Charlie Custer. When we killed him.”
It occurred to Carella that the only one who'd killed Custer was Roselli himself. He was the one who'd pushed him over that railing to his death. Yes, technically, they'd acted in concert, Katie hitting him with the bottle, Roselli shoving him over to the alligators. And technically, yes, a prosecutor could make a case against both of them.
Katie's intent hadn't been to kill, though, and Roselli had been acting in self-defense. A defense attorney could make a case for that as well. There were times when Carella was grateful he was merely a cop.
"I waited outside the emergency room door," Roselli said, "in the parking lot there, where the ambulances come in. This was two or three days later. Nurses were walking in and out. It was Katie, no question about it. I didn't approach her because I wasn't sure what she might do. She'd quit the band and dlsappeared. he'd become a nun and taken a new name. Had she run because she was afraid of the law? Or afraid of me ? Had she become a nun because she was hiding? From the law? Or from me?”
He nodded again, remembering. Kept nodding. Trying to understand.
Hands folded on the tabletop. Fingers working. Kneading his hands on the tabletop.
"I looked her up in all the phone books, but there were no listings for anyone named Mary Vincent. So I followed her home one day," he said.
"She lived in a walk-up on Yarrow. I checked the mailboxes and found one for Mary Vincent. So now I knew how to reach her if I wanted to.
But why would I want to?”
And now Roselli seemed to drift, his voice lowering almost to a whisper, confiding to Carella as if indeed the two of them were basking alone in the sun somewhere. Unaware of the camera now, he turned his gaze inward, and words spilled from his heart like shattered glass.
Carella listened, pained.
I knew a nun wouldn't have a pot to piss in, but she came from a well-to-do family, you know. In Pennsylvania someplace. On the road, she was always talking about them. Her father was a university professor, her mother, was a psychiatrist. That was money there. What would a couple of thousand mean to a family like that? I didn't know her parents were dead, of course. I learned that later. That night in the park. I didn't know her brother had inherited all their goddamn money. I just thought ... you know ... if I asked her for a little money, just to tide me over, just until I could square myself with the man, get a steady gig someplace, then maybe she could get it from her parents, you know? I know if one of my daughters was a nun, I'd give her the world. The world. I love those little girls. I'd give them the world. So maybe Katie's parents would help her out. Was what I thought.
I couldn't phone her, she wasn't listed, but I didn't want to walk up to her on the street, either. Hey, Katie, remember me? Remember the night you and I killed Charlie Custer? Remember the alligators eating him? A laugh riot, remember? Do you remember all of it, Katie, the way I remember all of it except when I'm lost in Dopeland? Do you remember, Katie? I wrote her a letter.
It was dated Monday, August tenth. I know because I read it again after I broke into her apartment to get it back. I tore it up the minute I got home. Flushed the bits and pieces down the toilet. The letter said Hi, Katie, it's good knowing you're still alive and well. I don't want to bother you, Katie, I know you have a new life now, but I'm in a little trouble, and maybe you can help me out. This is what it is. I need a couple of thousand dollars-to square a debt. I was hoping you could ask your parents for a loan until I get on my feet again. Do you think that would be possible? I would appreciate your help. Please call me, Katie. I'm living out on Sand's Spit just now, in a small development house. The number there is 803-7256. I mean you no harm. I just need money. Considering our past together, I feel certain you'll help. Please call.