Blood Relatives

10

Patricia Lowery’s grandmother recognized Carella from his earlier visit, but this time he was accompanied by a tall blond man he introduced as his partner, Detective Kling. She said she would have to check with her granddaughter before she let them in the apartment, and then closed and locked the door, leaving them to cool their heels in the hallway for a while. Kling had not yet read the diary. Carella had briefed him on it, however, and had also voiced the regret that he could not charge Jack Armstrong, All-American Boy, with any crime but Attempted Seduction of the Innocent — which could not be found in the state’s Penal Law, and which in fact was only a violation of Carella’s own moral code, a Class E misdemeanor at best. Old Grandma Lowery was a spry old lady, but it took her ten minutes to get back to the front door with word that her granddaughter would most certainly talk to the detectives. They followed her through the apartment into the back bedroom, where Patricia sat in an armchair with a book open on her lap. There was no place else to sit, except the bed, so both detectives remained standing while they talked to her.

“Patricia,” Carella said, “I’ve just finished reading Muriel’s diary, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about it.”

“Sure,” Patricia said, and nodded.

“To begin with, have you read that diary?”

“No,” Patricia said.

“You’re sure about that?”

“How could I have read it? She kept it locked.”

“Well, you could have cut the strap, for example,” Carella said.

“Why would I do that?”

“You might have done that if you were curious about what was in the diary.”

“I didn’t care about what was in the diary,” Patricia said.

“But you once asked Muriel what she found to write about, didn’t you?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Yes, that was on... let me see,” Carella said, and consulted his notes, and said, “That was on Wednesday, August twenty-seventh. You asked Muriel what she could possibly find to write about each night. Do you remember that?”

“I really don’t. But if that’s what Muriel wrote in her diary—”

“Yes, that’s what she wrote.”

“Then I suppose it’s true.”

“Well, I think we’ve got to assume that everything in the diary is true, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I never knew Muriel to lie about anything.”

“And she certainly wouldn’t have lied to the diary, because there’d have been no reason for it. So we’ve got to assume, for example, that when she says her boss’s name is Jack Armstrong, why that’s her boss’s name. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Patricia said, and nodded.

“You’ve never met him, though.”

“No, never.”

“And when she says in the diary that Jack Armstrong has brown hair and blue eyes, why, then we’ve got to believe it.”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t know whether that’s true or not, Patricia, because you’ve never met the man. But if Muriel said it was so, why, then I guess we have to believe it. Anyway, I have met the man, and he does have brown hair and blue eyes, so we know she was telling the truth at least in that instance.”

“Mm-huh,” Patricia said.

“And I guess we’ve got to assume she was telling the truth about everything else as well,” Carella said.

This time Patricia only nodded. She was watching Carella intently, not seeming to understand what he was getting at, studying his face for clues. Kling looked a little baffled, too.

“Patricia, when I spoke to you yesterday,” Carella said, “you told me that the last time you saw Muriel’s diary was on September fifth, the night before she was murdered.”

“That’s right,” Patricia said.

“You said you saw her writing in it.”

“Yes. She was sitting at the desk writing in it.”

“And where were you?”

“In bed.”

“And when she finished writing in it, what did she do?”

“She locked it and put it back in her drawer.”

“She carried the key on a chain around her neck, isn’t that what you told me?”

“Yes.”

“Could you see her clearly when she was locking the diary? I mean, was there plenty of light in the room, and was she standing close enough for you to see what she was doing?”

“She was sitting, actually. At the desk.”

“But you could see her clearly.”

“Yes.”

“Patricia, I’m going to tell you about some things that are bothering me,” Carella said. “I’m going to be completely honest with you, and I hope you’ll be completely honest in return. Okay?”

“I’ve been honest with you all along,” Patricia said.

“Well, that’s not quite true, is it? You lied to us that first time we talked to you, didn’t you? You said the murderer was a man with dark hair and blue eyes—”

“Well, yes, but I told you the truth later.”

“In fact, that’s one of the things that’s bothering me, Patricia. That business about describing the murderer the way you first did. Because, you see, in Muriel’s diary, it’s pretty plain to see that Jack Armstrong is interested in her, and here’s someone forcing Muriel to commit a sex act, and you describe—”

“He did force her to do it.”

“Yes. And he looked like Jack Armstrong, according to your first description. Except that you’d never met Jack Armstrong, of course, and you couldn’t have known what he looked like. Unless you’d read Muriel’s diary.”

“No, I didn’t read Muriel’s diary.”

“I know. You just told me that a few minutes ago, and you also said you’d be honest with me. But I think we’ve agreed that Muriel told the truth in her diary, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I must tell you that on September fourth, Muriel wrote about someone asking her to take off her dress and forcing her to commit a sex act against her will. She wrote that on September fourth. It was everything you described as having taken place on September sixth — two days later. Except the murder, of course. But everything else was there in the diary, just as you later described it. Now how do you account for that, Patricia?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Patricia said.

“Patricia, you did read Muriel’s diary, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Patricia, the strap on the diary was cut, someone read that diary.”

“Then it was Andy. If anyone read it, it had to be Andy.”

“Patricia, it was you.”

“I’m telling you I did not—”

“Because the September fifth entry started with the words ‘Someone has read this diary. The strap was cut when I took it out of the drawer tonight.’ This is in my notes, Patricia, it’s a direct quote from your cousin’s diary.”

“So what? I still don’t understand—”

“Not five minutes ago you told me you saw your cousin lock the diary after she finished writing in it that night, the night of September fifth, the night before she was killed. Now, Patricia, if the strap had already been cut, why on earth would your cousin have locked—?”

The scream came unexpectedly.

She did not rise from the chair. She simply threw back her head, and the scream erupted from her mouth, and her eyes above the scream were wide with horror. The scream seemed eternal. It chilled both detectives to the marrow.

When it ended, they put handcuffs on her wrists.

She was only fifteen years old, and so they questioned her in the office of Peter Hudd, the lawyer appointed to defend her, rather than in the police station. Fifteen-year-olds weren’t supposed to be interrogated in police stations. Most police officers interrogated them there anyway — usually in the locker room or the swing room or someplace that didn’t seem like part of a police station, though actually it was. The upper age limit for a juvenile offender in this state was sixteen years old, and the code stated that a delinquent was a child who violated any law or any municipal ordinance or who committed any act that, if committed by an adult, would be a serious crime, except (and this was where Patricia Lowery’s luck ran out) any child fifteen years of age who committed any act that, if committed by an adult, would be a crime punishable by death or life imprisonment. Patricia Lowery had allegedly committed a crime punishable by life imprisonment.

She had told them two versions of the same murderous tale, and now she told them the third and final version, and this one they accepted as the truth, even though there had been some truth in the previous two versions as well. It was this final truth, however, that could set her brother free and send Patricia to jail for life. They listened attentively. The stenographer took down every word. Carella conducted the interrogation. Patricia’s voice was barely audible. She sat shivering throughout, hugging herself with both arms.

CARELLA: Do you want to tell us what happened?

PATRICIA: I’ve already told you what happened.

CARELLA: But you weren’t telling the truth.

PATRICIA: That was only the first time. I told you the truth later. Don’t you remember? I came to the station house and I told you the truth.

CARELLA: You came to the station house the first time, too.

PATRICIA: Yes, but—

CARELLA: And you lied.

PATRICIA: Yes, but not the second time. I told you the truth that time. My brother killed her.

CARELLA: Patricia, you said you would talk to us. Your lawyer here has no objection to your telling us the truth, so why don’t you tell us what really happened?

PATRICIA: I just hate to have to go over this again and again and again. You took it all down the first time, and then I said it on tape the second time, now you want it again. I mean, how many times do I have to tell you the same damn thing?

CARELLA: Just this last time, and that’ll be it.

PATRICIA: It’s freezing in here. Can’t someone turn up the heat a little?

CARELLA: Mr. Hudd?

HUDD: I’ll get it.

CARELLA: Patricia, why don’t you just start from the beginning?

PATRICIA: The party, do you mean?

CARELLA: Wherever the beginning was.

PATRICIA: Well, that was the beginning.

CARELLA: Okay, what happened?

PATRICIA: I took the knife.

CARELLA: Why?

PATRICIA: Because Muriel and I had to walk home alone, why do you think? So I spied the knife on the kitchen rack and I just slipped it into my bag.

CARELLA: Then what?

PATRICIA: Then we started walking home.

CARELLA: What time was that?

PATRICIA: I told you all this already, I don’t know why I have to tell you again.

CARELLA: This is the first time you told us about the knife.

PATRICIA: You just don’t listen.

CARELLA: You took the knife from the rack. Where was the rack?

PATRICIA: In the kitchen. Paul Gaddis’s kitchen. That’s where the knife was. In the kitchen. I heard them when I came in.

CARELLA: Heard who?

PATRICIA: I went in the kitchen, you see, to get myself a glass of milk, and that’s when I heard them.

CARELLA: I don’t understand.

PATRICIA: Because you don’t listen.

CARELLA: I’m listening, but I don’t understand who you mean. You say you heard them — Who did you hear?

PATRICIA: Muriel and Andy.

CARELLA: In Paul Gaddis’s kitchen?

PATRICIA: No, no. In the bedroom.

CARELLA: Patricia—

PATRICIA: They were in Andy’s bedroom; what’s so difficult to understand about that?

CARELLA: What were they doing in the bedroom, Patricia?

PATRICIA: How should I know? Ask my darling brother what they were doing. Ask Muriel.

CARELLA: Muriel is dead, Patricia.

PATRICIA: Don’t I know it? He killed her.

CARELLA: Who did?

PATRICIA: My brother. Stuck it into her. I told her, don’t think I didn’t tell her. When it started raining so hard, and we ran to the building, and the ceiling looked pregnant, the ceiling overhead where we were standing, it was ugly and bloated, it looked pregnant. I said to her, I had the knife in my handbag, you see, so I wasn’t afraid anybody would attack us or anything, I was quite calm in the hallway there, I said to her she must have been terribly frightened that time, and she asked me what time did I mean and I said, Why, when you thought you were pregnant, Muriel. There was light shining from the streetlamp, I could see her very clearly, the rain was falling so hard, so hard, she looked at me, and I could see the surprise on her face, and she said, You read my diary, didn’t you, you’re the one who read my diary, and I said, Yes, Muriel, I’m the one who read your diary, and she said, Why’d you do that, Patricia? I’m freezing to death here, aren’t there any blankets in here?

CARELLA: Could someone get her a blanket, please? Go ahead, Patricia.

PATRICIA: Freeze to death in here.

CARELLA: What’d you say when she asked you why you’d read the diary?

PATRICIA: Oh, what could I say, use your head. Could I tell her I knew all about her and my darling brother, knew from when I’d come home from the library and heard them in the bedroom, you can hear everything in that house. They didn’t know I was home, the television was on, I guess the noise of the television drowned out my coming in — but it didn’t drown out what they were doing in that bedroom, oh no. Forcing her to get on her knees, and telling her to take it, and her doing it, God, the noises she made! I hated her from that minute, I wanted to kill her right then, I would have killed her if I had the nerve. But I was afraid he’d turn on me, you see, I was afraid he’d force me to do the same thing, because... well... he’s always loved me, you see, I know he loves me more than Muriel, so he probably would have forced me to do the same thing. So I ran outside again, and then I rang the doorbell and pretended I’d forgotten my key — Is someone getting a blanket?

CARELLA: Yes, Patricia.

PATRICIA: Because it really is freezing in here, you know.

CARELLA: She wanted to know why you’d read the diary—

PATRICIA: Yes, and I told her I’d read it because I’d heard them in Andy’s room, and I couldn’t believe what I’d heard, so I read the diary to find out if it was true, and it was true. Do you deny it? I said. Do you deny it? And she said, No, I don’t deny it, and that was when I took the knife out of my bag and stabbed her. I don’t know how many times I stabbed her. I finally ripped her pantyhose around the crotch and stuck the knife inside her. Then I just stood there in the hall, she was lying on the floor, I said, Muriel, what’s the matter with you? and I realized she was dead, I knew I had killed her. So I ripped my own dress with the knife, and cut the palms of my hands to make it seem somebody had tried to kill me, too, and I cut my own cheek, and then I ran out of the building and threw the knife down the sewer and went to the station house.

CARELLA: Why did you describe the killer as a man with dark hair and blue eyes?

PATRICIA: I don’t know. I guess it was... well, I really don’t know. I guess because of what I read in the diary. About what was happening with her and the man at the bank. I guess I got confused there. I guess... I guess I figured she’d do the same thing with him that she’d already done with Andy, yes, maybe that was it. She probably would have done the same thing, don’t you think? If somebody hadn’t killed her? Don’t you think?

CARELLA: Why did you later tell us—?

PATRICIA: Don’t you think?

CARELLA: I really don’t know, Patricia.

PATRICIA: Oh, yes. It was in her diary. She said so herself. She said she felt like a wild animal.

CARELLA: Patricia, you came to us later and said your brother had killed her. Why did you do that?

PATRICIA: Because, you see, I didn’t think he was... you see, I thought she was the one who’d... who’d done all this, throwing herself at him, you know. And I thought if I killed her, well, if somebody killed her, why, then she’d be punished for what she’d done, and my brother wouldn’t have to bother with her any more, everything would be all right again. Because, you see, I knew he loved me more than he loved her, no matter what I heard him saying that day in his room, and no matter what she wrote in her diary. I mean, I’m his sister, he’s got to love his sister more than he does his cousin, isn’t that right? He’s just got to.

CARELLA: What made you cnoindente your mind?

PATRICIA: I cnoindented my mind, that’s right.

CARELLA: Yes, you accused him of murdering her. You said he’d killed her.

PATRICIA: Yes.

CARELLA: Why?

PATRICIA: Because he jumped on the coffin. He said he loved her.

Immediately following the interrogation, Patricia Lowery’s attorney asked that she be moved to the psychiatric ward of Buena Vista Hospital for observation pending arraignment. He and the assistant district attorney batted around the technicalities of this for several minutes, and it was finally agreed that justice could as easily be served in a locked cell at the hospital as in one of the holding cells in the basement of the 87th Precinct. The ambulance arrived some ten minutes after they phoned for it. Carella took the handcuffs from Patricia’s wrists, and one of the ambulance attendants helped her into a straitjacket, and then signed a release stating he had taken the prisoner into custody. The attendants led her out of the office then, and down the corridor to the elevator. Attorney Hudd asked if anyone would care for a drink, and the detectives and the assistant district attorney declined, and Hudd said he guessed it was time to close shop for the night. He checked out the burglar-alarm system, activated it, and then stepped quickly into the corridor in the thirty seconds of delaytime allotted to him. On the sidewalk outside, he said good night to the other men and began walking toward the garage where he customarily parked his car.

“Nuttier’n a fruitcake, that girl,” the assistant DA said. “Wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why Hudd agreed to let her talk. Anybody reading that transcript’ll know in a minute she’s crazy.”

Carella said nothing.

“Probably won’t even get to stand trial, she’s that far gone. All your work down the drain,” he said. He shook hands with both detectives then, and started off up the street.

“Think I’ll walk over to Augusta’s,” Kling said.

“Okay,” Carella said. “See you in the morning, huh?”

“Yeah,” Kling said.

Carella watched as he walked off. He turned then, and began walking in the opposite direction, toward the subway kiosk two blocks away. As he walked he kept thinking of the moment Patricia Lowery had thrown back her head and begun screaming.

It started raining just as he went down the steps into the subway.