Double Homicide

13

“Four sounds fine,” Change told Dorothy over the line. “If I’m a little late, just wait for me.”

“No problem, Doc. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“If they’re about the X-ray, I’m not at the morgue now.”

“Just your impressions.”

“I know what you’re going to ask. At a quick glance, I didn’t see any radiographic evidence of an aneurysm. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. I still say that that was the most likely cause of death.”

“Okay, let’s assume the aneurysm was there.” Dorothy switched her cell from one ear to the other. “Might we assume that it was small?”

“Maybe.”

“And if it was small-a little out-pouching that didn’t even show up on the X-ray-and if Julius fell splat on the table, could we assume that an impact like that might have caused a tiny aneurysm to burst… theoretically?”

“Why don’t we wait until we’re at the morgue for this discussion?” Change said.

“Just answer me this. Could that have happened, that his falling caused the aneurysm to open up?”

“Anything’s possible,” Change said. “But you’ll want stronger evidence than that going into court.” A pause. “That’s my opinion anyway.”

“Thank you.” Dorothy hung up and looked at McCain. “I’m in the mood for kosher pastrami-that Romanian stuff. We’re two blocks away from Rubin’s. Okay with you?”

“Sounds like a plan,” said McCain. “What did Change say?”

“The fall’s a maybe, maybe not. Not strong enough to go to court with-in his opinion.”

“Opinions are like assholes,” McCain said. “Everybody’s got one.”

Captain O’Toole closed the door to the interview room-a windowless, airless space with barely enough room for a standard-issue table and chairs. The floor was a mosaic of mismatched green granite tiles; the once sunshine-yellow walls were now a faded mustard. The captain pulled out a chair with his foot and sat backward, with his stomach pressed against the splats. He was flushed, forehead dotted with beads of sweat. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and gave his face a firm wipe.

With him was Harriet Gallway, who had put in ten years with the DA’s office. She was very petite, so slight that people noticed her only because of her flaming-red hair. She had gobs of it, flying over her shoulders and trailing down her back. She wore a hunter-green suit and black flats. Her green eyes sparkled when she smiled. But she wasn’t smiling now.

“Hot in here,” she muttered.

“Don’t smell too good, either,” O’Toole added. “All of you have a seat.”

Dorothy and McCain exchanged glances and sat down.

O’Toole nodded to Harriet. “Ladies first.”

Harriet cleared her throat. “My boss tells me that Delveccio’s counsel is running the story that Julius died from natural causes.”

“Not exactly,” McCain said.

“I don’t like that,” O’Toole said. “What does that mean, ”Not exactly‘?“

“That’s what we’re trying to determine, sir.”

“Who’s we?” Harriet asked.

“Dr. Change,” Dorothy said. “John Change. He thinks Julius died from an aneurysm and not from a gunshot wound.”

“He thinks?” O’Toole said.

McCain muttered, “He thinks, therefore he screws us up.”

“That’s his conclusion so far,” Dorothy said.

Harriet said, “Oh my.”

“Still,” Dorothy said, “Delveccio’s gunshots could have caused the aneurysm to burst. Because when Julius was hit, he fell forward onto a table.”

McCain said, “The force on his chest from slamming against the table could very well have burst open the aneurysm.”

“So the shots lead to the chain of events that caused Julius Van Beest’s death,” Harriet said. “We still could make a case for premeditated murder.”

“Is that what happened?” O’Toole said. “A fall killed him? Change says that?”

Dorothy said, “The fall didn’t cause the aneurysm-if there was an aneurysm. But it could have caused an aneurysm to open up.”

“What do you mean, if there was an aneurysm?”

“So far, nothing showed up on the X-ray,” Dorothy said.

O’Toole said, “This is starting to stink like bullcrap.”

Harriet played with her hair. “So it’s possible he didn’t have an aneurysm.”

McCain said, “Change is sayin‘ right now that there’s no physical evidence of one on the X-ray.”

“So how did he come to his conclusion that Julius died of an aneurysm?”

“There was a ruptured artery upon autopsy and blood pooling in the chest cavity,” said Dorothy. “I respect Change, but I’m wondering if maybe he missed a bullet wound.”

“You’re saying Change fucked up?” said O’Toole.

“No one’s perfect,” McCain half whispered.

As the captain colored further, Dorothy broke in: “We’re meeting with him in an hour. We’ll go over everything in detail.”

“Cancel your meeting,” O’Toole snapped. “We got more important things to deal with. As in, we found the gun that shot Julius in the pile of confiscated weapons. As in, on the damn thing was a partial of Delveccio’s right thumb.”

Dorothy and McCain smiled. She said, “You pick him up?”

“He’s in holding as we speak. The bad news is that our witnesses who said they saw Pappy pulling out a gun have recanted. But with the print, we know the asshole touched the gun at some point. And we know that the same gun shot Julius.”

“I think a jury can put two and two together,” Dorothy said.

“But,” Harriet said, “if I’m trying to prove premeditation, I have to make sure Julius was killed by the gun as part of an intentional, direct action committed by the accused. Now you’re telling me we don’t know that.”

O’Toole glared at the detectives.

McCain said, “That’s a question for Change. But in the meantime-”

“Here’s the thing,” said Harriet. “If we go for attempted murder rather than homicide, Pappy’s counsel is going to know we can’t prove the gun killed Julius. It’s going to give him ammunition to fight even that charge.”

“So what do you want from us?” Dorothy said.

“I want you to see if you can get him scared about premeditated murder,” the DA said. “Then we can probably deal him down to attempted murder. Otherwise we could end up settling for some dinky charge.”

“That’s ridiculous!” McCain said. “He was aiming for Julius, he touched the damn gun, and the bullets hit their mark.”

“But not necessarily fatally, Detective. And if we don’t get someone who saw Pappy fire the gun, we end up with a break in the chain. And Pappy can be very charming when he wants to be,” Harriet said. “Get some b-ball fans on the jury, maybe a swooning female or two, we could be in trouble.”

The room fell silent.

McCain spoke first. “How about this: We don’t have conclusive evidence of an aneurysm on the X-ray. So at this particular moment, I don’t know what killed Julius.

Meaning I can tell Delveccio it was his bullet.“ He shrugged. ”Hell, Supreme Court says I’m allowed to deceive, right? Let me go in there now and work him.“ ”He’s already asked for his lawyer,“ Harriet said.

“When he was picked up the first time.”

“I didn’t hear him ask for his lawyer today.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Harriet said. “Once he requests-”

“Unless he chooses of his own volition to talk to me.” said McCain. “Coupla guys shooting the breeze.” O’Toole said, “Why in blazes would he do that?” McCain smiled. “You know, Captain, when I want to be, I can be charming, too.”

Through the one-way mirror, McCain looked at Patrick Luther Delveccio, a huge, broad-shouldered figure barely out of his teens. An indulged child in an oversize body, and that made him menacing. He was dressed casually-jeans and a sweatshirt. Musta been size 20 athletic shoes-fancy blue shoes-housed his feet. The kid’s mouth was set petulantly, but his body was all movement: hands drumming the tabletop, feet tapping the floor, head bopping to an internal beat. Despite that, he looked relaxed, as if a prospective stint in the cooler was little more than a camp vacation.

McCain licked his lips and entered the interview room. “Hey, Pappy.”

Delveccio glared at him. “I ain’t talking to you.”

“Why not? Am I that ugly?”

“Yeah, you are that ugly. But I also ain’t talking to you ‘cause I don’t talk to cops.”

“Sooner or later, you’re gonna have to talk to us. I just thought if it was just like you and me-you know, a little game of one-on-one-it makes things simpler.”

Delveccio laughed. “Go fuck yourself.”

McCain wagged a finger. “Yeah, you think about that when the needle slips into your veins.”

Delveccio sneered. “No death penalty in Massachusetts. And all they’re gonna charge me with is mischief or some shit like that.”

“Who told you that?”

“Everybody.”

“Well,” said McCain, settling in a chair and winking, “you’re right about the needle, but maybe you’re gonna be wishing for the needle after fifty years in prison. Know what I’m saying?”

Delveccio laughed. “You’re full of shit.”

“And you are in trouble, my man. Because today’s a new day and guess what, Pappy? We got the gun. Nice clear ballistics match to the bullets in Julius and a beautiful fingerprint match to you. It’s first-degree murder now, Pappy. We’re handing you to the DA, signed, sealed, and delivered.”

Delveccio pursed his lips but didn’t say anything. McCain decided to wait him out.

Finally: “Julius didn’t die of no gunshot. You got nothing on me.”

“That what they told you?” McCain shook his head. “Everyone’s telling you stuff, and then stuff changes.” His turn to laugh.

Delveccio tried to stay cool, but his youthful impulsiveness broke through. “What’s so fucking funny?”

“Nothing,” McCain said. “I don’t blame you, Pappy. Most athletes do very well at trial. All those girls swooning over you.” He paused. “But then again, most athletes don’t have their fingerprints on the smoking gun. And most athletes don’t kill other athletes. People liked Julius. Maybe more than you.”

“It don’t matter ‘cause he didn’t die from no bullet.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Pappy. Maybe eventually, you’ll convince someone.” McCain stood. “Nice talking to you. Good luck with your lawyer.”

He started for the door.

“Hey!” Pappy shouted.

McCain turned but didn’t speak.

“You’re lying,” said Pappy.

McCain started to swivel back toward the door.

Pappy said, “What’re you saying? What do you know about all this shit?”

“Sorry,” McCain said. “I can’t tell you anything without your lawyer present.”

“Fuck my lawyer. What’re you saying?”

McCain stuck a hand in his pocket. “Why should I tell you anything when you’re not telling me anything?”

“‘Cause…” Delveccio pursed his lips. “You’re fixing me. I don’t play fixed games. Yeah, I am gonna wait for my lawyer.”

“Good choice,” said McCain. “I hope for your sake he’s not one of those guys trying to make his career outta you.”

He headed for the exit. Had his hand on the doorknob when Delveccio said, “Maybe I can give you something. ”Cause I didn’t do nothing. And that’s the truth.“

McCain kept his back to the boy.

“You hear me?” said Pappy.

McCain turned again, made eye contact. Saw Pappy’s eyes flicker. The kid licked his lips, then his soul patch.

“What?”

“Sit down,” said the kid. Ordering McCain like he was used to it. “I don’t like you over me like that.”

McCain sat.

“Here’s the deal,” said Delveccio. “I ain’t saying nothing about what happened at the club. I ain’t stupid.” He leaned across the table. Far across. McCain’s instinct was to recoil, but he held fast. Waited.

The kid said, “What I’m saying got nothing to do with Julius. It’s got to do with something else.”

“I’m listening.” McCain tried to keep his voice even. It wasn’t easy with that big scowling mug inches from his face.

Delveccio said, “Tell me what you’ll give me.”

“Can’t do that until I know what we’re talking about, Pappy.”

“Man, you fixing me.”

“Tell you what, Pappy. Give me a hint.”

Delveccio sank back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I might have an idea where a certain person that you been lookin‘ for is hiding.”

“That so?” McCain’s voice was even, but his brain was racing.

“Not that I know for sure,” Delveccio said, “but I hear things.”

“Speak to me.”

“I don’t do no time, okay?”

“That’s not gonna happen, Pappy.”

“Well… then I do the minimum. Six months for reckless firearm, whatever. City jail time, I can do that. I did that when I was fourteen.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.” Pappy grinned. “Got into a little fight with some dudes. Long time ago. Juvey record’s all sealed.”

“As it should be,” said McCain.

“Three months,” said Pappy. “I get back in time for the season.”

“The boy died, Pappy. I got to be honest with you. But I’m not saying we can’t work something out if you give me something good.”

“Believe me, it’s good.”

“Look, Pappy, I’ll do my best. What are we talking about?”

Delveccio grinned. “You’re looking for someone, right?” He made kissy noises. “Mr. Lover Boy. And that’s all I’m gonna say until you get me a deal.”

McCain stared at him.

Looking for someone.

Lover Boy.

The bastard was talking about their multiple-murder fugitive wanted in Perciville, Tennessee.

The bastard was talking about Romeo Fritt.