The Assailant (15 page)

The manager said, “He doesn't get here until six. What's this about?”

Klosterman said, “We just need to speak to him, that's all.” They didn't think the manager needed to know what it was about.

“Well, I like to know if my people are in some sort of trouble.”
The manager tried and succeeded in maintaining eye contact. A man in charge. The detectives ignored this.

Klosterman said, “We need to know his home address and telephone number.” The manager hesitated and Klosterman raised his voice and said, “Come
on
.” And that was all it took, the manager giving Larry MacPherson's full name, address, and home and cell numbers. Hastings turned around then so that the manager wouldn't see him suppressing a laugh.

Minutes later, they were on Interstate 70 going north and then swinging west toward a large, drab apartment complex near the airport. During the drive, Klosterman called the station and gave Larry MacPherson's name to dispatch. Asked if there was any sort of criminal record on the man.

Dispatch came back and told him yes, there was. Three arrests for drug possession, the last one for intent to distribute. They said his driver's license had been suspended about a year before, but that he'd been pulled over for speeding two months ago. He'd been given a citation for the speeding and for driving under suspension. A month after that, he'd been a no-show at traffic court, so the court clerk had issued a bench warrant.

“Oh, really?” Klosterman said.

He turned to Hastings and said, “He's a wanted man.”

Hastings said, “What for?”

“Failure to appear at traffic court.”

“Hmmm. Well, let's hope he's home.”

He was.

The apartment was on the second floor of a complex that could have been a second-rate motel in a previous life. Hastings and Klosterman walked up the stairs and got to the number they'd been given. They looked through the window and saw a young man with big shoulders and chest sitting in front of a television holding the latest PlayStation controller.

Klosterman said, “He's a big 'un.”

Hastings drew breath. “Looks like he's on 'roids too.” He'd seen 'roid rage in action. Steroids didn't make a man as strong or as unpredictable as PCP did, but it was in the same ball park.

Klosterman stayed by the window so he could see what Larry MacPherson would do. Hastings moved in front of the door.

“You ready?” Hastings said.

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

Hastings made three hard raps on the door.

“Open up! Police!”

Klosterman told Hastings what he saw as the man turned and got up. If MacPherson had run to the back of the apartment, Klosterman would have drawn his weapon. More often than not, losers who jump bond keep guns in their bedrooms. Often more than one.

Hastings rapped the door again.

“
Police officers. I said open up
.”

Hastings could hear Larry MacPherson coming to the door, his movements bold and quick.

Klosterman said, “George,” warning him as Larry MacPherson yanked the door open.

“What the fuck do you want?” he said.

Larry MacPherson was bigger when he was on his feet. He just about filled the door frame. He did not appear to be holding any sort of weapon. But he was at least a head taller than Hastings.

Hastings said, “Calm down, chief. I'm just here to talk to you.”

“You smashing on my door like you got a right to do it.” MacPherson was putting his face close to Hastings's face now. Pushing him . . .

Hastings said, “There's a warrant out for your arrest.”

“Yeah? Who's going to arrest me? You, you fucking pussy?”

Hastings felt his heart racing. He was scared and he knew it. MacPherson would know it too, in time. Hastings said, “I don't think I can.”

“Why not?” MacPherson said.

“ 'Cause you're not wearing any shoes.”

At that moment MacPherson looked down at his bare feet. His focus was still there when Hastings brought his shoe down hard on the top of Larry MacPherson's bare foot in a vicious stomp. Larry MacPherson bellowed and Hastings smashed the heel of his hand into his throat.

MacPherson stumbled back, off-balance now, and Hastings rushed him and knocked him down. He was on the floor, gathering himself to get back up and crush the smaller man, but now Hastings had his .38 snub-nose out, pointing it down on him.

MacPherson stayed on the floor, trying to catch his breath. Klosterman followed them into the apartment. Then he got behind
Larry MacPherson and pushed his face into the floor, pulled his arms behind his back, and put the handcuffs on him.

“Such violence,” Klosterman said, because it was past now.

“You fucking cops. You all fight dirty.”

“Sorry,” Hastings said. Though he wasn't.

Klosterman placed Larry MacPherson under arrest and began reading him his Miranda rights.

Ronnie Wulf said, “He's a big fellah.”

“Yeah, we noticed that,” Hastings said. “Look at his forehead. See the blemishes, the Frankenstein eyebrows. 'Roids.”

Larry MacPherson was on the other side of the glass. Joe Klosterman was interviewing him. They had added a belly chain to him in case he got a mind to misbehave.

Wulf said, “You search the apartment?”

Hastings shrugged. “Plain view. We didn't have a warrant.” He avoided Wulf's gaze and said, “Found a gun. That's a violation of his parole. Found a couple of bottles of cypionate and transdormal, which we think he got from Mexico. Probably selling it here. But no, we didn't find anything linking him to the strangulations.”

“What about his record?”

“Drugs. Driving under suspension. No record of sexual assault.”

“That doesn't clear him, though.”

“No. That doesn't clear him.”

They saw Klosterman stand up and walk out of the room. Then he stepped into the room with them.

“Well?” Hastings said.

Klosterman said, “Rita Liu never met this guy, did she?”

“She said she may have.”

“Okay,” Klosterman said. “Well, he's a shitbird, all right. He spent the first fifteen minutes talking about how much he hated you.” Meaning Hastings. “Sorry son of a bitch, fucking cop, that sort of thing.”

Hastings nodded. He'd gotten used to it.

Klosterman said, “Then he talked about the suspended driver's license business. He said it's his insurance company's fault because they were supposed to notify the DMV or some shit. He says he's not selling steroids. That those pills we found were prescribed by a doctor.”

“What about Reesa Woods?” Hastings said.

“He says he hasn't seen her in months. He said he was working Friday and Saturday night.”

“Did you tell him why you were asking his whereabouts?”

“No.”

“Does he know she's dead?”

“Yeah, he knows.” Klosterman frowned. “And I think he's on to us, too. I mean, the guy's a two-by-four, but he's not that fucking stupid. At one point, he asked why two plainclothes detectives are taking so much interest in a guy who didn't show up for traffic court.”

Wulf said, “Get a formal search warrant. His apartment and his car too. Go to Judge Brand. He'll authorize it.” Wulf did not ask Hastings how much he had searched before. Wulf knew what not to ask.

“Okay,” Hastings said. “I'm going to call Murph and ask him to go back to McGill's, see if MacPherson was there Friday and Saturday.”

“Good,” Wulf said.

Hastings turned to Klosterman and said, “You want to stay with him?”

“Yeah,” Klosterman said. “He's beginning to like me. I'm the nice one.”

Good cop, bad cop. It was amazing how often it still worked. Even when the suspects were aware of it.

•

Hastings returned to Larry MacPherson's apartment with four police officers, three of them in uniform and a detective on loan from the North station. They rapped on the door, saying the standard, “Search warrant, search warrant,” and they would have gone in on the third, but then a woman opened the door.

Hastings said, “Jennifer?”

A chubby girl with blond hair and bad skin. She said, “Yeah?”

“My name is Lieutenant Hastings. We have a warrant to search the premises.”

“Larry's not here. Why don't you come back when he's here?” She seemed to know that it would involve Larry.

Hastings said, “He's been arrested.”

“I'm not surprised,” she said. “Listen, it's a bad time.” She started to close the door.

But Hastings gently pushed it open. “I know,” he said, “but it has to be done.”

The uniformed officers followed him into the apartment and began their search. The girl didn't cry or shout. She just let her shoulders sag and stood in the middle of the room. She didn't know what she had done to deserve this. Police coming into her home without her permission. It was an injustice. An invasion.

Hastings remained close to her. Eventually, she gave him her attention. “You're not going to arrest me, are you?”

“Not planning to,” Hastings said.

She looked around the apartment. Officers were opening drawers in her bedroom, looking through kitchen cabinets. Hasting could tell that she was wondering if they were going to take anything that belonged to her, if they would care if they broke any of her things.

Hastings said, “Do you want to sit down?”

“Yeah. But then they'll probably make me move,” she said. “I mean, I don't want to get in your way or anything.” Her tone was bitter.

“We can go sit in the car.”

“Yeah? What, so you can question me?”

“As a matter of fact, I would like to talk to you. Maybe I can help you.”

“Help me?” She eyed him, her expression tired and beaten. “What makes you think I need
your
help?”

Hastings moved closer to her. He didn't want the other officers to hear what he was saying. He got closer to the woman and said, “He abuses you, doesn't he?”

She didn't answer him. She looked away and Hastings detected a nod of her chin. He'd seen it before. Sometimes the victim can't help giving herself away. She's hiding it from her friends, her family, people at work. It's a lot of work, hiding abuse from people. Sometimes when a police officer just asks point-blank, it's a relief to confess it.

Hastings said, “Knocks you around some?”

“Not always.”

“No, not always,” Hastings said, recalling the enraged, bowed-up figure he'd punched in the throat. “Sometimes he's nice, right? Probably after he's been mean. Tells you he's sorry. That he needs you. That he loves you. That he won't ever do it again. Am I right?”

“It's none of your business. I can handle it.”

“No, you can't. You can get used to it, but you're not ever going to handle it. Why don't you come outside with me? We can have some privacy.”

She walked out to the balcony with him. She lit a cigarette.

Hastings said, “He's in police custody. He can't hurt you now.”

She snorted. “Yeah? For what? Driving without a license, right? He'll be out in the morning. And you know who he's gonna call to bail him out, don't you?”

“Maybe,” Hastings said. “Maybe he'll get thirty days in county.”
He wanted to say that maybe he'd get a whole lot more. Say two consecutive life sentences for murder in the first degree. But he didn't know that. “How long have you been with him?”

She shrugged. “About two years.”

“Did he always take steroids?”

“No. That started a few months ago.”

“Did it change him?”

“. . . Yeah.”

Hastings said, “It's nothing to be embarrassed about.”

She snorted again, as if she felt patronized by him.

“It's not. You feel ashamed, but it happens to a lot of women. In a way, men too.”

“Men too, huh? God, I wish that were true.”

“What I mean is, people tell themselves it's not that bad. They just sort of condition themselves to it. They get used to it. What I'm saying is, you're not a bad person.”

“Gee, thanks, Officer.”

“What I'm saying is, you don't deserve this.”

She shrugged again.

Hastings said, “You thought about leaving?”

“Sure. But where would I go? He'd just find me.”

“He threaten to do that?”

“Not in so many words.”

“He threaten to kill you?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes. I'm sure.”

“There was another girl living with you,” Hastings said. “Her name was Reesa. Do you remember her?”

Jennifer was looking at him now. “Yeah. What about her?”

Hastings thought then, She doesn't know. She doesn't know that Reesa Woods is dead. Though she could be conning him.

Hastings said, “What happened to her?”

“I don't know. She lived with us for a while. Then she moved out.”

“How come?”

“I don't know. She moved on. Got her own place, I guess. Why?”

“How did you know her?”

“We worked together.”

“Where?”

“At—at Lady Godiva's.”

“A strip club?”

“A
dance
club. What's this about?”

“I'll get to that,” Hastings said. “Were you both dancers?”

“That's none of your fucking business, but, yeah.”

“You still there?”

“No. I quit. I'm working at Famous-Barr now. I sell clothes. Look,” she said. “Are you trying to get off or something, asking me about when I was a dancer?”

“No.”

“Why all these questions about Reesa?”

“Don't you know?”

“No, I don't.”