“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Murphy, returning to the scene of the crime. Looks like I’ve got me an extra week of vacation.”
UAKM — CHAPTER NINE
It was only the third time I’d ever been handcuffed, and the first two times had nothing to do with the legal process. My hands were going numb as the cops escorted me into the holding area of the police station. It was 9:30, and the usual assortment of vagrants, ladies of the night, and frightened-face teenagers were seated on the benches. The air inside was tinged with the queasy odors of weak coffee, stale cigarette smoke, and vomit. A trio of hideous and unsanitary-looking hookers sat bunched together like Charlie’s Angels from a parallel universe. They cackled as the cops led me past them, and I felt like the title character in some contemporary, inner-city production of Macbeth.
When my handcuffs were removed, I was asked to take off my shoes, coat, hat, and all personal effects, after which I went through the delights of the booking process.
Everyone involved was unnecessarily jovial, acting as if they were the helpful staff in some hellish resort spa. There was only one belligerent cop, as allowed by law. I told him I had to call his wife and tell her I wouldn’t be able to make it over till later. This seemed to offend him, and he took it upon himself to make sure I didn’t loiter at the door to the drunk tank.
I picked myself up off the floor and looked around at my fellow inmates. Surprisingly, or not, most of them weren’t much different from the guys I’d played poker with in college. A little older and more damp. There were a couple of vintage bums, drunk on some cousin of Lysol and focusing on nothing in particular. The odd man out was a young man, no more than twenty years old, wearing a Polo sweater and dress slacks. He was sweating like a pimp in Sunday school.
The benches were filled, so I took a seat on the concrete floor. On top of everything else, the cops had made me leave my smokes and lighter with me personal effects. Taking my shoes I could understand. Shoelace suicides were a rich tradition in prison lore. But what did they think I’d do with a pack of Lucky Strikes? Smoke myself to death? Stage a prison riot while brandishing a red hot cherry? It’d been less than an hour, and I was already experiencing nicotine withdrawal. From somewhere outside the cell, I heard pitiful wailing. Maybe the cops were working off some empty calories. I drew my knees up to my chest and rested my forehead on them.
This was not the greatest night of my life. It’d probably been stupid of me to go to the Colonel’s office. Except for the surveillance disc, the contents of which might turn out to be completely worthless, I’d ended up with nothing but smudged fingertips and a criminal record. Drysdale now had his scapegoat in custody, and it was just a matter of due process before I was taken to trial and an impartial jury of my peers found me guilty and handed down a life sentence complete with a one-way ticket to the lunar penal colony. Not that it wouldn’t be an improvement over the existential quality of my past few years. At least I’d get three meals, some time to read, and rent-free accommodations. I was already celibate, so that wouldn’t be a problem.
“Scuse me!”
A loud and warm gust of pickled breath blew into the side of my face, interrupting my bleak introspection. I turned my head to see a tiny wino sitting beside me and leaning close. He was old and rail-thin. With his spiky white hair and five-day beard growth, he resembled a toilet brush.
“The name’s Rusty.” He extended his hand, which I ignored for sanitary reasons. He paused, then looked from me to his hand, before wiping it on his pants. “I ain’t seen you here before.”
I nodded curtly, trying to discourage further conversation. Rusty went on, oblivious.
“Me, I been in here quite a bit.” He thrust what was left of his jaw in the direction of a loudly snoring sack. “Not as much as old Quentin there. Ain’t that right, Jerry?”
Another watery-eyed denizen nodded unsteadily. “Dat’s right.”
Rusty clapped me on the back. “So what they got you for?”
I cleared my throat. “They say I waited for my grandparents to fall asleep, then hacked them into little pieces with a shovel.”
Rusty stared at me for several seconds, then got up and staggered across the cell. Behind me, a goodsized space had appeared on the bench. I climbed up and stretched out leisurely.
I’d been resting for about thirty minutes when the cell door opened and a burly prison guard summoned me. I followed obediently through a maze of corridors until we reached the door to the commissioner’s office.
Commissioner Armon Drysdale was a mean son of a bitch. He was one of the few men I’d ever met who could make full-grown adults feel like they were back in the principal’s office, mired in a bucket of fresh manure. All the cops were scared to death of him. He and I had only spoken a couple of times and, I had to admit, hadn’t hit it off particularly well. I seem to remember making an unflattering remark about his lack of social skills. Malden had said I was lucky I didn’t end up in the drunk tank for a week.
The guard knocked lightly on the door, and I was ushered inside by a young, crew-cut man wearing the kind of dark blue suit that comes with two pairs of pants. Drysdale sat regally behind his desk, arms folded across an Armani suit and an intolerant expression on his stone-cut face. He fixed his dark, unblinking eyes on me.
“That’ll be all, Blake. Go back to your post and do something useful.”
The large man mumbled something subservient and unintelligible and marched back out the door. Drysdale motioned for the young man behind me to leave as I stepped toward the chair in front of the desk.
“I didn’t invite you to sit down, Murphy.”
The office door closed, and I casually stuck my hands in my pockets. The commissioner unfolded his arms and crossed his legs precisely. “I assume you know why you’re here.”
“Yeah. Something about a parking ticket.”
Drysdale didn’t smile. “Colonel Roy O’Brien disappeared six days ago. When the Missing Persons’ report was filed, we searched his home, then his office. When the investigators went in, they found your name and address written in an appointment book. We’ve been trying to find you ever since. Now that you’re here, we can proceed in a variety of ways. You can tell me why your name was there and everything else you can think I’d want to know. Or, you can be a smart-ass. In which case, I’ll throw you back in the drunk tank, and we’ll try it again next week. It’s up to you.”
I considered for a moment. “I guess I’ll take the first one.”
Drysdale looked down at the sleeve of his fifteen-hundred-dollar jacket and delicately picked off a piece of lint. “I’m waiting.”
“There’s not much to tell. I hadn’t seen the Colonel in years. The other night, he shows up in my office. We chat for a few minutes about nothing in particular, then he leaves.
That’s it.”
“Which night was it that he came to your office?”
I tried to recall.
“I’d guess it was about two weeks ago. Give or take a day.”
The commissioner fixed a glare on me and held it for probably twenty second, though it seemed substantially longer. “What did he talk about?”
I found a small hole in the bottom of my pocket and thought about how good a smoke would be. “Like I told you, nothing in particular. He said I looked like hell, mentioned something about retiring to a tropical island, then told me to shape up. He didn’t say a thing about his upcoming murder or who the killer would be.”
Drysdale held up a finger as a subtle warning. “Don’t test me, Murphy. I don’t like you.
And if you push me, I’ll kick your ass so hard, only dogs will hear you fart.”