Badge of Honour 06 - The Murderers (47 page)

“It may be enough,” Carlucci said. “It is for an arrest, anyway.”

“I thought so,” Lowenstein said. “I’ll have it sent to Callis within the hour.”

“What the hell, Matt,” Carlucci said. “I mean, you’re right here in the neighborhood, right’? Why don’t you, both of you, take this to Tom? See if he has any problems with it? Give him my very best regards when you do.”

No one had spoken to him during that time, nor had anyone so much as opened the door to look at him. He suspected that he was being watched through the somewhat fuzzy mirror on the wall, but he couldn’t be sure.

“James Howard Leslie?” the black man asked.

Leslie didn’t reply.

“Good afternoon,” Jason Washington said. “If you’d like, I can remove the handcuff.”

“I don’t give a fuck one way or the other.”

Washington unlocked the handcuff and stood back. Leslie rubbed his wrist.

“I don’t even know what the fuck’s going on,” Leslie said.

“You’ve been in here some time, I understand.” Washington said. “Is there anything I can get for you’? Would you like a Coca-Cola, a cup of coffee, a sandwich?”

“What I would like is to know what the hell is going on. All I did was try to burn some garbage.”

“I understand. That’s why I’m here, to explain to you what’s going on. And while we’re talking, would you like a Coca-Cola, or a cigarette?”

“I could drink a Coke.”

Washington opened the door. “Sergeant,” he ordered sternly, “would you please get a Coca-Cola for Mr. Leslie?”

Leslie heard someone reply.

“Fuck him! Let the fucking cop killer drink water!”

“I said get him a Coca-Cola.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” the voice said.

“That wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order,” Washington said sharply.

Two minutes later, a slight, dapper man with a pencil-thin mustache entered the interview room with a Coca-Cola, thrust it into Leslie’s hand with such violence that liquid erupted from the neck of the bottle and spilled on Leslie’s shirt and trousers.

The slight, dapper man then left the interview room. Just before the door slammed shut, Leslie heard the man say, “Fuck Special Operations, too.”

Washington handed Leslie a crisp white handkerchief to clean his shirt and trousers.

“He and Officer Kellog were friends,” Washington said, in explanation.

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Washington said. He leaned on the wall by the door, waited until Leslie had finished mopping at himself and started to return the handkerchief.

“Keep it,” Washington said. “You may need it again.”

“Thanks,” Leslie said.

“As I understand what’s happened here,” Washington said conversationally, “Officer Bailey of the Thirty-ninth District extinguished a fire in your backyard. In doing so, he found a photograph of Officer Kellog on his wedding day.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Officer who?”

“The finding of the photograph was, in the opinion of the Honorable Francis X. McGrory, Judge of the Superior Court, sufficient cause for him to issue a search warrant for your home.”

“I told you, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“A search of your home was then conducted by detectives of the Homicide Bureau. A silver frame was discovered. It has since been positively identified by Mrs. Helene Kellog as her property. Mrs. Kellog previously reported the framed photograph to have been stolen from her home.”

“So what?”

“Mrs. Kellog’s husband, Police Officer Jerome H. Kellog, was found dead in his home. Shot to death. Inasmuch as his silver-framed wedding photograph was known to be present in his home prior to the robbery, and missing from his home immediately after the robbery, it is presumed that the framed photograph was stolen during the robbery.”

“So what?”

“During the search authorized by Judge McGrory, Homicide detectives found other items among those things you were attempting to burn known to be the property of Police Officer Kellog. Specifically, thirteen recording tapes. And some other items.”

“I keep telling you, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Mr. Leslie, you are presently being held for setting an unlawful fire,” Washington said. “And, I believe, for maintaining an unsanitary nuisance.”

“Then what the fuck am I doing here?”

“Very shortly, I think you can count on a Homicide detective coming in here and arresting you for the murder of Officer Kellog. I came here to see if I could explain your situation to you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“If you are arrested for the murder of Officer Kellog, you will receive the required Miranda warning. I understand you have been arrested before, and know what that means. You will be advised of your rights, and provided with an attorney.”

“Who the hell are you’?”

“I’m a police officer, an investigator for the Special Operations Division. We are sometimes asked, in cases like this, to see if we can’t get through a situation like this as smoothly as possible To save everyone concerned time and money.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I’ll try to explain it to you. In my judgment, from what the Homicide Bureau Commanding Officer has shown and told me, what Homicide has here is a pretty strong case of circumstantial evidence against you. What I mean by that is that no one actually saw you shoot Officer Kellog. There were no witnesses. That means, when your case comes to trial, the District Attorney—I think I should explain that to you, too.”

“Explain what?”

“The District Attorney, Mr. Thomas Callis, rarely goes into court himself.
Assistant
district attorneys actually do the prosecuting. The exception to that rule is when a police officer has been killed. Mr. Callis himself prosecutes such cases. He was a police officer himself when he was a young man. So I think you can expect, when your case comes to trial, that you will be prosecuted by him personally. Do you understand that?”

“I guess so.”

“Fine. Well, what Mr. Callis will have to do in your trial will be to convince the jury that although no one actually saw you shoot Officer Kellog—”

“I didn’t shoot anybody! I don’t know what the fuck this is all about!”

“In that case, you—through your attorney, and I suppose you know that if you can’t afford to hire an attorney, one will be assigned to you from the Office of the Public Defender. And I must admit that some of those young men and women are really quite competent. They’re young and dedicated, fresh from law school, and really try hard.”

“I don’t have any fucking money,” Leslie said.

“Yes, we know,” Washington said. “As I was saying, if you say you are innocent, your defense counsel will enter a plea of not guilty on your behalf. Then it will be up to Mr. Callis to convince the jury that, although no one actually saw you shoot Officer Kellog, the circumstances surrounding the incident prove that you and only you could have done it.

“Mr. Callis will try to convince the jury that the only way you could have come into possession of the silver frame the Homicide detectives found in your home, and tapes they found in your home, and the photograph of Officer Kellog Officer Bailey found in the fire you set—”

“I don’t know anything about no fucking photograph!”

“You will be given the chance to explain how tapes made by Officer Kellog, tapes of his voice and telephone calls, came into your possession.”

“I don’t know nothing about no fucking tapes, either!”

“Your public defender will try to prove that,” Washington said. “Mr. Callis will be given the opportunity to try to convince the jury that you stole the framed photograph and the tapes and the other things from Officer Kellog’s home, and that in the conduct of that robbery, Officer Kellog came home and you shot him.”

“I didn’t do nothing like that.”

“And then it will be your attorney’s turn to convince the jury that it wasn’t you. If you can find someone, someone the jury would believe, who will go into court and swear that you were with them during the time of the robbery, that might help. Or if you could explain how the photograph of Officer Kellog and the silver frame and tapes and the other things came into your possession, that would help your case.”

“People are always throwing shit over the fence,” Leslie said.

“That might explain the photograph,” Washington said, reasonably, “but not the frame, which was found inside your house.”

Leslie looked uncomfortable.

“Your defense counsel could also have as witnesses people who know you, and would testify to your character, to try to make the point that you’re not the sort of fellow who would do something like this,” Washington said. “But if he did that, under the law Mr. Callis could introduce evidence to the contrary. You’ve been arrested, I understand, for bur glary on several occasions.”

“So what? That doesn’t mean I did the cop.”

“There is an alternative,” Washington said.

“What?”

The door opened and another detective, this one a huge white man wearing cowboy boots, stepped inside.

“Excuse me, Mr. Washington, District Attorney Callis is on the telephone for you.”

“I was afraid of that,” Washington said. “I don’t know how long this will take, Mr. Leslie, but I’ll try to come back.”

He left the interview room.

“Who the fuck uncuffed you?” the large detective asked rhetorically, walked quickly to Leslie, grabbed his right arm, clamped the handcuff on his wrist, muttered, “Fucking Special Operations hotshot!” under his breath, and stormed out of the interview room, slamming the door closed and leaving Mr. Leslie alone again.

Outside the room, he walked directly to Sergeant Washington, who was sitting on a desk holding a mug of coffee in his hands.

“That’s my mug, Jason.”

“I won’t say I’m sorry, because I am not.”

The large detective laughed.

“I didn’t think you would be. You think this is going to work?”

“I think we have established in his mind that (a) you don’t like him; (b) that shooting a policeman is not socially acceptable conduct; and (c) that he can’t beat this unless the nice black man comes up with some solution. The test of these assumptions will come when I go back in.”

“You want me to go back in there and accidentally bump him around a little?”

“I think that would be counterproductive. As frightening as you are, Arthur, I think his imagination should be allowed to run free.”

“Your call. Changing the subject: There’s a story going around that your pal Payne climbed out on a thirteenth-floor ledge of the Bellvue-Stratford to fix a wire?”

“All too true, I’m afraid. I have remonstrated with him.”

“What’s with him, Jason?”

“He’s young. Aside from that, he’s a damned good cop.”

“I meant, if he’s got all the dough everybody thinks he has, why is he a cop?”

“He has all the dough everybody thinks he has,” Washington said. “Did you ever think, Arthur, that some people are, so to speak, born to be policemen?”

“You, for example?”

“It’s possible. You and me. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“Shit, neither can I. What would I do? Sell used cars?”

Some of it is the challenge, I think. That explains people like you and me. And probably Payne. But what about people like Officer Bailey? I talked to him before I came here. The reason Leslie is in there is because Bailey, after years on the job, still takes personal pride and satisfaction in protecting people from critters like Leslie. He knows he can’t personally clean up the Thirty-ninth District, but ‘You don’t burn your garbage on my beat.’”

Arthur grunted.

“How long are you going to let the critter’s imagination run free?”

“I think fifteen minutes should suffice,” Washington said. He looked at his watch. “Another five and a half minutes, to be specific.”

Washington made no move to unlock the handcuff.

“I just came in to tell you I have to leave. I have to go to see Mr. Callis. The decision is yours, Mr. Leslie, and now is when you’re going to have to make it.”

“What decision?”

“Whether you wish to insist on your innocence, or—”

“Or what?”

“Be cooperative.”

“Like what?”

“How serious is your narcotics addiction, Mr. Leslie?”

“I ain’t no addict, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“I can’t possibly help you, Mr. Leslie, if you don’t tell me the truth. Your records show that you have undergone a drug-rehabilitation program. Why lie about it?”

“I got it under control.”

“Then you were not under the influence of narcotics when you burglarized Officer Kellog’s home? Your defense counsel might be able to introduce that at your trial. ‘Diminished capacity’ is the term used.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means that if you weren’t aware of what you were doing, because of ‘diminished capacity’ because you were on drugs, you really didn’t know what you were doing, and should be judged accordingly.”

“Which means what?”

“Let me explain this to you as best I can. If you are not cooperative, they’re going to take you to court and ask for the death penalty. In my judgment, they have enough circumstantial evidence to get a conviction.”

“And if I’m cooperative, what?”

“You probably would not get the death penalty. It’s possible that the District Attorney would be agreeable to having evidence of your drug addiction given to the court, and that the court would take it into consideration when considering your sentence.”

“Shit.”

“I’m not a lawyer, Mr. Leslie. You should discuss this with a lawyer.”

“When do I get a lawyer?”

“When Homicide arrests you for murder, and your Miranda rights come into play. That’s going to happen. What you have to decide,
before
you are arrested for murder, is whether you want to cooperate or not.”

“I could plead, what did you say, ‘diminished capacity’?”

“What I said was that you can either tell the truth, and make it easier on yourself and Homicide, or lie, and make it harder on yourself and Homicide.”

“You’re not going to be around for this?”

“No. But I’ve talked to Lieutenant Natali, and explained to him the situation here, and I think the two of you would be able to work something out that would be in everybody’s best interests.”

“Jesus, I don’t know,” Leslie said.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll ask Lieutenant Natali to come here and talk to you.”

“Jesus, I wish you could stick around.”

“I could come to talk some more, later, if you’d like.”

“Yeah.”

Washington put out his hand. Leslie’s right arm was handcuffed to the chair, so he had to shake Washington’s hand with his left hand.

“Good luck, Mr. Leslie,” Washington said.

“Jesus Christ, I don’t know what to do.”

“Talk it over with Lieutenant Natali,” Washington said. He walked to the door and pulled it open, then closed it.

“Just between us, Mr. Leslie, to satisfy my curiosity. Why did you think you had to shoot Officer Kellog?”

“Well, shit,” Leslie said. “I had to. He seen my face. He was a cop. I knew he’d find me sooner or later.”

“Yes,” Washington said. “Of course, I understand.”

“I’m going to hold you to what you said about coming to talk to me,” Leslie said.

“I will,” Washington said. “I said I would, and I will.”

He left the interview room.

Lieutenant Natali and Detective D’Amata came out of the adjacent room. They had been watching through a one-way mirror.

Natali quoted, “I had to. He seen my face. He was a cop.”

“Christ!” D’Amata said in mingled disgust and horror.

“What’s really sad,” Washington said, “is that he doesn’t acknowledge, or even understand, the enormity of what he’s done. The only thing he thinks he did wrong is to get caught doing it.”

“You don’t want to stick around, Jason?” D’Amata said. “I’ll probably need your help.”

Washington looked at Lieutenant Natali.

“Does Joe know who Mrs. Kellog believed was responsible for her husband’s death?”

“You mean Narcotics Five Squad?” D’Amata asked.

“I thought he should know,” Natali said. “I told him to keep it under his hat.”

“That’s what I was doing, Joe, when they sent me here. But to coin a phrase, ‘Duty calls.’ Or how about, ‘It’s a dirty job but somebody has to do it’? Do I have to tell you I’d much rather stay here?”

Both Natali and D’Amata shook their heads. Natali touched Washington’s arm, and then Washington walked out of Homicide.