Ten Plus One Page 15
The next morning, they decided to have another chat with David Arthur Cohen, who, by his own admission, had been a sniper during the war, and who had also been present at the midnight revelry those many years ago. They called him and asked him to come up to the squadroom. He complained bitterly because he said he’d lose a whole day’s work in a week when the gags were coming fast and good, but they told him this happened to be a homicide case and if he came to the squadroom of his own volition, it would save them the trouble of sending a patrolman after him.
Cohen arrived at 10:00 A.M.
They sat him in a chair, and then they stood around him, Kling, Carella, and Meyer. Cohen was rushing the season a bit with a seersucker suit. He looked cool and unruffled. He sat in the chair with his habitual sour expression, and waited for one of the detectives to start the questioning. Meyer threw the first pitch.
“We’re primarily interested in the party that took place after the play, Mr. Cohen,” he said.
“Yeah, what about it?”
“We want to know what happened.”
“I told you what happened.”
“All right, Mr. Cohen,” Carella said, “first of all, who was there?”
“Everybody in the show.”
“In the show, or connected with the show?”
“Connected with it.”
“And by ‘everybody,’ who exactly do you mean?”
“The cast, the crew, and some hangers-on.”
“Like who?”
“Like some guys brought girls, and also some of the kids who weren’t really in the group, but who were on the fringes of it.”
“And who else?”
“Professor Richardson.”
“Was it a good party?” Kling asked.
“Yeah, it was okay. This was more than twenty years ago, for God’s sake. Do you expect me to remember…”
“Helen Struthers was in here yesterday, Mr. Cohen,” Meyer said. “She seems to remember the party pretty well.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. She says it was one of the best parties she’d ever been to. How about it?”
“She’s entitled to her opinion, I guess.” Cohen paused. “How’d she look? Helen?”
“Very nice. How was the party in your opinion, Mr. Cohen?”
“Pretty good.”
“Helen seemed to think it was better than pretty good,” Carella said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She seemed especially to remember what happened after most of the people went home.”
“Yeah? What does she remember?”
“Well, what do you remember, Mr. Cohen?”
“We were necking around a little.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. We were only kids.”
“Well, for kids, Mr. Cohen, Helen seems to think a little more than necking took place.”
“What does she seem to think?”
“She seems to think you all crawled into the sack.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. In fact, she seems to think you all crawled into the sack together at one point.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. In fact, Mr. Cohen, she described what happened as ‘a regular orgy.’ “
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Funny you should forget an event of such proportions, don’t you think, Mr. Cohen? Unless, of course, you’re in the habit of attending org—”
“All right,” Cohen said.
“Is that what happened?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what happened.”
“You remember it now?”
“Remember it?” Cohen said. “I’ve been trying to forget it for twenty-three years. I’ve been in analysis for six years, trying to forget what happened that night.”
“Why?”
“Because it was disgusting. We were drunk. It was disgusting. It warped my entire life.”
“How?”
“What do you mean, how? Because we turned a…a private thing into a…circus. That’s how. Look, do we have to talk about this?”
“Yes, we have to talk about it. Was everyone drunk?”
“Yeah. Randy Norden was a kind of wild kid. He was older than most of us, you know, in his twenties, already in law school. His parents had this big penthouse apartment on Grover, and they were away in Europe, so we all went up there after the show. The girls got pretty high. I guess Helen was setting the pace. Well, you’ve seen her, you know the kind of girl she is. She was the same then.”
“Hold it right there, Mr. Cohen!” Meyer said sharply.
“What? What’s the matter?”
“How do you know what kind of girl she is, Mr. Cohen? When did you see her last?”
“I haven’t seen anybody connected with that show since I got out of college.”
“Then how do you know what she looks like now?”
“I don’t.”
“Then why’d you say she’s the same now as she was then?”
“I just assumed she’d be. She was a wild one then, and the wild ones don’t change.”
“How about the other girls?”
“They…were just nice kids. They got drunk, that’s all.”
“And what happened?”
“Well, we…it was Randy’s idea, I guess. He was older, you know, and with Helen, and naturally…well, we all split up…there were a lot of bedrooms in the house…and well…that’s what happened.”
“What happened?” Meyer insisted.
“I don’t want to talk about it!” Cohen shouted.
“Why?”
“Because I’m ashamed of it, that’s why. Okay?”
“Tell us about being a sniper, Mr. Cohen,” Carella said.
“That was a long time ago.”
“So was the party. Tell us about it.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What theater of operations?”
“The Pacific.”
“Where?”
“Guam.”
“What’d you use?”
“A BAR with a telescopic sight.”
“Smokeless powder?”
“Yes.”
“How many men did you kill?”
“Forty-seven,” Cohen said without hesitation.
“How’d you feel about it?”
“I hated every minute of it.”
“Then why didn’t you get out?”
“I asked for a transfer, but they said no. I was a good sniper.”
“These were Japanese you killed?”
“Yeah, Japanese.”
“How much did you drink at that party?”
“A lot.”
“How much?”
“I don’t remember. We really began drinking after Richardson left. There was a lot of booze. Tony was in charge of tickets…”
“Tony?”
“Forrest. Tony Forrest. He was in charge of tickets for the show, and I think he took some money from the till to pay for the party. It wasn’t illegal or anything, I mean everybody in the group knew he was doing it. It was for the party. But there was a lot of booze.” Cohen paused. “Also, there was a climate of…well, the war had already started in Europe, and I guess most students at the time knew America would get into it sooner or later. So it was a kind of kiss-me-my-sweet attitude. We didn’t care what the hell happened.”
“Did you shoot from a tree or what?” Kling asked suddenly.
“What?”
“When you were on Guam.”
“Oh. Usually. Yeah.”
“What happened afterward?” Carella asked.
“It depended on the operation. Usually, I was supposed to pin down…”
“After Helen and Randy started the ball rolling, I mean.”
“We all got involved.”
“And after that?”
“We wound up in one room.”
“Which room?”
“Randy’s mother’s room. The bedroom. The big one.”
“Where were you on
Friday, May fourth?” Meyer asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Try to remember.”
“When was that?”
“It was Friday, May fourth. This is Wednesday, May ninth. Where were you, Cohen?”
“I think I was out of town.”
“Where?”
“Upstate. That’s right. I left Friday morning. Just to take a long weekend, you know?”
“You wouldn’t have been in Minneapolis on May fourth, would you?”
“Minneapolis? No. Why should I go there? I’ve never been there in my life.”
“Do you remember a man named Peter Kelby?”
“Yeah, he was in the play.”
“Did he come to the party?”
“He came to the party.”
“Where’d you stay last weekend? On your trip upstate?”
“I went fishing.”
“We didn’t ask you what you did, we asked you where you stayed.”
“I camped out.”
“Where?”
“In the reservation. Up near Cattawan.”
“In a tent?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else on the campsite?”
“No.”
“Stop for gas anywhere along the way?”
“Yes.”
“Use a credit card?”
“No.”
“You paid cash?”
“Yes.”
“The same in any restaurants you might have stopped at?”
“Yes.”
“In other words, Mr. Cohen, we have only your word that you were up in Cattawan and not in Minneapolis, Minnesota, killing a man named Peter Kelby.”
“Whaaat!”
“Yes, Mr. Cohen.”
“Look, I…”
“Yes, Mr. Cohen?”
“Look…why would I…How the hell would I even know where Peter Kelby was? I mean…”
“Somebody knew where he was, Mr. Cohen, because somebody put a bullet in his head. We rather suspect it was the same somebody who killed six people right here in this city.”
“I haven’t seen Peter Kelby since we were in school together!” Cohen protested. “I had no idea he was in Minneapolis.”
“Ah, but, Mr. Cohen, somebody found out he was there. In fact, Mr. Cohen, it couldn’t have been too difficult, because even a nice lady named Agnes Moriarty at Ramsey University was able to find out where Kelby lived—and she wasn’t even interested in murdering him.”
“Neither was I!” Cohen shouted.
“But that party still bugs you, huh, Cohen?”
“Why does it bug you?”
“Too much sex there?”
“You enjoy firing a rifle?”
“How does it feel to kill a man?”
“Which girl were you with, Cohen?”
“What else did you do that night?”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Cohen shouted.
The squadroom was very silent. Into the silence Carella said, “What’s your analyst’s name, Cohen?”
“Why?”
“We want to ask him some questions.”
“Go to hell,” Cohen said.
“Maybe you don’t realize how tight your position is, Cohen.”
“I realize, all right. But whatever is said between me and my analyst is my business, and not yours. I had nothing to do with any of these goddamn murders. You can go around opening whatever closets you want to, but some of my closets are going to stay closed, you hear me? Because they’ve got nothing to do with you or your case, they’ve only got to do with me. You hear that? Me, David Arthur Cohen, a crummy gag writer who doesn’t know how to laugh, all right? I don’t know how to laugh, all right, that’s why I’m going to an analyst, okay? And maybe I didn’t know how to laugh even back in 1940 when I was eighteen years old and at a wild party that should have knocked me out, but that doesn’t mean I’m going around killing people. I killed enough people. I killed forty-seven people in my life, and they were all Japanese, and I cry every night for every goddamn one of them.”
The detectives stared at him for several moments, and then Meyer nodded his head at the other men, and they walked to one corner of the room and stood shoulder to shoulder in a tight huddle.
“What do you think?” Meyer asked.
“I think this is real meat,” Carella said.
“Yeah, it looks that way to me, too.”
“Shall we book him?”
“I’m not sure,” Kling said.
“We’ve got nothing that’ll stick,” Carella said.
“We don’t have to book him for homicide. Let’s throw something else at him, just to keep him here awhile. I think he’ll crack if we can keep at him.”
“What can we book him for? Vagrancy? He’s gainfully employed.”
“Dis cond.”
“What did he do?”
“He used abusive language just a little while ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“He told you to go to hell.”
“Jesus, that’s slim,” Carella said.
“We just gonna let him walk out of here?”
“How long can we hold him without booking him?”
“If the thing comes to trial, it’s up to the court to decide what was a proper and reasonable length of time. But, man, if this comes up zero, he’ll sue for false arrest before we can bat an eyelash.”
“If we don’t book him, we’re not arresting him, are we?” Kling asked.
“Sure we are. If we keep him from leaving here, that amounts to arrest. He’d have a bona fide case against the city, and against the arresting officer.”
“So what the hell do we do?”
“I think we ought to ring in the DA’s office,” Carella said.
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. Call the Homicide Bureau, tell them we’ve got what looks like real meat, and we want a DA in on the questioning. Let them make the decision.”
“I think that’s best,” Meyer said. “Bert?”
“Let’s work him for another ten minutes, see what we can get on our own.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay, do what you like.”
“Steve, you want to call the Bureau?”
“Yeah, sure. What do we do with him meanwhile?”
“I’ll take him downstairs.”
“Not in the cells, Meyer!”
“No, no, I’ll phony it up, stall him. I don’t think he knows anything about booking, anyway.”
“All right,” Carella said.
Meyer walked across the room. “Come on, Cohen.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Downstairs. I want you to look at some pictures.”
“What kind of pictures?”
“Of the people killed by the sniper.”
“Why?”
“I think you ought to see them. We want to make sure they’re the same people who were in that play.”
“All right,” Cohen said. He seemed immensely relieved. “Then can I go?”
“You better look at the pictures first.”
He started out of the squadroom with Meyer and Kling, passing another man in the corridor outside. The man was perhaps forty-five years old, small and round with sad brown eyes and a rumpled brown suit. He walked to the railing and stood just outside it, holding his hat in his hands, waiting to be discovered.
Carella, who had already dialed the Bureau and was at the desk nearest the railing, glanced up at the man, and then turned his attention back to the telephone conversation.
“No, we haven’t booked him,” Carella said. “We’ve got nothing that’ll stick yet.” He paused, listening. “No, he hasn’t said a thing, denies the whole business. But I think we can get him to crack if we work on him. Right. Can you get a man down right away? Well, how long can we legally hold him here? That’s just my point. I think the decision should come from someone in the DA’s of
fice. Well, when’s the soonest? That’s too late. Can’t you get someone here this morning? Okay, fine, we’ll be waiting.”
He hung up and turned to the man.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?”
“My name is Lewis Redfield,” the man said.
“Yes, Mr. Redfield?”
“I hate to bother you this way…”
“Yes?”
“…but I think my wife may be in danger.”
“Come in, Mr. Redfield,” Carella said.
Redfield nodded, took a hesitant step toward the railing, searched it for an opening, and then stopped dead in his tracks, bewildered. Carella went to the gate and opened it for him.
“Thank you,” Redfield said, and then waited for Carella to lead him to the desk.
When they were seated, Carella asked, “What makes you think your wife is in danger, Mr. Redfield? Has she received any threatening…?”
“No, but I…this may sound silly to you.”
“What is it, Mr. Redfield?”
“I think this fellow may be after her.”
“What fellow?”
“The sniper.”
Carella wet his lips and stared at the small round man opposite him. “What makes you think that, Mr. Redfield?”
“I’ve been reading the papers,” Redfield said. “The people who’ve been killed…they were all in a play with Margaret many years ago.”
“Margaret Buff? Is that your wife’s maiden name?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well!” Carella smiled and extended his hand. “It’s certainly good to see you, Mr. Redfield. We’ve been trying to locate your wife.”
“I would have come sooner, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Where is your wife, sir? We’d like very much to talk to her.”
“Why?”
“Because we have what looks like a good suspect, and any information…”
“You’ve found the killer?”
“We’re not sure, Mr. Redfield, but we think we have.”
Redfield sighed heavily. “I’m certainly relieved to hear that. You have no idea the strain I’ve been through. I was certain that at any moment Margaret would…” He shook his head. “I certainly am relieved.”
“Could we talk to her, sir?”
“Yes, of course.” Redfield paused. “Who did you arrest? Who’s the man?”
“His name is David Arthur Cohen,” Carella said. “But he hasn’t been arrested as yet, sir.”