The Emperor of Ocean Park (19 page)

I turn to Dana. “Is this what you wanted me to hear?”

She nods and perches on the edge of my desk, her voice faint. “Keep listening.”

I frown. I do not get it. But I listen a bit longer. The man was found with cigarette burns on his arms and legs and several fingernails missing. He was tortured, the announcer explains. Death itself apparently came from a single gunshot to the head, and was probably a blessing. I close my eyes. A horrible story, true, but why does Dana think—

Wait.

The victim’s body was found in a small town near Washington, D.C.

I turn the volume up.

A frightening lassitude begins in my toes and climbs slowly upward, until I am dizzy and swaying on my feet. The air grows heavy and oppressive, my stomach heaves, and my furniture begins to turn a ghastly, asphyxiating red.

Beware of the others . . . . I would not want to see you harmed.

The name of the murdered preacher is Freeman Bishop.

CHAPTER 10
A TRAGIC COINCIDENCE

(I)

“I
T DOESN’T HAVE
anything to do with your father,” says Sergeant B. T. Ames, tapping a thick manila folder against the metal table.

“I don’t see how you can be so sure,” replies Mariah, sitting next to me on one of the hard wooden chairs in the small chamber off the police squad room. A single small window at about shoulder height lets in so little light that the day looks gruesome; it is hard for me to remember the bright autumn beauty I left behind just twenty minutes ago when we walked into the building. It is Thursday morning, one week and two days since the Judge’s funeral, and both of us are scared . . . although both our spouses think their spouses are being silly. I think maybe our spouses are right, but Mariah begged me to accompany her. We met at LaGuardia Airport a few hours ago and flew down together on the shuttle. Mariah, who can better afford the expense, rented a car, and we drove out to the Maryland suburbs for this meeting.

“It’s my job to be sure,” the detective deadpans.

“Somebody killed one of them,” Mariah says to the sergeant’s raised eyebrow, “and then somebody killed the other.”

Sergeant Ames smiles, but I can see the exhaustion. Obtaining this interview with a busy Montgomery County detective required Mallory Corcoran to make several calls from Hawaii, urged on by Meadows, who was badgered by me. The sergeant, leaning against the austere metal desk, has made clear that plenty of actual police work awaits; we can have only a few minutes.

We will take whatever time she can give.

“I’ve looked at all the reports on your father,” says Sergeant Ames, waving a sheaf of faxes. “He died of a heart attack.” She raises a large
hand to forestall any protest. “I know you doubt it, and you are entitled to your doubts. I happen to think the reports are correct, but it isn’t in my jurisdiction. The Reverend Freeman Bishop
is
in my jurisdiction. And he
was
murdered. Maybe he was murdered here, maybe he was murdered someplace else and then dumped here. Either way, Freeman Bishop is my case. Oliver Garland is not my case. And what I am telling you is that the cases do not have anything to do with each other.”

I glance at my sister, but she is looking at the floor. Her designer pantsuit is black, as are her shoes and her scarf, and the choice strikes me as a little melodramatic. Well, that is Mariah’s way. At least she appears relaxed. I am stiff and uncomfortable in the least seedy of my three tweed blazers, this one vaguely brown.

In any event, it now seems to be my turn. I throw what I hope is a congenial smile onto my face.

“I understand your point, Sergeant, but you have to understand ours. Father Bishop was an old friend of the family. He performed our father’s funeral just a week ago. You can see how we’d be a little bit . . . shaken up.”

Sergeant Ames puffs out a great gust of air. Then she stands up and walks around the wooden interrogation table to peer out the tiny window, where she blocks what little sunlight the window admits. She is a member of the paler nation, a broad yet graceful woman with a square, angry jaw and curly brown hair. Her size seems mostly muscle, not fat. Her dark blazer and cream-colored slacks are rumpled in the way that police fashions always are. A badge dangles from her breast pocket. Her florid face is chipped, from years of bad weather or years of bad diet or possibly both. She could be thirty. She could be fifty.

“We’re all shaken up, Mr. Garland. Mrs. Denton. This was a brutal crime.” She is still lecturing us from the window, giving us her back. “Kill a man this way, dump him in a public park.” She shakes her head, but the facts don’t change. “I don’t like to have this kind of thing in my town. I grew up here. I have my family here. I like it here. One reason I like it here is that we don’t have these problems.”
Racial problems,
she means. Or maybe she just means black people: the town, after all, is nearly all white.

“I understand that—” I begin, but Sergeant B. T. Ames (we do not know her first name, only the initials) holds up her hand. First I think she has something to say, but then I realize that she has heard knocking that I missed, because she walks over to the door and opens it. A uniformed
officer, also white, gleams at us suspiciously, then whispers to the sergeant and hands her another fax for her collection.

When the door is closed again, Sergeant Ames returns to her window.

“They found his car,” she says.

“Where?” Mariah asks before I have the chance.

“Southwest Washington. Not far from the Navy Yard.”

“What was he doing down there?” Mariah persists. We are both frustrated. All the sergeant has really told us so far is what the newspapers reported: Father Bishop had a vestry meeting scheduled for seven on the night he died. He called to say he would be a little late because he had to visit a member of the parish who was having problems. He left home in his car about six-thirty, and his neighbors swear he was alone. He never made it to the church.

The detective swings toward us, but leans against the wall, crossing her arms. “I’m afraid I have to get back to work,” she says. “Unless you have some information that you think will help us find Father Bishop’s killer.”

I spent my childhood being summarily dismissed, usually by the Judge, and have never been able to bear it as an adult. So I protest—as so often, without first thinking. “We told you we think there’s a connection . . . .”

Sergeant Ames takes a step toward me, her heavy face unwelcoming. She seems to be growing larger, or perhaps I am shrinking. I am suddenly reminded that she is, after all, a police officer. She is not interested in our theories or our meddling.

“Mr. Garland, do you have any evidence of a connection between the murder of Freeman Bishop and the death of your father?”

“Well, that depends on what you mean by evidence—”

“Did anybody tell you that this crime was connected to the death of your father?”

“No, but I—”

“Do you know of your own knowledge who killed Freeman Bishop?”

“Of course not!” I am offended but also a little bit scared, the ambiguous relationship of black males to the nation’s police departments being what it is. I remember that this tiny room is used for the interrogation of suspects. The furniture begins to emit a soft red glow. Mariah puts her hand on my arm, warning me to calm down. And I get the point: we are here, after all, and the sergeant has a job to do.

“Did anybody tell you who killed Freeman Bishop?” Sergeant Ames continues.

“No.” I remember, far too late, what we used to tell clients facing depositions: Keep it simple, say yes or no, and never, ever volunteer anything, no matter how badly you want to explain.

And stay calm.

“Did anybody tell you that he or she knows who killed Freeman Bishop?”

“No.”

“Did anybody tell you that anybody else knows who killed Freeman Bishop?”

“No.”

“Then maybe you don’t have any information for me.”

“Well, I . . .”

“Wait.” Spoken softly. The detective has taken command with remarkable ease. My intimidated students wouldn’t recognize me, but Avery Knowland, I am sure, would have a grand time watching.

Mariah and I wait as instructed. Sergeant Ames, to my dismay, actually opens her manila folder. She pulls out a sheet of yellow lined paper and reads some handwritten notes, her tongue poking around her mouth as she concentrates. She grabs a ballpoint pen from the table and makes a couple of check marks in the margin. For the first time, I realize that the detective is not just questioning me for show. Mariah recognizes it too; her hand tightens on my arm. Sergeant Ames knows something, or thinks she knows something, that is leading her to ask these questions.

And she is asking only me, not my sister.

When the sergeant speaks again, she is looking at her notes, not at me. “Are you aware of any threats received by Freeman Bishop?”

“No.”

“Are you aware of anybody with a strong dislike for Freeman Bishop?”

“No.” Again I cannot help elaborating: “He was not the sort of man who generated, uh, strong emotions.”

“No enemies of whom you are aware?”

“No.”

“Have you had any recent conversations with Freeman Bishop?”

“Not since the funeral, no.”

“Prior to the murder, but after the funeral, have you had any conversations with any person
about
Freeman Bishop?”

I hesitate. What is she driving at? What does she think happened? But hesitation in an interrogation is like a red flag to a bull. Sergeant Ames lifts her intense gaze from the manila folder and settles her eyes
on me. She does not repeat the question. She waits, terrifying in her patience. As though expecting me to confess. To a conversation? To something more? Does she think that I . . . surely she doesn’t think . . .

You’re being ridiculous.

“Not that I can recall,” I say at last.

She gazes at me a moment longer, letting me know that she recognizes the hedge, then looks down at her notes again.

“Have you recently noticed any peculiar behavior by Freeman Bishop?”

“I didn’t know him that well.”

She glances up. “I thought you saw him last week, at your father’s funeral.”

“Well, yes . . .”

“And did you notice any peculiar behavior?”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“He seemed the same as always?”

“I guess so.” I am puzzled by her questions now, not scared.

“Did anybody else recently tell you about any peculiar behavior by Freeman Bishop?”

“No.”

“Did anybody tell you anything that could have a bearing on this murder?”

“Don’t hurry. Think hard. Go back a couple of weeks if you have to. Months.”

“The answer is still no, Sergeant. No.”

“You said you think there is a connection between your father’s death and the murder of Freeman Bishop.”

“I . . . we wondered, yes.”

“Did your father ever talk about Freeman Bishop?”

This one puzzles me again. “I guess. Sure, lots of times.”

“Recently?” All at once her voice grows gentle. “Go back, say, six months from your father’s death?”

“No. Not that I remember.”

“A year. Go back a year.”

“Maybe. I don’t recall.”

“Was it your father’s wish that Freeman Bishop perform his funeral?”

Mariah and I exchange a glance. Something is up. “I don’t think he ever talked about his funeral,” I say, once it becomes clear that Mariah is not going to speak. “Not to me.”

Sergeant Ames turns her attention to the folder once more. I wonder what she could be reading in it. I wonder what she did when she learned that we were coming to see her, where she went for information, what information she found. I wonder where these questions are coming from. I am sorely tempted to violate the rules every lawyer lives by . . . and just ask.

Instead, I ask something else.

“Do you have any leads?”

“Mr. Garland, you have to understand the way this kind of thing works. The police usually are the ones who ask the questions.”

Pushing my buttons: nothing galls me as much as being patronized.

“Look, Sergeant, I’m sorry. But, you know, this is the man who just did my father’s funeral. Nine years ago he performed my wedding. Now, maybe you can see why I would be a little bit upset.”

“I do understand why you are upset,” Sergeant Ames says sternly, hardly bothering to glance up from her notes. “But I also have a murder to investigate, and as long as you have used your connections to barge in here on a very busy day, I expect you to try to help if you can.
Because
he did your father’s funeral.
Because
he did your wedding.”

Mariah tries to fix everything: “How can we be of assistance, Sergeant Ames?”

“Did you hear the questions I asked your brother?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Something registers in the sergeant’s face: why didn’t I think to say
ma’am?
Because she is white and I am black? Is rudeness the legacy of oppression? Downward, downward, civilization spirals, and all we Americans seem able to do about it is quarrel over the blame.

“Do you have any different answers to offer?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, ma’am.” My sister has never sounded so contrite in her life. The tactic seems to have some effect.

“I want you to look at these,” the detective says, her voice softer. She slides two glossy black-and-white photographs from her folder. “These are, mmm, the least horrible.”

Mariah glances down and then looks away; but I do not want to lose face before the formidable B. T. Ames, so I force myself to stare, and force my protesting mind to process what it is seeing.

To look at the photographs is to realize immediately that whoever tortured Father Bishop did it, at least in part, for the fun of it. One picture
is a close-up of a hand. If not for all the blood, you might not notice on first glance that three fingernails are missing. The second shot appears to show the meaty part of Freeman Bishop’s thigh. Bright, almost bubbly circles are burned into his skin. Puckers of pain, like craters on the moon. I count them—five, no, six—and this is just one small area of his body. I try to imagine what kind of person could do this to another. And keep on doing it, because this took a while. And
where
somebody could do it, to ensure that nobody would hear his screams. I doubt that a gag over his mouth would have been enough.