Bend Police and underneath that read Public Works.
I parked the car in a lot in back and we ran around to the entrance. Inside we refused to leave, or sit down, until we either spoke with my father or an officer who could tell us just what the hell was going on. My stomach was tied in knots. Though I'd long ago learned to give up loving my father, I knew this man wasn't, couldn't be a killer. Not to mention I couldn't even imagine what kind of evidence they had that would enable a warrant to be issued so quickly.
From everything Makhoulian and Binks told me, it seemed as if Gaines was murdered. Not an impulse killing, but exterminated. How could the cops be so blind? How could they possibly connect my father to this when he was in Bend the whole time?
For perhaps the first time in my life, I found myself feeling sorry for the man. He was alone, scared, accused of a crime beyond comprehension. It was all bogus, though. No doubt there was some mistake and he'd be released.
I tried to call my mother, but she didn't have a cell phone. I left a message at home, hoped she would find it.
Finally after an hour of waiting, a cop approached us where we stood. He was about forty, lean, with salt-and-pepper hair, a square jaw and dark, tan skin.
His badge read Whalin. We stood up, desperate to hear why they'd taken my father in for such a horren dous crime.
"You must be Henry," the cop said. He offered his hand. I looked at him, then shook it grudgingly. "I'm
Captain Ted Whalin of the BPD. I'm in charge of the criminal investigations division."
"Where's my father?" I demanded.
"Your father is in a holding cell. Tomorrow he'll have to go before a judge to be properly processed.
There is an outstanding warrant for his arrest in New
York City for the murder of Stephen Gaines."
"That's impossible," I said. "First of all, Stephen
Gaines is his son. And second, my father's never even been to New York."
Whalin looked confused. "I can't go into specifics,"
Whalin said, "but the warrant states that physical evidence does exist that links James Parker to the crime."
"That's impossible," I said again. "I don't think he's left the state in twenty years."
"That's not up to me to determine," Whalin said.
"If he's wanted for murder in New York," Amanda said, "won't he be extradited?"
"That depends on him," Whalin continued. "When he goes before Judge Rawling tomorrow, he'll have the opportunity to sign what's called a nonjudicial waiver of expedition."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
Whalin said, "It means that he agrees that he is in fact the same James Parker wanted on this murder charge.
If he accepts the charge, he'll be brought back to New
York City where he'll be entered into their system.
Though that might be a problem."
"What do you mean?"
"We believe that your father is the James Parker referred to in this warrant. We know he has a relation ship with Stephen Gaines…"
"That's not true," I said. "They didn't actually know each other at all."
"Regardless," Whalin said, "it'd be a mighty coinci dence if the NYPD happens to be looking for a com pletely different James Parker in regards to the murder of Stephen Gaines. Wouldn't you agree?"
I didn't have to. The odds were pretty nonexistent.
"As of right now, your father is refusing to grant the nonjudicial waiver." Whalin said this with frustration evident on his face.
Amanda said, "And what happens if he refuses to sign it?"
"Then it's our job to prove that he is-or is not-the
James Parker referred to in this warrant. We'll take fin gerprints, blood samples, and confirm with one hundred percent accuracy that he is James Parker. Of course, all that testing takes an awful long time, which means…"
"He stays locked up in your jail until he's extradited."
"Consider it time not served. Not a second of time he spends in prison here will be taken off any eventual sentence. So if your father wants to contest his identity, so be it. Not my ass sleeping every night on a metal bench. And did I mention he refuses to consult with a lawyer?"
"We need to see him," I said. "Right away."
"He's with two detectives right now, but I think he should be available in an hour or two."
"Wait," Amanda said. "Are they questioning him?"
"If they're doing their job."
"But you said he didn't have a lawyer."
"That's right."
"Then we demand to see him. I have a license to practice law in New York State, where any legal hearings pertaining to this case will occur. Right now your police station is acting as nothing more than a glo rified holding pen. So I can promise you that anything
James Parker says now will be disallowed in a court of law under the assumption that your officers coerced him into making a statement without legal counsel."
"Listen," Whalin said, "right now he isn't even ad mitting to being the right James Parker, so I doubt we'll get much-"
"Now," Amanda yelled.
Whalin looked her over, then said, "Follow me."
He led us into the heart of the BPD station, down a long brick corridor. At the end was a series of three rooms, marked simply 1, 2 and 3. He took us to the right, knocked on the reinforced-metal door.
A small slat opened at about eye level, then the door opened. Inside were two cops, one in uniform and one plainclothes. And sitting in a metal folding chair, his wrists handcuffed to the table, was my father.
His eyes were red. I could tell he'd been crying. He was still wearing the same clothes, but they were soaked through with sweat. He was shaking, as though his body was simply unable to process what was happening.
When he saw us, his mouth opened and his face lit up.
"Henry!" he exclaimed.
"His son," Whalin told the cops. "And Parker's lawyer." Whalin nodded at Amanda. She went to say something, but I nudged her. She got the tip. This was the only way we'd get to speak with him.
"You have half an hour," Whalin said as the other cops exited the room.
"We'll take as much time as we damn well please,"
Amanda said, staring right into the captain's eyes. He frowned, told the cops to take a hike.
"We have to lock the door from the outside. Proce dure. If you want to leave, just knock."
Amanda pointed at the camera hung up in the upper corner of the interrogation room. A small red light was blinking on it.
"I want that turned off," she said. Whalin looked at it, then nodded, making a slicing motion across his throat, telling the cops to kill the feed. They walked away, and a moment later the light went off.
"Thank you, Captain," Amanda said. "We'll be in touch soon."
We went in and closed the door. A metal snick came from outside. The cops locking us in with the alleged murderer.
We took two chairs and pulled them up to the table.
My father reached out to us, but the handcuffs held his wrists firm. He looked dejected, then said, "Henry, thank God you're here. Did they tell you? They think I killed Stephen."
"I know, Dad. The question is why do they think that?" My father leaned down, started to bite his nails, his head comically close to the table. "Dad?"
James shrugged, but there was nothing behind it.
"Listen, Mr. Parker," Amanda said. "Your best option right now is to sign the nonjudicial review waiver. Once you do that they'll bring you back to New York and begin actual legal proceedings. I'll help you get a lawyer, or at least weed out the bad ones."
"I don't want to leave here," my father said softly.
"Dad, jail isn't exactly comfortable," I said.
"I mean, I don't want to leave Bend," he said more forcefully. "I didn't do anything. I didn't kill Stephen.
They can't just take me wherever they want."