29
A blue-and-white squad car pulled up in front of the precinct as Jason was trying to pay his taxi fare. Two chunky white cops got out of the front seat, opened the back door, and began encouraging their passenger to get out of the car. When the passenger didn't get out, they resorted to a team effort. It took both of them to wrestle out of the backseat of the car a struggling black man covered with blood, who jerked back and forth as if electrically charged.
"Fuckingpig, fucking pig. You know I didn't do nuthin'. Fuck you, fucker! Geez, man, whatchu doin' this for?"
"Come on, Harry, be a good boy, you don't want to fall down and hurt yourself, do you?"
"No, fucker. I'm not goin in there." He was a tall, thin man, emaciated even, wearing pink-and-green-plaid pants with oily-looking stains in the seat and crotch. Navy zip jacket, its front shiny with freshly spilled blood. The man leaned away from the two cops, who were both smaller than he. He braced hard against their tugging like the kind of tree that doesn't bend in the wind, the kind that gets uprooted in a bad storm.
"Jesus, first he stinks up the car. Can you beat that, and now the turd is trying to break a leg. Now stand up, Harry. You're resisting a police officer."
"Fucking pigs, fucking pigs." The man's voice rose to a wail. His wrists were cuffed behind him and his whole body leaned away from the two uniforms as if he could become a rubber band and extend himself across the street. When that didn't work, he suddenly let his knees crumple under him. He sank to the sidewalk, trying to lie down and scrape his face on the cement. The two cops didn't let him get that far.
"I'm not goin' in there," the man wailed.
The cab was stopped for a long time as Jason fumbled with singles and quarters. He nervously watched the two cops haul the bleeding, screaming man to his feet. He tried to concentrate. The fares had gone up recently, but even so the numbers on the meter seemed very high, almost double the price it used to be. He didn't come to Fifty-fourth and Eighth Avenue very often, wasn't absolutely sure what the fare should be. He frowned as the meter jumped another thirty cents after he was sure the driver had already pushed the button.
"Yo hurtin' me, assholes," the black man screamed. And then, as he was dragged across the sidewalk past a number of bored-looking uniformed officers by the door, his blurry eyes focused and met Jason's. "You a witness," he screamed. "I gonna call you as a witness. Lookit all this blood. Police brutalitee."
"Aw shut up, Harry, a dozen people saw you stab your best friend."
"Never saw the fucker befo," Harry muttered as an obliging uniform opened the precinct door and they disappeared inside.
Jason slammed the taxi door on the Arab driver who, all the way down from the Eighties, had performed a loud sing-along with prayerful screeches coming from a recorder placed on the dashboard. Jason was sure the driver had doctored the meter. It was three minutes past six. He had to be back in his office for his last patient at 7:30. So far the trip had cost him twelve dollars and thirty cents and a very bad case of heartburn. The anxious feeling he'd had all day had intensified until now he was almost shivering inside. His chest burned. He checked his watch. It was now 6:04, and he wanted to run from this spot just like the guy with his wrists cuffed behind him and blood on his jacket. If he felt anxious and threatened coming to the police station, it was no wonder Rick Liberty would do anything to avoid coming here.
Jason reached inside his coat and straightened his tie before following the prisoner through the door. Two uniforms noted the gesture and glanced at each other. For a second Jason had a feeling that they might tackle him. But he was feeling paranoid.
Inside, a banner read, MIDTOWN NORTH WISHES YOU A HAPPY AND HEALTHY NEW YEAR. Jason announced himself at the front desk, which was high enough to make him feel short.
"Dr. Frank to see Sergeant Woo," he told the pale-faced man in uniform sitting there.
The man drew the corners of his mouth down and glanced at the two people sitting up there with him. They drew the corners of their mouths down as if they had never heard of such a person either. Jason waited, tapping a foot as they discussed it. It was dark as deepest night outside, and the temperature had dropped again. The bloodied suspect had already disappeared. It was quiet. The uniform at the desk finally punched a number on the kind of old black telephone that hardly anyone outside of third-world countries used anymore. There was more discussion and some shaking of heads as the phone rang unanswered.
After what seemed like a long time, the uniform hung up the phone without having spoken to anyone, and April came out of a green door.
No smile at Jason or the people at the desk. "Thanks for dropping by," she said to Jason.
"I'm sorry I couldn't get back to you today. I've been busy. What's this about anyway?"
She gave him a curt nod and headed back to the green door. The door had STAIRS painted on it. Her face was blank, but Jason could tell by her walk and the way she indicated that they would climb the stairs that things were not going well. She didn't say anything as she took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. On the second floor all the doors were closed.
They turned a corner. The sign on the green door facing them read
DETECTIVE UNIT.
April's eyes flickered as she opened the door.
The setup here was not the same as the Two-O, -where Jason had been several times and almost felt at home. This space was more cut up and looked smaller, though April had told him it was a bigger unit.
"My office."
She held out her hand, palm up like a traffic cop to halt him where he was while she headed a few feet right to another office with a window in the door. She moved a few face muscles at the window. Some moments later, a man many inches shorter than Jason came out of the office shrugging on a glen plaid suit jacket over a deep blue dress shirt and a shoulder holster with a big gun in it. The man's hair was short and shiny. He had a pencil-thin mustache and was wearing a tie that looked a whole lot more expensive than Jason's.
"My CO, Lieutenant Iriarte, wanted to have a few words with you," April said.
Jason nodded at her grimly. Thanks for telling me.
"I've heard about you," Iriarte said. "Sergeant Woo here thinks a lot of you."
"I think a lot of her, too." Jason returned the compliment.
Iriarte did a quick check of the room. A man was working at a computer. Two others were at their desks; both were on the phone. The suspect Jason had seen only a few minutes ago was now lying on the bench in the holding cell behind him with the bloody jacket over his head.
"This is a very sensitive situation we've got here," Iriarte said. "Let's talk in here."
He headed to the back of the squad room and opened the door to the interview room. It was very small, about the size of a one-inmate prison cell. Inside was a small table and three chairs. Two Styrofoam cups half-filled with cigarette butts were on the table.
Iriarte made a face and pointed at the cups. April picked them up and took them out of the room.
"Please sit down," lriarte said to Jason, pointing to the chair facing the wall with the mirror in it.
Jason glanced at the mirror, then sat in the chair opposite the blank wall so whoever might be sitting behind the mirror couldn't see his face. Iriarte ran his tongue around the rnside of his mouth, considering whether to take the chair Jason had rejected or order Jason to sit in it.
April returned minus the garbage, her face dense as a brick wall. She closed the door and stood by it, eyes cast down in the traditional Oriental pose of demure deference, as she waited for further instructions. The lieutenant's face relaxed at this show of passivity. He jerked his chin at her, directing her to the chair Jason hadn't wanted, then took the chair between them.
"This is a sensitive situation," he said again.
"So I understand," Jason replied.
"Very sensitive."
Jason gazed at him, thinking he must be an obsessive-compulsive to keep his mustache so short and precisely matchstick thin.
"I understand you've worked with us on other cases out of the Two-O." The upper lip twitched as if it knew how Jason had diagnosed its owner.
"Very informally," Jason murmured.
"Your wife was involved in an incident . . ."
Everybody in the world knew that. "She was kidnapped," Jason said with no sign of emotion.
Iriarte dipped his head as if he'd just gained a point. "She has an unfortunate way of getting caught in the middle of things," he murmured, insinuating something Jason didn't want to explore.
"Her best friend has been murdered." Jason sat in a metal chair, his feet flat on the floor in front of him. He had unbuttoned his coat when he entered the precinct. Now he took it off and pointedly glanced at his watch. Six-twenty. He had to leave in fifty minutes or be late for his next patient.
"You know that Liberty has disappeared."
"I am aware that he was not at the funeral yesterday. I admit I was very surprised, since he told me he intended to be there and wanted us to have dinner with him and her parents afterward. Do you have any idea where he is?"
"You interviewed him."
"I was in close contact with him all Monday. Sergeant Woo asked me to do a psychological profile of him. I believe I did it on Tuesday or Wednesday—I'd have to check my notes." Jason glanced at April. Her eyes were still cast down. She was ashamed at the way her boss was questioning him.
"Why don't you tell me the results of that interview," Iriarte said coldly.
"What would you like to know?"
Iriarte ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth again. "The usual things, what his fantasies tell you." He smirked.
"Well, there is a lot of violence in his background. His grandmother was raped by a white man. His father was killed in the Korean War. He was the victim of violence himself many times in his adolescence and young adulthood. But no member of his family has a history of antisocial or criminal behavior, and he himself does not have a violent nature. In his childhood there were no indicators of antisocial behavior."
"What does that mean?"
"He didn't torture animals, bully other children, play with matches, and burn things. Hurting was something he didn't understand. He was and still is puzzled by it. He doesn't understand how people can hurt each other."
"How do you know?"
It was Jason's turn to smile. "I can tell from his fantasies and his heroes. He revered Jackie Robinson, his namesake Frederick Douglass, Richard Wright. He reads poetry. He has no weapons in his home. He thinks about other people's feelings. He's empathic. Killers don't care about the feelings of their victims."
Iriarte passed over that. "What about alcohol and substance abuse?"
"Liberty has migraine headaches. He can't drink and he has strong negative feelings about drugs. He came from a community where drugs destroyed many of his childhood friends."
"That's interesting. His friend Tor was a user."
"That astonishes me," Jason said.
"You think that would be a problem for Liberty?"
"I don't think he would approve."
"What about the migraines? Is that what triggers his violence?"
"People who get migraines are often perfectionists. When little things go wrong, they become frustrated and the pressure builds up without a safety valve. This kind of personality can't go to the gym or play ball to let off steam. And rather than strike out at others, they internalize their rage. The appearance can sometimes be that of a person in torment. Or a person enraged. But the rage is directed at themselves, not others."
Iriarte made a skeptical face to indicate what he thought of the psychobabble. "Someone was killed in his car."
Jason was stunned. "Who?"
"We don't know. The body is missing. We're wondering what Liberty's connection to it is," Iriarte said coldly.
Jason turned to April. What was the meaning of this? She shook her head. "But Liberty couldn't have had anything to do with that. The car was stolen. He hadn't seen it for weeks."
"Well, if he knew the car was the site of a murder and he happened to be a suspect in another murder, he would say that, wouldn't he?"
Jason glared at Iriarte. "He doesn't have the profile of a killer."
"Then get him to come in here and prove it like a man." lriarte stabbed the air with a finger.
"I'm a physician. I'm no expert in police work, but I don't get the feeling you're regarding Liberty from the position of innocent until proven guilty, which is the position taken by the law of this land. So I could say the same of you—if he's guilty, you prove it."
"Don't get defensive now. I'm just asking for your assistance here, Dr. Frank. You're an expert in state of mind. You and your wife know Liberty as well as anybody, and we believe you know where he is."
Jason shook his head. "We don't know where he is."
Iriarte went on as if he hadn't spoken. "If you are his friend, you will convince him that his best interests will be served by coming in to see us as soon as possible."
"By turning himself in to people who believe he killed his wife?"
"By coming to talk with us. That's all we want to do."
"Is Liberty aware of your wish to speak with him?"
Iriarte flicked a hostile glance at April. She remained impassive. He took a deep breath. "We're in the middle of an investigation," he said. "We told him not to leave."
"I understand that." Jason directed his next question at April. "I gather you spoke with him at some length yesterday."
"Yes."
"What was the nature of your conversation?"
April raised a shoulder.
"Does that mean you led him to believe you think he murdered his wife?"
"He had opportunity. We believe he may have murdered his wife. We don't know if there's a connection with the murder in his car. But we will," Iriarte again.
More acid roiled around in Jason's stomach. He felt ill. Could Rick have killed Merrill, after all? Could his judgment of Rick be so wrong? What could be the motivation for it? Why would he kill her? He thought of the morning after the murder when Rick hadn't wanted medication. He'd wanted to be there, fully alert, because he thought the police had made a mistake and that Merrill was coming back. Rick was no actor, he'd been in genuine shock. But then again, he was a black man in a white firm, in a white world with a white wife. He had to be something of an actor to look so comfortable pulling that off. Jason realized he was holding his breath. He let it out before speaking.
"Do you have any evidence to suggest Liberty killed his wife?" Jason asked carefully.
"I'm not at liberty to tell you, no pun intended." Iriarte smirked at the pun nonetheless. "Have you been in touch with him?"
Jason thought of the funeral that had been so incomplete without Rick there. He thought of Rick's disappearing before the news of his absence at the funeral appeared on every TV and in every newspaper in the country, possibly to avoid arrest, and he thought of the E-mail message Rick had sent him, rambling and incoherent. Did E-mail count as being in touch? He decided it didn't.
"No," Jason said, they hadn't been in touch.
"Are you aware that if you help a criminal avoid arrest, you are a criminal yourself and can be prosecuted as such?"
"Do you have a warrant for Liberty's arrest?"
Iriarte sucked on his cheeks. "Not at this time."
Jason checked his watch. He had to go. "Well, I told you what I know about Liberty. I don't have anything else to add that will help you."
"Thanks for coming in." Iriarte jerked his chin at April. Take him away.