‘Okay,’ said Chief Goddard. ‘So far, so good. Rocket Mann marries the nurse for insurance. If things go sour, she takes the fall. I call that long-range planning – like the Hunger Artist. But first you gotta nail him for killing the Nadler kid.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jack Coffey. ‘Just one problem. Why smother the boy? Mann was a detective. He had to know the forensics would point to murder. Even a drunken hospital pathologist noticed hemorrhaging in the kid’s eyes.’
‘Petechial hemorrhaging wasn’t in Rocket Mann’s vocabulary back then. I remember him in those days. He didn’t know shit about forensics, and he couldn’t bother to learn a damn thing. Never attended an autopsy, never cracked a book. And the guy couldn’t keep a partner for more than a week. Nobody wants to work with the screwup cop. That’s why he was riding solo when he was still a probie. I was the captain who assigned him to the wino murder.’
‘I know that,’ said Coffey. ‘My detectives are very thorough. They also tell me you started your vacation that same day . . . sir.’
‘And you wondered why I never volunteered that information.’ Joe Goddard waved one hand toward the window on the next room, where Annie Mann was still writing out her statement. ‘So this was staged for my benefit. I heard you guys do suspect interviews on both sides of the glass.’ He laughed, not a scoff – a belly laugh.
Jack Coffey would never have predicted that response. ‘Why did you assign a homicide to a white shield with no partner, no oversight?’
‘The wino murder was busywork, a case nobody cared about. If Mann screwed up – and I knew he would – no harm done. Then I could bust him back to a beat cop. I was on a fishing trip in Oregon when he pinned that murder on the Wilder kid. I could smell the stink all the way across the country. By the time I got back, strings had been pulled to get Mann transferred out of my precinct. And that little fuckup was sporting a gold shield. That’s when I knew he was dirty.’
‘How much did you know about Ernest Nadler? When he went missing, the parents—’
‘When I got back, I only knew a kid got lost, and he was found alive. That bastard Mann worked the assault off the books. No paperwork. I always knew he didn’t have the makings of a cop, and I was right about that . . . but I didn’t give him credit for brains. That was my mistake. I never knew what happened to that little boy, not until your detectives dug up the old ViCAP questionnaire. Satisfied, Jack?’
‘Yes, sir.’ No, sir. Lieutenant Coffey knew this was a lie, but his only proof was the chief’s relief when this story went unchallenged.
‘Your guys better make a strong case, Jack. I don’t want Rocket Mann getting off ’cause the public watches too many cops shows on TV. If you had a problem with the forensics, so will the damn jury. And I don’t want your case blowing up on a technicality of spousal privilege. Find out if he’s legally married to the nurse.’
‘He is. The marriage was registered in Toronto, Canada. My detectives knew that before they walked into the interview. And Mallory’s right about spousal privilege. It won’t apply to what Annie Mann saw, and she saw Rolland Mann in that hospital room with the dead boy.’
‘Then it’s his word against hers. You need more to charge him on the kid’s murder. And I wanna see some evidence for the murders of Humphrey Bledsoe and Aggy Sutton.’
‘We’ve got no connection between Mann and the Hunger Artist.’
‘Make one. Dump the wife in Witness Protection. I don’t want word getting out she was ever here. Don’t let her go home to pack a bag. Take her straight to a safe house.’
Coffey nodded to say he was following this. ‘So Rocket Mann goes home tonight. No wife, no missing suitcase. All her clothes are still in the closet.’
Goddard grinned. ‘What’s he gonna do? Everybody thinks he’s single. He let that game go on too long. And now he can’t even file a report on a missing wife, not without explaining why he erased her on paper. He’ll wonder where she is – and who’s she talking to? He’ll come unglued.’
Jack Coffey’s detectives were already busy rattling Rolland Mann, and they needed no help from Joe Goddard. But it would be impolitic to tell the chief of D’s that his plan was already in the works. Mallory and Riker had unpacked Annie Mann’s suitcase and then enlisted the aid of the neighbor across the hall. Mrs Buford was thrilled by the whole idea of becoming an agent for the police, and her silence was guaranteed, should Rolland Mann come to her door.
Joe Goddard had never been inclined to micromanage any homicide investigation. So why the change of style? Did Goddard miss the chase of a street-level cop? No, not likely. Jack Coffey decided that the chief of D’s had something to hide – and keep hidden.
The two detectives sat at their facing desks, doing paperwork on the most recent interview. Riker pushed aside the conflicting statements of Rolland and Annie Mann. ‘Are we missing something here? When Rocket Mann took Annie to Canada – you think he had a plan to kill her and dump the body up there? Maybe he chickened out? Killing isn’t his best thing. He bungled the forensics on Ernie’s murder.’
‘I think Annie was right,’ said Mallory. ‘He wanted to save her.’
‘So . . . you don’t think he smothered Ernie?’
‘Oh, yeah. He did it, all right. The bastard’s a stone killer. He’s just not real good at it. That’s what bothers you.’
‘I have a headache,’ said Riker.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The dead man in the Ramble is the last thing I think about when I go to bed – but not to sleep. I lay awake and wonder – did somebody close the wino’s eyes before he was buried? Or do bugs get into his coffin and crawl on his eyeballs? I wake up my parents to ask them.
—Ernest Nadler
Hoffman lingered in the drawing room, not liking the looks of the visitor, and who could blame her?
Grace Driscol-Bledsoe rose from her chair to tower over her son’s former – schoolmate, co-killer – oh, what was the word she was searching for? No matter. ‘Don’t worry, Hoffman, I’m sure I can take Miss Fallon two falls out of three.’
When the door had closed behind the departing nurse, another brown bag full of cash was passed from Grace’s hand to her guest’s. ‘That should tide you over.’
‘Thanks.’ Willy Fallon tossed the paper bag on a chair, so dismissive of money. She stood before the front window and pulled back a white gauze curtain. ‘I think I’m being followed. It’s just a creepy feeling.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised, my dear. Do you think the police know what you did – you and your little friends?’
‘You still worry about that, don’t you?’ Willy turned on her, smiling just a bit too wide, telegraphing that she was here to make more demands.
Grace, an old campaigner, launched the first salvo. ‘Obviously someone knows. While you were hanging in that tree – surely you must’ve formed an idea of who would benefit by your death. Perhaps someone regarded the three of you as loose ends? Maybe someone who needs to put all that unpleasantness behind him?’
Well, Willy Fallon had never been the brightest student at the Driscol School. The older woman leaned toward the younger one, willing her to work it out. Think! You psychopathic moron! Ah, a light shone in Willy’s eyes, evidence of a brain at work, albeit a tiny one. ‘You had a thought, my dear.’ Grace said this with absolutely no sarcasm.