The Assailant (10 page)

They stopped at the front gate of the zoo. Murph got out of the car with his bag of food and soda, and his wife switched over to the driver's side. She rolled down the window, leaned out, and kissed him. Closer now, she said, “Be careful, okay?” She hoped the children hadn't heard the concern in her voice. He had been shot on a case before, going to interview a witness who should've been harmless. The other detective had been killed.

“I'll call you.”

•

Rhodes said, “Can you crack your window?”

“What?”

“The smell, man.”

Murph said, “You want some of these fries?”

“No, I'll just smell the grease.”

“Good stuff.”

“How is it you can eat that sort of food and not get fat?”

“Genes, baby. I got the right genes.”

Tim Murphy was a short, almost slight man who maintained the build of a bantamweight fighter. Which he had never been, but he was gifted with that air of menace and fearlessness that non-Irish cops tend to envy. People had thought that getting shot would take some of the bite out of him. It hadn't.

After he was shot, Murph's brother came down from Chicago and visited him in the hospital. His brother was a dentist. He was younger and more successful financially, and he told Murph that he was going to survive and that maybe now it was time to take a partial disability retirement and get out of this line of work. Murph said, “And do what? Go to dental school?” The brother said no, not that necessarily. But something safer and more profitable. Something with a better future. Murph told him to forget it.

Tim Murphy was not a man given to self-examination. He and his brother had grown up in a working-class, pro-union environment. And though it was the younger brother who had gone on to become affluent, it could be argued that Murph was the one who had become a snob. His identity was strongly rooted in being a policeman. Perhaps even in being an Irish policeman. It was not so much that he believed he was doing something good. He did believe that, but he knew himself well enough to know that this was not his motivation. In law enforcement, he felt a pride and a belonging and a purpose he knew he could not feel anywhere else. If that sentiment trapped him in a life that brought him the risk of being shot, so be it. He knew this was something his
brother would probably never understand. He was grateful that his wife had never asked him to explain it.

Rhodes said, “What did Joe tell you?”

“He said there was another strangulation. You went to the first one, didn't you?”

“Yeah, a hooker, like this one. We don't have any leads on the first. And then they found a second one this morning at the Thunderbird Motel on Manchester. The guy we're going to see was checked in at the hotel last night. He left sometime. He used a false name and address.”

“Oh?”

“But he wrote down his real tag number on the register.”

“Clever.”

“Yeah, a rocket scientist. Joe called the DMV and found out his real name and address. So we're going to see if he knew her. Find out what he was doing there.”

“Does he know we're coming?”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

•

Mickey said, “We'll go the over on the Patriots. . . . Yeah, guy . . . Is Dallas giving points or getting points? . . . Huh? Romo? No, he seems to be working out. . . . Yeah, we'll see how long it lasts. . . .”

He was on the phone with his bookie. Wearing sweatpants and a ball cap at around noon, Sunday. There was an empty McDonald's bag on the living-room table, Terry Bradshaw and
Howie Long muted on the television, Bradshaw waving his arms about, Howie looking askance. Mickey's wife and kid would not return from Kansas City for hours. Sunday and he was free.

Mickey said, “No, Tiki's serious. I saw him on Letterman the other night, he said he was hurting too much. He's retiring . . . yeah, fucking pussy . . . shit, someone's at the door. Let me call you back.”

Mickey Crawford opened the door, the cell phone still in his hand. He saw two men in sport coats and ties, civilian outfits, but right away he knew they were cops.

The smaller one held up his identification. “Mr. Crawford?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm Detective Murphy. This is Detective Rhodes. We'd like to speak to you.”

“What about?”

“It's nothing too serious,” Murph said. “Can we come in?”

When he said this, he made his body language and his expression unthreatening. Detective Rhodes stood back a step. They could have been two men working for a local church.

“Sure,” Mickey said. He stood back and let them come in.

Mickey was aware of the mess in his living room. He wished he had gotten dressed earlier. He wished he had taken a shower. He wished he knew what these guys wanted. Without meaning to, he heard himself apologizing for the clutter.

Murph said, “Hey, you should see my house. You married, Mr. Crawford?”

“Uh, yeah. My wife's in Kansas City. With the baby.”

“How many children you have?”

“Just the one. She's two and a half.” Mickey Crawford smiled and looked at Detective Rhodes. Rhodes didn't say anything.

Murph said, “So how do you like living in Creve Coeur?”

“It's okay. I guess. We bought the house about a year after we got married.”

“And your wife's out of town.”

“Yes.” Mickey felt alarm then.

“So,” Murph said, “what were you doing at the Thunderbird Motel last night?”

“What?”

“The Thunderbird Motel,” Rhodes said, speaking for the first time. “What were you doing there?”

“I—I was here last night.”

Murph sighed, like he was disappointed. He looked at Rhodes, as if to say,
This one's going to be difficult
. He said, “Mickey. We know you were there. Your car was there. We know.”

Rhodes said, “Why don't we sit down. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for this.”

Mickey gathered himself. Squaring his shoulders, he said, “There is. I wasn't there.”

Murph sighed again and gave Rhodes another look. He said, “I guess we'll have to take him downtown.”

“Now wait a minute—”

“And if we do that, it's going to become, well, a public matter.”

Rhodes said, “Son, we're not your daddies. Or your priest. Just tell us what you were doing there.”

“Oh, God,” Mickey said. “Oh, no. I—I wasn't, I didn't . . . I was there to meet a friend.”

Murph took a seat on the couch. He made a gesture to Mickey, who sat down on the chair nearby.

Murph said, “Who?”

Rhodes remained on his feet. He drifted about the room, looking and observing.

Mickey said, “A woman.”

“Who?”

“Her name is—well, do you have to know her name?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Her name is Estelle. She's just a friend.”

“What's her last name?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know her last name?”

“No. I know it seems weird, but, oh, God.” His chin was quivering now.

Murph glanced over his shoulder at Rhodes, who was walking out of the living room, toward the back of the house.

Before Mickey could say anything, Murph said, “Was she an escort?”

“Yes.” Mickey's voice was on the verge of a sob.

“Tell me what happened.”

And now Mickey did sob. He said, “We met, we met, I don't know, a few months ago. I called a number in the Yellow Pages and she met with me. And we, you know, met. That's all.”

“You had a relationship with her.”

“Yes.”

Murph shrugged. No big deal. “A friendship.”

“Yes.”

“ 'Cause you get lonely?”

“Yeah. My wife . . . we don't.” He paused. “We don't, not since the baby.”

“I understand. Man, you're not the first. So you made friends with Estelle.”

“Yes.”

“And you would meet with her?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“I don't know. Once every three weeks or so.”

“At the Thunderbird?”

“Yeah, usually.”

“And you met her last night?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I mean, I was supposed to. What happened was, I was supposed to meet her. I called and made an appointment to—oh God, an appointment. If my wife—”

“Your wife's not here,” Murph said. “Tell me what happened before she gets back.”

“I got there at around eleven. We were supposed to meet at midnight. But I got there before she did. I wanted to watch a game on ESPN. A college football game. And I thought I'd watch it at the motel while I waited for her.”

“Why not just watch it here?”

“I don't know.”

“Sure you do.”

“I—wait, I do know. I wanted to watch it at the motel because I was afraid if I watched it here, I'd fall asleep. And that's what happened at the motel. I was lying on the bed, watching the game, and I fell asleep. I don't usually stay up past ten.”

“What game were you watching?”

“Northwestern–Wisconsin.”

“When did you fall asleep?”

“I don't know. It must have been before twelve.”

“Did she come?”

“If she did, I didn't hear her. I was asleep.”

“You fell asleep. Then what happened?”

“I woke up. Around three o'clock or so. I was still in my clothes. And I didn't want to stay there.”

“Why not?”

“It's depressing being in a motel alone. You miss your family.”

Detective Murphy nodded. He saw no irony in this. “You left then?”

“Yes.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“What if the motel manager says that you checked out at seven
A.M.
?”

“Then he's lying. Or he's mistaken. I left at three. And I didn't check out. I just left.” Mickey straightened up, intuiting something now. “What's this about, anyway?”

“We'll get to that,” Murph said. “You left at three and then what?”

“I came home.”

“Can anyone back you up on that?”

“No. My wife's out of town.” Mickey looked over his shoulder. The other detective was no longer there. Mickey said, “What happened?”

“Mr. Crawford, Estelle is dead.”

“Oh, God. Oh my God. What—”

“She was strangled to death. In the motel parking lot. Didn't you know?”

“No. God, no. You don't think I—”

“I don't know yet. Would you be willing to take a polygraph?”

“A lie detector test? Yeah, I'd take one. I swear to you, I didn't, I didn't even know. Oh God. My wife . . .” He was crying now. Slumping in his chair.

Detective Rhodes returned from the back of the house. He looked at Murph and shook his head.

______

Later, Mickey Crawford was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and a ball cap. He sat in the front seat of the Impala with Rhodes. Talking with Rhodes, who he had decided was less threatening than the other cop.

Murph stood at a distance from the car, holding his cell phone. He said, “Yeah, we've set up a polygraph downtown. He's agreed to do it. He's agreed to give us fingerprints too. He's cooperating.”

Hastings said, “What do you think?”

“Well,” Murph said, “I guess it's possible, but I don't think it's him. We'll know more later.”

Hastings said, “How could he leave the motel and not see her?”

“He says he didn't see her. Says his car was parked right in front of his room. Said he didn't see her car. Where was it, by the way?”

“It was on the other side of the parking lot,” Hastings said. “It's possible he didn't see her.”

“DNA tests will show if he was with her that night.”

“Right. But even if he didn't have sex with her that night, it doesn't necessarily clear him. He says he never even saw her that night?”

“That's what he says. The physical evidence will confirm that. And he is cooperating with us on that score.”

Hastings said, “Maybe he thinks he can outsmart us. Outsmart the tests.”

“Ah, he doesn't strike me as that type, George. Again, we'll see
what the tests show, the polygraph and things. He doesn't strike me as a turd. Or a lying psychopath.”

“What, then?”

“I think he's a guy who's probably all right. Marriage is a little dull, his wife won't fuck him, and he got lonely for a woman. He pretended that this girl cared about him. He didn't ask much from her.”

“Can he account for his whereabouts the night before?”

“Friday night?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, you mean the other girl. Yeah, I asked him about that. He said he was home with his wife, and they had another couple over for dinner.”

“And you're going to check that out?”

“Yeah. We got their names and number.”

“Okay, Murph. Well, keep me posted. Oh, listen, Wulf is worried about this shit getting in the press. Serial-killer scare and all that. So be careful about reporters, will you?”

“I will, George. But,” Murph said, “it's probably what we're dealing with, isn't it?”

“Yeah, probably. I'll see you.”

Hastings clicked off the cell phone and walked over to the county detective.
Escobar
, Hastings thought. He had heard someone call the man “Eff.” Right. Short for Efrain.

Efrain Escobar leaned up against a Ford Crown Victoria, sipping a cup of coffee. Watching all the technicians at work, the brass gathering around and asking questions.

Hastings said, “Have you guys sent someone to question her pimp yet?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Why don't we do it?”

“Now?”