the Third Twin

13

STEVE WAS BACK IN THE INTERROGATION ROOM WITH THE yellow walls. The same two cigarette butts were still in the ashtray. The room had not changed, but he had. Three hours ago he had been a law-abiding citizen, innocent of any crime worse than driving at sixty in a fifty-five zone. Now he was a rapist, arrested and identified by the victim and accused. He was in the justice machine, on the conveyor. He was a criminal. No matter how often he reminded himself that he had done nothing wrong, he could not shake the feeling of worthlessness and ignominy.

Earlier he had seen the woman detective, Sergeant Delaware. Now the other one, the man, came in, also carrying a blue folder. He was Steve’s height but much broader and heavier, with iron gray hair cut short and a bristling mustache. He sat down and took out a pack of cigarettes. Without speaking, he tapped out a cigarette, lit it, and dropped the match in the ashtray. Then he opened the folder. Inside was yet another form. This one was headed

DISTRICT COURT OF MARYLAND

FOR (City/County)

The top half was divided into two columns headed COMPLAINANT and DEFENDANT. A little lower down it said

STATEMENT OF CHARGES

The detective began to fill out the form, still without speaking. When he had written a few words he lifted the white top sheet and checked each of four attached carbon copies: green, yellow, pink, and tan.

Reading upside down, Steve saw that the victim’s name was Lisa Margaret Hoxton. “What’s she like?” he said.

The detective looked at him. “Shut the fuck up,” he said. He drew on his cigarette and continued writing.

Steve felt demeaned. The man was abusing him and he was powerless to do anything about it. It was another stage in the process of humiliating him, making him feel insignificant and helpless. You bastard, he thought, I’d like to meet you outside of this building, without your damn gun.

The detective began filling in the charges. In box number one he wrote Sunday’s date, then “at Jones Falls University gymnasium, Balto., MD.” Below he wrote, “Rape, 1st degree.” In the next box he put the place and date again, then “Assault with intent to rape.”

He picked up a continuation sheet and added two more charges: “Battery” and “Sodomy.”

“Sodomy?” Steve said in surprise.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Steve was ready to punch him out. This is deliberate, he told himself. The guy wants to provoke me. If I throw a punch at him, he has an excuse to call three other guys in here to hold me down while he kicks the shit out of me. Don’t do it, don’t do it.

When he finished writing, the detective turned the two forms around and pushed them across the table at Steve. “You’re in bad trouble, Steve. You’ve beaten and raped and sodomized a girl—”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Steve bit his lip and remained silent.

“You’re scum. You’re shit. Decent people don’t even want to be in the same room as you. You’ve beaten and raped and sodomized a girl. I know it’s not the first time. You’ve been doing it awhile. You’re sly, and you plan, and you’ve always got away with it in the past. But this time you’ve been caught. Your victim has identified you. Other witnesses place you near the scene at the time. In an hour or so, just as soon as Sergeant Delaware has gotten a search or seizure warrant from the court commissioner on duty, we’re going to take you over to Mercy Hospital and do a blood test and comb through your pubic hair and show that your DNA matches what we found in the victim’s vagina.”

“How long does that take—the DNA test?”

“Shut the fuck up. You’re nailed, Steve. Do you know what’s going to happen to you?”

Steve said nothing.

“The penalty for first-degree rape is life imprisonment. You’re going to jail, and you know what’s going to happen there? You’re going to get a taste of what you’ve been dishing out. A good-looking youngster like you? No problem. You’re going to be beaten and raped and sodomized. You’re going to find out how Lisa felt. Only in your case it will go on for years and years and years.”

He paused, picked up the cigarette packet, and offered it to Steve.

Surprised, Steve shook his head.

“By the way, I’m Detective Brian Allaston.” He lit a cigarette. “I really don’t know why I’m telling you this, but there is a way you can make it better for yourself.”

Steve frowned, curious. What was coming now?

Detective Allaston got up, walked around the table, and sat on its edge, with one foot on the floor, intimately close to Steve. He leaned forward and spoke in a softer voice. “Let me lay it out for you. Rape is vaginal intercourse, using force or the threat of force, against the will or without the consent of the woman. For it to be first-degree rape, there has to be an aggravating factor such as kidnapping, disfigurement, or rape by two or more persons. The penalties for second-degree rape are lower. Now, if you can persuade me that what you did was only second degree, you could do yourself a great big favor.”

Steve said nothing.

“Do you want to tell me how it happened?”

At last Steve spoke. “Shut the fuck up,” he said.

Allaston moved very fast. He came off the table, grabbed Steve by the front of his shirt, lifted him out of the chair, and slammed him against the cinder-block wall. Steve’s head jerked back and hit the wall with a painful bang.

He froze, clenching his fists at his sides. Don’t do it, he said to himself, don’t fight back. It was hard. Detective Allaston was overweight and out of condition, and Steve knew he could lay the bastard out in no time. But he had to control himself. All he had to hold on to was his innocence. If he beat up a cop, no matter how he had been provoked, he would be guilty of a crime. And then he might as well give up. He would lose heart if he did not have that sense of righteous indignation to buoy him up. So he stood there, rigid, his teeth clenched, while Allaston pulled him off the wall and slammed him back twice, three times, four times.

“Don’t ever speak to me like that again, you punk,” Allaston said.

Steve felt his rage ebb away. Allaston was not even hurting him. This was theater, he realized. Allaston was acting a part and doing it badly. He was the tough guy and Mish was the nice one. In a while she would come in and offer him coffee and pretend to be his friend. But she would have the same aim as Allaston: to persuade Steve to confess to the rape of a woman he had never met called Lisa Margaret Hoxton. “Let’s cut the crap, Detective,” he said. “I know you’re a tough son of a bitch with hairs growing out of your nostrils, and you know that if we were somewhere else and you didn’t have that gun on your belt I could beat the shit out of you, so let’s stop trying to prove ourselves.”

Allaston looked surprised. No doubt he had expected Steve to be too scared to speak. He let go of Steve’s shirtfront and walked to the door.

“They told me you were a smart-ass,” he said. “Well, let me tell you what I’m going to do for your education. You’re going back to the cells for a while, but this time you’ll have company. You see, all the forty-one empty cells down there are somehow out of commission, so you’re going to have to share with a guy called Rupert Butcher, known as Porky. You think you’re a big motherfucker, but he’s bigger. He’s coming down from a three-day crack party, so he has a headache. Last night, around the time you were setting fire to the gymnasium and sticking your nasty dick into poor Lisa Hoxton, Porky Butcher was stabbing his lover to death with a gardening fork. You should enjoy one another. Let’s go.”

Steve was scared. All his courage ebbed away as if a plug had been pulled, and he felt defenseless and defeated. The detective had humiliated him without really threatening to hurt him badly; but a night with a psychopath was seriously dangerous. This Butcher character had already committed a murder: if he were capable of rational thought he would know that he had little to lose by committing another.

“Wait a minute,” Steve said shakily.

Allaston turned back slowly. “Well?”

“If I confess, I get a cell to myself.”

Relief showed in the detective’s expression. “Sure,” he said. His voice had suddenly become friendly.

The change of tone caused Steve to burn with resentment. “But if I don’t, I get murdered by Porky Butcher.”

Allaston spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

Steve felt his fear turn to hatred. “In that case, Detective,” he said, “fuck you.”

The surprised look came back into Allaston’s face. “You bastard,” he said. “We’ll see if you’re so goddamn feisty in another couple of hours. Come on.”

He took Steve to the elevator and escorted him to the cell block. Spike was still there. “Put this creep in with Porky,” Allaston told him.

Spike raised his eyebrows. “That bad, huh?”

“Yeah. And by the way—Steve here has nightmares.”

“That so?”

“If you hear him cry out—don’t worry about it, he’s just dreaming.”

“I get you,” Spike said.

Allaston left and Spike took Steve to his cell.

Porky was lying on the bunk. He was about Steve’s height but a lot heavier. He looked like a bodybuilder who had been in a car wreck: his bloodstained T-shirt was stretched tight over bulging muscles. He lay on his back, head toward the rear of the cell, feet hanging over the end of the bunk. He opened his eyes when Spike unlocked the gate and let Steve in.

It crashed shut and Spike locked it.

Porky opened his eyes and stared at Steve.

Steve stared back for a moment.

“Sweet dreams,” Spike said.

Porky closed his eyes again.

Steve sat on the floor, with his back to the wall, and watched Porky sleep.