Hanging Time

43

April’s mouth fell open in surprise when the tall redhead entered the squad room with a beat officer behind her. The redhead stopped short by the scarred wooden bench just inside the door. A fat woman in a purple dress took up most of the bench with several shopping bags and a battered suitcase. When she saw the newcomer, the fat woman moved over, filling the rest of the space. April glanced over at Sanchez. He was staring, too.

Even if April hadn’t been called by the Desk Sergeant downstairs, she would have known instantly this was the woman Dr. Frank had in his office. She saw the woman hesitate and Officer Linda Gargiola’s mouth move. The uniform was about half the redhead’s size. She was heavily weighed down with all the equipment hung around her waist.

April got to her feet. On the first day of the second major homicide, the room was chaotic. All nine desks by the window were occupied. The holding cell harbored a huge white male with a number of lurid tattoos on his arms, a beer belly, and a greasy ponytail that trailed halfway down his back. At the newcomer’s entrance, the clamor stopped as everyone turned to look at her.

Then, in an apparent change of heart, the woman turned and pushed past a surprised Linda Gargiola, retreating to the hall. April followed at a run. In the hall she found Linda trying to restrain Milicia Honiger-Stanton without actually touching her.

“Wait a minute. Is something the matter? Can I help you?” Officer Gargiola tried to prevent her charge from leaving.

April stepped into the scene.

“Miss Honiger-Stanton, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m Detective Woo. I’ve spoken to Dr. Frank about the situation, and I’ve been expecting you,” April said firmly.

At the reference to her doctor Milicia stopped. “How’d you know—?” She didn’t finish the sentence. Who I am.

Sergeants Joyce and Sanchez, Aspirante and Healy crowded out into the hall, jostling each other as they pushed through the door. The sudden quiet in the squad room acted like a drop in barometric pressure sucking Sergeant Joyce out of her office. The Sergeant’s color was high. April imagined this was the way she looked after a few beers.

April glared at them. “Give us a little air, will you?”

“Ah.” Milicia looked at the cluster of detectives. “I think I made a mistake.…”

“No, you’re in the right place. I’m Sergeant Joyce.” Sergeant Joyce moved forward in a nice, friendly manner. “Thanks, fellas, you can go now,” to Healy and Aspirante. They backed off, scowling.

Milicia shook her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I feel dizzy.…”

“It’s all right. I know this place looks a little alarming if you’re not used to it.” Sergeant Joyce smiled a nice, friendly smile, turning to April with a “where did this come from” look.

Mike came out and joined the little group in the hall.

“This is Sergeant Sanchez,” April said, frowning at Sergeant Joyce to make her go away. The squad supervisor wasn’t going anywhere. They stood there, a tight little knot, with all sorts of people wandering back and forth around them. Everyone was staring at the striking redhead.

“Why don’t we go downstairs, where we can talk?” April suggested.

“All of you?” Milicia said faintly.

“Yeah, we like to keep an eye on each other,” Joyce said amiably. “Would you like some coffee?”

Milicia shook her head. “I have to be somewhere. I don’t have much time.”

“Fine, let’s get to it, then.” Sergeant Joyce led the parade downstairs. April and Mike followed them.

“Where’s Braun?” April asked softly.

“Upstairs.”

“Think we should get him?”

Mike shook his head.

Sergeant Joyce opened the door to an empty questioning room.

“Here we are. Have a seat.”

Milicia’s green eyes raked the room. It was even hotter than upstairs. The paint was peeling off the walls. Plastic chairs were placed around the kind of rectangular table they have in school lunchrooms. Under the table was an overflowing wastebasket that smelled of ancient coffee. Sergeant Sanchez placed a tape recorder on the table. Milicia turned and faced them, her face white, as if she’d gotten a whole lot more than she bargained for.

“Get her some water, will you, Detective?”

April went out to the water cooler in the hall. Only one paper cup was left. The water was tepid. She filled the cup and came back. Milicia sat on one side of the table. Opposite were Mike and Sergeant Joyce. The tape recorder didn’t have its wheels turning yet.

Milicia took the paper cup but didn’t sample the water in it. Her face took on a remote expression.

“Thank you for coming. I have the greatest respect for Dr. Frank,” April said with a quick look at Sergeant Joyce, who had no idea who this person was. “Start with your name and your address, then tell the story any way you want.”

Milicia shook her head. “This wasn’t ever what I had in mind,” she said softly, staring at the tape machine.

Mike was closest to it. He pushed the button, told the machine their location, the date, the time of day, the names of the people in the room—except Milicia’s.

“Would you tell us your name and the date?” Sergeant Joyce prompted.

“Milicia Honiger-Stanton,” Milicia said. “You already said the date.” Her green eyes filled with tears.

“Never mind the date.” April wished Sergeant Joyce would self-destruct. Why couldn’t she just let the woman tell her story? “It’s okay. Go ahead.”

Milicia took a ragged breath. “I went to see Dr. Frank because I have a troubled sister. I thought she needed some—supervision.”

She stared down at her hands. April noticed she wore no jewelry. “She’s more than troubled. She’s … well, sick. I don’t know the word for whatever it is. I thought she needed to be in a hospital, where she couldn’t hurt herself or anybody else. It’s a long story. My parents always used to take care of her when she had a—crisis.” An expression of anger crossed her face.

“But they died a year—no, two years ago. Since then she’s—deteriorated. Drugs, alcohol, fits of rage. She lives with a real—” Milicia couldn’t find a word of dislike strong enough for the person her sister lived with.

“See, I went to Dr. Frank because I thought you could, you know, put people like that away. Someplace safe. Camille cut someone’s face once. She’s come to my office and made scenes, oh, a hundred times. I’m an architect. It’s disruptive. She threatens me. I’m afraid. See, when we were little, she used to play these games. Dress up and hang the dolls, break their necks and say they were me. Know what I mean?”

Mike looked at April, but no one said anything. Sergeant Joyce had deep horizontal furrows between her eyes that made her look like a mole blinded in the daylight.

Sure, they knew what she meant.

“So when the first girl got killed—that poor girl.” Milicia sniffed. “I knew it was a warning for me. It was me she wanted to kill. So I had to tell somebody. I had to do something about Camille … I didn’t want this.” She looked at them, one at a time, tears welling in her eyes.

“I didn’t want this. I thought it could be taken care of quietly. But he wouldn’t listen to me.” She shook her head. “He just wouldn’t listen.”

Milicia’s composure finally cracked. Her tears fell unchecked. April got up to find some tissues. When she returned, Milicia was still crying.

On the other side of the table Sergeants Joyce and Sanchez sat as still as they could, bursting with unasked questions. They waited while Milicia dabbed at her eyes.

“What are you going to do?” she asked finally.

“Check it out,” April said softly. “We’re going to ask you a few more questions, and then we’re going to check it out.”

“Would you like a sandwich? Some coffee, tea?” Sanchez asked, looking like he could use some himself.

“What?” Milicia blew her nose delicately, pulling herself together.

“Something to eat or drink?” Sergeant Joyce said.

Milicia slung her bag over her shoulder, taking a deep breath as if she’d gotten a tough job over with. “Oh, no. I’ve got to go. I have to be someplace.”

Sergeant Joyce shook her bulldog head. Not a chance, baby. In a homicide investigation, you don’t have to be anywhere else until we say so. She turned to April, cocking her head. You tell her.

April nodded at her supervisor, getting the message. “Well, just one or two more things,” she murmured. “We’re not quite through yet.”

Mike checked the reel. Nearly finished. He switched off the recorder and turned the cassette over, then punched the play button and told the machine who was in the room, the day, date, and time. The way they played it, it was his turn to ask the questions.