The Ritual Bath (21 page)

Cory Schmidt sat
slumped in the interview room, head down, smoking a cigarette. His stringy blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and dark circles underlined his eyes. The prison denims he wore were wrinkled and too big for him. Taking a deep drag, he looked around, then turned his attention back to the tabletop in front of him. He had been stripped of his earrings, his wrist bracelets, and all of his bravado.

He fidgeted, growing increasingly jumpy in this pisshole. Man, he felt alone. Someone had told his mother about the arrest a couple of days ago, but the lazy bitch hadn’t bothered to show her face. She was probably glued to the boob tube—her fuckin’ soaps. His old man didn’t care, either. Too busy gettin’ tanked somewhere. Shit! When you come right down to it, ain’t a soul who gave a flying fuck about you. Not your parents, not your buddies, not your chicks. Nobody. He looked at the suit sitting next to him—some righteous fuck-off of a public defender named Ronson. Who was he
trying to kid with his dipshitty beard and fako English accent? A first-class jiveass turkey fag. Dude didn’t do a fucking thing except scribble notes, shuffle papers, and clear his throat, asking if there were any questions, talking to him like he was a retard. Man, there was nothing left to say. Cory finished the last hit of nicotine and wondered if he wasn’t better off with a bullet in his head.

Decker stood outside the interview room waiting for Birdwell, the deputy D.A., to return from his phone call. The prosecutor was a young, good-looking, bespectacled black kid with a baby-smooth face and short kinky hair—a Berkeley grad, sharp, with a lot of spirit. He’d do well in the system. The detective wondered how he would have fared had he gone into public law. In retrospect, it had been a big mistake to join his father-in-law’s practice. Estate planning and wills. Big bucks but mind-numbing.

Seeing Captain Morrison enter the squad room, Decker waved him over. David Morrison was in his early fifties, built wiry, with thin gray hair and flaccid cheeks. His tie was slightly askew, and he straightened it as he approached Decker.

“Where’s Birdwell?” he asked.

“Taking a phone call.”

The two men waited in silence until Birdwell returned.

“What do we have, George?” Morrison asked.

“He wants to trade,” Birdwell said.

“What’s the deal?” the captain asked.

“He’ll cop a plea of assault to the Adler woman in exchange for the names of his cohorts on the Marley murder,” the prosecutor answered.

Morrison turned to Decker.

“I thought Adler was a rape.”

“The doctor screwed up the exam,” said Decker. “While she noted semen in the vaginal and anal regions, she failed to note
any
penetration because it was so slight. So without the words
forced entry
in writing, technically, it’s not a rape.”

“And he wants Cory to be tried as a juvenile,” Birdwell added.

“Well, he can forget about that,” Morrison said. “So all we can get Cory on is assault?”

“No,” Birdwell answered. “On the Marley case, he’s a full-blooded Murder One. Right now I have more than enough for the prelim. If we want his buddies, we’ll have to go down to an assault.”

“No dice,” Morrison said.

“Schmidt was set up,” Birdwell said.

“Schmidt was at the scene of the murder,” Morrison said. “His shoe prints were lifted. So were tire tracks from his bike. I don’t know who did the slicing, but Schmidt was there. No way a piece of shit like that is going to get away with a simple assault.”

“Then we’re letting his friends get away with murder,” Decker said.

Morrison frowned.

“What do we have on his friends?” he asked.

“Right now, nothing,” Decker said. “They claim that they were biding their time with their girlfriends. The young ladies verify their story.”

“We know what that’s worth,” said the captain.

“Absolutely,” the prosecutor said, scratching his head. “But with no hard evidence, it’s their word against ours.”

“And Cory’s alibi for the night?” the captain asked.

“At first he claimed to be with them,” Decker said. “But they denied it. So now he’s without alibi and very amenable to making a deal. Schmidt’s the way to get to them.”

“Do we know that Schmidt didn’t do the slicing?” asked Morrison.

“In the opinion of the M.E., the killing slash was done by a left-handed person,” said Decker. “Schmidt is right-handed.”

“That isn’t conclusive, Pete.”

“No,” Decker admitted. “But the whole thing stinks, Captain. The evidence was dropped in our laps like manna from heaven. The knife was delivered to our doorstep,
unwashed
. Now, who the hell kills someone, with an identifiable weapon no less, and doesn’t bother cleaning off prints and blood?”

“All right,” Morrison said. “Let’s concentrate on what we know. We know Schmidt was at the murder scene. We have a murder weapon that belongs to Schmidt. We also
know that Schmidt wasn’t alone. But we don’t have anything on his buddies. Unless Schmidt turns state’s evidence, we
won’t
have anything on his buddies.”

“That about sums it up,” Decker says.

“Let’s do it this way,” said Morrison. “Let’s not promise anything until the kid talks. Then we’ll see about a deal.”

“Ronson won’t let him talk without a trade,” said Birdwell.

“Then his client will be charged with Murder One,” the captain said.

“What about his friends?” Birdwell asked.

“If the kid won’t talk, we can’t get his friends,” Morrison said. “We’ll go with what we have.”

The three of them entered the interview room.

“Do we have a deal?” Ronson asked, fingering his vest. Morrison looked at Decker and nodded for him to start.

“What happened the night of the murder, Cory?” Decker asked.

“Don’t answer that,” the P. D. responded. “Gentlemen, what’s going on?”

“We’d like to hear Mr. Schmidt relate the events that led up to the murder,” Decker said.

“Mr. Schmidt is not going to talk until we do some negotiating,” said Ronson.

“Then we’re charging your client with premeditated murder. You take over from here,” Morrison said to Birdwell. “Meeting is adjourned.”

He walked out of the room, followed by Ronson hot on his heels.

“Captain, this is absurd. You know the boy wasn’t alone. You’re willing to let murder accomplices go free?”

“I am if you are.”

“You’re willing to mark one to take the fall for three others?”

“There were three others, Counselor?”

Ronson swore to himself.

“Make me an offer, Captain. Give me something to work with.”

“I won’t give you a damn thing until I hear the kid’s story. Suppose I hear it and decide I sold out for bullshit. I’d feel awfully bad.” Morrison stopped walking, faced Ronson, and smiled cryptically. “It’s up to you, Counselor. Why don’t you consult your client and let him decide?”

“Come on, Captain. Let’s be reasonable about this.”

Birdwell caught up with the two of them, smiling.

“Cory wants to sing.”

“Oh shit!” Ronson exclaimed.

The P. D. rushed back into the interview room.

“Don’t say anything,” he ordered Cory.

“Fat fucking lot of good you did me, faggot,” Cory spat. “I want another lawyer.”

“Just keep your mouth
shut
.”

“Hey, I’m the one being fucked over, not you.” Cory looked at Decker. “Man, I didn’t
off her. I swear I didn’t off her. You gotta help me out, Decker.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened, and then maybe we can do something.”

“Don’t say a word—” shouted Ronson.

The boy ignored him.

“They’re fucking me
over
!”

“Who’s fucking you over, Cory?” Decker asked, soothingly.

“What are you gonna do for me if I tell you?” the boy asked.

“First, let’s hear what you’ve got to say.”

Morrison and Birdwell returned shutting the door behind them.

“Mr. Schmidt,” the P. D. said loudly, “as your legal counsel, I am advising you not to speak until I’ve had a chance to confer with these gentlemen alone. I’m requesting you to go back to your—”

“And I’m requesting you to leave me the fuck alone!”

“They’re bluffing, Cory,” Ronson tried again. “Let me handle this.”

“We’re not bluffing,” Morrison said. “And we’re not promising you a goddam thing, Schmidt. But we’ve got ears, and we’re willing to listen.”

“I want to know what’s in it for me,” the kid said shakily.

“Nothing,” Decker answered. “But look at it this way. You’ve got premeditated murder on the other side. And that’s a capital offense. And you’re over sixteen, buddy. That means you’re going to be tried as a big boy, and
you’re going to pull some hard time.”

Decker leaned in close and whispered.

“You’re gonna get your ass reamed, Cory.”

“Captain, I object to your detective’s scare tactics and won’t hesitate to cite them as grounds for appeal if you obtain a confession. I demand a moment alone with my client.”

“The hell with you,” Cory spat out. To Decker he said: “I wanna just say one thing. You gotta understand—I didn’t kill no one. I’m innocent!”

“Look here, kid,” Ronson said, snapping a pencil. “I don’t need this shit. I’m trying to help you.”

“Fuck you.” Cory returned his attention to Decker. “I can talk, can’t I?”

“Of course—”

“Do you understand that everything you say will be used
against
you, Cory?” Ronson said.

“Yeah, I understand. Man, let’s just pretend it went this way. I’m not saying it did. Let’s just pretend that it did, got it?”

“Cut the crap, Schmidt,” Morrison barked. “And when you address me, you use
sir
or
captain
. If you can’t get that straight, you’re going back to your holding pen. Got it?”

“Okay, okay. I just want to make it clear that this is just pretend.”

“Fine, Mr. Schmidt,” the captain said, checking the cassette recorder to make sure it was working properly. “It’s all theoretical.”

Ronson pulled out a pen and poised himself
for writing. “You’re sealing your death warrant, Mr. Schmidt.”

“Hey, I know what I’m doing. Like the captain says, it’s thredical.”

“Just get on with it, Cory,” Decker pressed.

The boy placed both hands on the table and ran his tongue over his lips.

“Man, you gotta believe me when I say this. I didn’t know what was gonna go down. It wasn’t planned, man. I swear to you, I didn’t know shit. Man, it was the
dust
. Never would have happened if we weren’t flying on dust. I mean we weren’t thinkin’ too clear, man. I mean, I didn’t know what the fuck was going down.”

“What happened?” the captain said impatiently.

“
Maybe
we started off just sitting around, smoking joints dipped in dust, bullshitting about the kikes. Hey, man, nobody wanted ’em here. They just came, and nobody wanted ’em. Man, those kikes are weirdos. They ain’t American. They’re all spies for Israel, and they come here to bleed us of all our money and give it away. Man, we don’t need any fuckin’ foreigners telling us how to run
our
country, right? And that Jew bitch got us into trouble.

“Then
maybe
one of my friends said, ‘Let’s go down and kick some ass at Kiketwon.’
He
said it.
Maybe
I didn’t say anything. I swear I didn’t say a word.”

“Go on, Cory,” Morrison said with exaggerated boredom.

“So, man, we was all flying and charged up.
Man, we felt so good, ’cause
maybe
we did a few rocks of coke also. So we got on our bikes, and
maybe
we went down there. Hey, there’s no law against looking the place over, right?

“So
maybe
we did a little more, like hopping over the fence, and one of my friends
maybe
asked me for my buck knife. Man, I swear I didn’t think he was gonna do anything with it. Just maybe kick a little ass or maybe scare a little kike bitch into spreading her legs. I mean I didn’t think he’d want to
waste
anybody.

“So I give him my knife, and we start to hunt for kike. But then we saw this big fat nigger bitch with a mean-looking piece thinking she was Queen Shit. We see the nigger and, man, that was even
better
than a kike. So
maybe
we hid in the hills and made a little noise. Big fat coon comes up to see what’s happening, and we knocked the gun out of her fat hands.”

The boy began to pick his nose.

“Like I said, I thought we was just gonna kick some ass. Then
maybe
one of my buddies takes out my blade. Honest, I thought he just was gonna play around. You know a poke here, a poke there. But he wanted more, man. Fuck, he slashed her. Man, I was fucked-up blown away. I mean I was totally blown away. I’ve kicked ass, but I never wasted no one. I’m telling you, I was completely blown away. Shit, all this blood started pouring out in gushes, man, in fucking
gushes
. Freaked us all out, all this blood all over our hands, all over our clothes. The dude who did it completely
freaked. Started laughing like some goddamn hyena, then began to hack away at her arm. The blood kept
coming
, man. The others stomped on her knee, and you could hear it break, you know? Man, you could hear the crack for a mile. Shit, it was weird, real weird.”

“Who did the slashing?” Decker asked.

“It wasn’t me, man. I didn’t know he was gonna slash her. Man, I didn’t do nothing, just maybe stared while they ripped her apart. See, by then I was already coming down, but they were still flying, man. You know dust. It does weird things.”

The P. D. groaned, scratched some notes, then lit a cigarette and gave one to Cory. All the others followed suit. The room became a cloud of tobacco haze.

“Then it all got kinda fuzzy,” the boy continued, after filling his lungs with smoke. “I mean, I don’t remember too much after the nigger bitch bit it. Just that it all got kind of fuzzy, and they were doing a number on her. Then, we heard noises like someone was coming, and we all took off. Man, I forgot to ask for my knife back in all the mess. Or maybe it just got lost. I don’t know where you got it. But I didn’t use it on her, man.”