CHAPTER 14 – INTERROGATION
So I?m sittin? here, waitin? for someone to come into this room and talk to me, and all this time, from the moment I started drivin? here to now I?ve been kickin? myself for this goof up. It?s not really the crime that I?m worried about, or my flimsy alibi, or even the fact that I waited half an hour to call the murder in. Believe me, it?s not that. But if there?s two words that make me wish I had done things differently, it?s WHARF POLICE. See these guys, they?re like angels, in that they seem to be above everyone and everything else. Problem is, these angels aren?t the cleanest around. What I mean to say is, these guys don?t really operate within the same confines of the law, not the way regular cops do. Oh, they dress in blue, sure, but wharf cops are rough?they?ll just as soon ruin your perfect dental record if they think it?ll produce a confession out of you. Hell, that?s regardless of whether they?ve got anything on you or not. They?re mean, they play by their own rules, and they don?t give a fig if what they do would ruin an ordinary cop?s career if he tried some of the stuff they pull on a daily basis. Not that I condone it, but they almost gotta be that way. Look at it from their perspective: they?re on the waterfront, day in and day out, tryin? to keep all the things goin? down from goin? down on their docks, and all against guys who?ve got the manpower and the guns to stage a small scale war, if they ever wised up to that. Whatever I?ve done, it?s not near as bad as what kind of hot water I could be in when this is all over.
See, they?ve got this thing called an ethics committee, which they mostly use for castratin? politicians in public, but sometimes it?s used in a more local level, by police boards and investigative councils. I mean, I?m state certified to be a private investigator, which means that, in a way, I work for the state, and that means you gotta play by the rules. When and if you don?t, and it gets noticed by someone, then they do a hearing to see if you?ve committed any crimes of withholding or obstruction. Sometimes you?ll get slapped with a destruction of evidence charge, but that?s pretty rare. Mostly it?s the nebulous stuff, the kind of thing that viewed with one eye shut, might not make you blink.
And this is what I?ve been thinkin? about, because that half an hour between the murder and when I called was a half an hour that I didn?t call the police, which means that, in the eyes of the state, maybe I got something to hide, or maybe I destroyed evidence, or maybe I?m withholding it. And you know, it?s getting worse every year. They keep pilin? on the rules, making it harder for guys like me to do our job. So yeah, I?m a little nervous about how all this could turn out. Well, hell, I may be dumb, but I?m not a sap. I don?t aim to roll over anytime soon. Okay, so technically, I did put the key to Villig?s office under my car seat?not the best place, I know, but it?s just a one-time thing. Anyway, that?s my advantage: I?m not a cop, so I can do things they can?t. Like withhold evidence. I just gotta do it when nobody?s looking and no one knows there?s any evidence. Anyway, I figure when I get out I can head back and check things out some more.
Finally, I hear someone at the door, and it opens and a big guy comes in, a little overweight, older than me, head shaped like a bowling ball, and straight, combed back hair that looks like it was stapled onto his head. He?s got a leather satchel slung across his shoulder and he slams it down, opens it and withdraws a notepad that?s about halfway covered in scrawl. He doesn?t smile at me or anything, just pulls out the chair that screeches metal across the concrete floor and sits down in it. He cracks his knuckles a couple of times, and then raises his eyebrows at me.
?You wanna give an account of what you saw??
?I was tailing the victim. He drove to the wharf. I parked and followed him in on foot. I??
He interrupts. ?The wharf wasn?t locked??
I tell him not that I remember. He makes a note in his police pad and gestures for me to continue. ?Well, I heard whispering, two men talking. When I got to within eyesight, all I saw was Villig, standing there talking to someone in the shadows. It was dark, so all I saw was his shoe. Then I saw a flash and knew Villig had been shot. I took a couple of shots in the dark but that?s pretty much all they were. They fired back at me, and then when I looked again, there was nobody there except Villig.?
?What did you do then??
?I had a drink and took the rest of the night off. What do you think I did? I went to his office and called you from there.?
?You say here you were tailing him. Did he take a taxi??
?No.?
?Then where was his car??
?Right where he parked it. Look, if you wanna ask me if I did it, go ahead.?
?Why didn?t you call right after he was killed??
?What was the hurry? He sure wasn?t goin? anywhere.?
?Don?t play games, mister. You?re in some hot water right now. You?d do best to answer these questions straight.? I sit back and contemplate what he?s saying. I am feeling anxious and cocky all at once; on the one hand, I?ve gotta get back to Villig?s office?if someone catches on that I followed him from there (and they?re liable to), I wanna chance to find whatever it was that I couldn?t find before his office gets trashed. By either the Bayonne police or whoever shot him. Either way, time?s running out. ?Now, exactly what did you do after Villig was shot.?
?Well, I, I took his keys and wallet and went to his office and called you from there.?
?Why?d you take his keys and wallet??
?I wanted to make sure they didn?t get stolen.?
?Okay bud, where?d you park his car then??
?I just told you. His car was where he parked it?at the wharf.?
?There wasn?t a car. Just a body.? Bowling Ball looks at his notes again and says, ?You say you?re workin? with the Fenton Police on a case? Fenton?s a long way away from Bayonne. You gotta good reason for bein? here??
I?m not liking this guy?s attitude, so I give him a little of my own. ?None that your wife wouldn?t know about.? Before I can react the man is clawing on the table, grabbin? at my neck. I fend him off but he swings at me, and for the third time since I got this case I felt like my jaw was an anvil and this guy was beatin? a plowshare into a sword (one year of parochial school, compliments of the Church that apparently had ?em springing up on every reservation from Sioux City to Shawnee Lake). He has his fist up again but I yell out for him to stop. I?m breathing hard and squinting and trying to hold him back, and he?s breathing hard and squinting and trying to see how much he wants to hold back for the next round.
?Stop, I?m sorry! I?m sorry! Look, I was outta line, I didn?t mean that crack about your wife.? And then, I just can?t resist. ?Anyway, she wouldn?t go for a guy like me?? I start to say and he hits me again and I?m up against the wall, sitting in my chair and he?s standing over me, practically straddling me, his right hand holding my collar and his left is making mincemeat of my face. I hear some scuffling and he?s being hauled back, and for some reason, I?m feeling like I don?t give a crap anymore, and maybe he?s got another button to push, so I finish with, ??more like him,? and I point to the guy holding him back.
Bowling Ball almost breaks free again, but another guy comes into the room and holds back his other arm and his chest, and together they drag him out of the room and slam the door behind. I?m sitting here, my shirt?s torn, my jacket?s a crumpled mess behind me, and I can feel my face starting to swell up like a grape, and I check for any missing teeth; none, but I?m bleeding pretty bad from my lip, which feels pretty fat. I spit on the floor and pull my chair back to the table, try to stand up, hoping my brain doesn?t overcompensate for the pounding it just took.
Sometimes I get the lamest brained ideas. I think that was one of them.
The door opens up and two fellas walk in, and I guess they?re plainclothes dicks. One of ?em is tall, the other?s short. Both look the same though, the way you think of nameless dicks all looking the same?high collars, brown trench coats and brown ties, brown shoes, brown all around. You can have two totally different guys, but you can tell they?re in the plainclothes department because, well, because of their clothes. Seems like that wouldn?t get ?em too many crooks that way, but hey, it?s not my operation.
The tall one leans against the wall, and the short one pulls the other chair out and sticks one leg up there and leans forward on it. He does this thing with his lip where he pulls it in under his teeth and sorta chews on it, then lets it go, and does it again. They don?t say anything for a minute or two, and so I just sit there, leaning back against the chair, cocky as hell, scared out of my pants, and it?s like a nice little soiree we?ve got goin? on, except nobody?s talking and nobody?s drinkin?. I could use one right about now.
The tall man shifts his weight a little and says to the little man, ?Tell ?im, Joe.? The short guy grunts a little and says to me, ?You wanna walk away from this??
I nod and say, ?Sure.?
Short man says, ?We?re not trying to roll on you here, pal. We just got a dead man down at the Bay and we wanna know why it happened in our yard, and why you were playin? in it when we got a big sign up says ?No Trespassing.? You get me??
?Yeah, I get you. So what do you want?? I say.
The door opens and a young guy peeks his head in and says, ?We got the car,? and tall man says, ?Good. Where was it?? He looks at me. The young cop says, ?They?re fishin? it out of fifteen feet of bay water. You comin? down??
?Yeah, we?ll be a few minutes. Don?t nobody touch nothin? till I get there.? The young cop eyes me for a seconds and then shuts the door. Tall man pulls out a cigarette and lights up. He looks at me and he offers me one, but I decline. ?No,? he says. ?Didn?t think so. Thought I?d offer it, though. You?re Choctaw, aren?t you?? he says.
?Yes. How?d you know??
?Got a bit o? Indyun in me, myself. Back. Waaaay back. Great-great-great-great-grandpappy. Er somethin? like that. Yeah, Trail uh Tears.? He walks around the short man and bends down in front of me.
?That was Cherokee. Trail of Tears. How?d you know I?m Choctaw?? I ask him. He smiles, stands back up.
?We got a file on you, you know that?? I look at him questioningly. ?Yeah, who knew so few people like you snoopin? around??
?What I do is legal and by the numbers.?
?Well, it ain?t so much the snoopin?. They just don?t like no Indyun touchin? their things, if you catch my drift??
?Well, hoorah for the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,? I say. ?Are you guys gonna charge me with something?? I start to get up. ??Cause if not, I have work to do.? The tall man stands with me, and when I reach my full height he?s got five or six inches on me, at least.
?Sit down, please.? I do. ?All right, look, Mr. Jack. We received a call from someone in the Fenton office, says you?re clean. He says you?re running a show for them and it?s brought you up our way, and he asked us to cooperate with you. Out of professional courtesy, we?re going to do that. If it?s no trouble, though, we?d like to know what you know.?
?I already told you guys everything I know. I?m sorry fellas, but I?m runnin? down something that has yet to make sense to me. I wish I could help, but I can?t. I stand back up, grab my coat, and push past the tall man. The short man stands aside and I open the door leading out of the interrogation room.
?You wanna go check out the car?? the tall man asks. I stop walking and just stare straight ahead. Advantage: Ferret, but I gotta keep it, so I wait. ?You can follow us,? he says.
?That?ll be fine,? I say.