The Lost Years

78

Wally Gruber did not know why the detective who was driving him to the New Jersey prosecutor’s office suddenly stepped on the gas and turned on the flashers. “I’m in no hurry,” he chided them. “I’m enjoying the ride. In fact I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to stop for coffee on the way.”

He was sitting in the backseat of the van, shackles covering his wrists and legs, and separated from the front area by a locked grille. There were two other detectives escorting him, one in the front passenger seat and the other sitting next to him in the secured section.

None of the three detectives answered him. Wally shrugged his shoulders. They’re not too sociable today, he thought. So what? He closed his eyes, concentrating again on the face that might get him back on the street much sooner. He had made bets with some of his fellow inmates. In fact they had a pool going. The odds were up to four to one that he wasn’t bluffing about seeing the killer of that professor.

They weren’t in the parking lot of the courthouse long enough for him to get a decent breath of fresh air before he was in the elevator going up to the prosecutor’s office. He was taken straight to a room where there was a guy sitting at a computer who stood up as they entered. “Mr. Gruber,” he said, “I am Detective Howard Washington. I will be working with you to formulate the composite.”

“Call me Wally, Howie,” Gruber replied cheerfully.

Washington ignored the invitation. “Please sit down, Mr. Gruber. I will explain to you exactly how we’re going to do this. I am informing you that this process will be videotaped. I will first take a detailed description from you of the person whom you have indicated you saw, then I will be using the computer to show you images of various head and facial parts, such as the forehead, eyes, nose, and chin, as well as head and facial hair.”

“Don’t stress over any facial hair, Howie. He didn’t have any.” Wally sat down next to Washington and leaned back in the chair. “I wouldn’t mind a nice hot cup of coffee,” he said. “No milk. Two sugars.”

Simon Benet and Rita Rodriguez had just come into the room. Simon felt his blood boil as he listened to Wally’s nonchalant comments. He felt Rita put a restraining hand on his arm. I’d love to deck this guy, he thought.

“I’m going to start with some very specific questions with regard to the person’s physical appearance. I will be taking notes as you speak. I’m going to start with our initial checklist.”

The questions began. “Male or female… color of skin… approximate age… approximate height and weight…”

When Detective Washington had completed the preliminary questions, he started putting up multiple images on the screen.

Wally began shaking his head, then said, “Hold it. That’s the way the hair looked when he pulled the scarf down. You’re hitting the nail on the head.”

Simon Benet and Rita Rodriguez looked at each other. From Wally’s description they already knew how the composite would come out. The question burning in both of their minds was, where and when had Gruber seen this face? Was it the night Jonathan Lyons was shot or was it from a picture in a newspaper after Lyons had died?

They waited until Wally Gruber, looking at the current composite on the screen, said to Detective Washington, “You did a good job, Howie. That’s him.”

Simon and Rita stared at the screen.

“It’s as though Greg Pearson sat for the picture,” Rita said as Simon nodded in agreement.