True Detectives

CHAPTER 35

Moe was driving home, talking to Liz on his cell, when Call Interruption beeped. He said, “Can you hold for a sec, honey?”

Liz laughed. “Something tells me you won't be dropping by after all.”

If it's a lead, from your mouth to God's ears. He said, “Nah, it's probably something stupid.” It wasn't.

Raymond “Ramone W” Wohr sat in yellow psych-ward pajamas in one of the therapy rooms used by the jail shrinks.

A little nicer than the usual County interview space, but not by much.

Moe and Petra gave Wohr the upholstered chair they'd jammed in a corner, pulled up the pair of plastic seats, and faced their quarry.

Wohr was one of those long-legged types who shrank when seated. A rash had broken out on his bald head. The side fringes hung greasy and limp. In less than a day, jail pallor had set in. Moe wondered if it was some sort of fear reaction, not absence of sunlight.

Or the overhead fluorescence wasn't being kind to Ramone's seamed, sagging, bleary-eyed, gap-toothed, addict face. The huge mustache was ragged, more gray than brown. His hands shook. A gray-blue tat ran up his neck. Crude blue band fashioned of circles and squares and X's. Like a tie gone awry.

It was just after one a.m. and Petra's tenth call of the evening had finally annoyed the sheriff's jailers sufficiently for them to really dig through their paperwork.

Ramone had been booked nearly twenty-four hours ago, shoved right into the general population. News of his pedo bust had arrived before him and though Wohr's cellmates were nonviolent types, a flurry of less-than-veiled threats from a couple of hypermuscular gangbangers in the adjoining cell had caused Wohr to whine, bitch, and moan. Finally the mope had attracted the attention of a jailer who really didn't want to have to deal with another in-house death-stomp.

The problem was where to put Wohr. High Power and the psych ward were full up and the felony charge didn't qualify him for trustee status. Finally, he was stashed in temporary quarters: a tiny reading room in a far corner of the jail's inmate library, where he was tossed a blanket and told to go to sleep.

The space was vacant because furniture could be used as weaponry. Jailers doing pass-bys woke him up every few hours with flashlight glare and foot nudges. Your basic solitary confinement and Ramone W was an empty-eyed wraith by the time a psych bed emptied after an agitated bipolar rapist stroked out.

The transfer had taken place twelve hours ago, but the paperwork lagged.

“Anyway, we've got him,” Petra told Moe. “Meanwhile, I've got Vice guys looking for Delishus. Where are you?”

“Turning right around and heading for the freeway.” After hours of futile traces on bar pay phones, he ached for sleep. “I can be there in twenty.”

“I'll meet you in front.” A beat. “This is your baby, I'm just there for backup.”

He couldn't figure out if she'd said that out of good manners, or relief.

Raymond Wohr said, “I still don't get why I got busted.” Not even convincing himself.

Moe said, “No one told you the charges?”

“Yeah, but…”

“You molested a minor, Ramone.”

Wohr didn't answer.

“Pedo is serious stuff, Ramone.”

Wohr scratched an eyelid.

“You made our job easy,” said Moe. “Put on quite a show for Officer Kennedy.”

“Aw, man.” As if he was the aggrieved party.

Moe said, “Aw, man, what?”

“She said she was twenty.”

“Who did?”

“Deli-whatever she calls herself.”

“Too bad she looks ten.”

“Not to me,” said Wohr. “It's a case of… how you see things.”

“You wear glasses, Ramone?”

“Huh?”

Moe repeated the question.

“No.”

“To you she looked twenty. To everyone else, she looks ten. She's a minor and you got caught with your dick in her mouth.”

Wohr's scratching hand lowered to the crook of his arm. Old tracks, but no fresh punctures. Along with the bag of weed, granules of what was sure to be cocaine had been scraped from a pocket of his jeans. Along with a pay-as-you-go cell Petra had already submitted for analysis.

Moe smiled at Wohr. Wohr sat there. Not a trace of emotion and so far the mope hadn't even come close to asking for a lawyer. That could be a problem with these idiots: not enough anxiety.

Moe put forth a lie: “Delishus informs us the two of you have a long-standing relationship. Real long-standing, and that you know darn well how old she is.”

Liking the sound of his treachery. Instinct.

Wohr said, “Aw, man-sir. I didn't mean nothing crazy. Just tryin’ to get off.”

“Basic human need.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“We understand human need, Ramone. Unfortunately, the system doesn't. Courts are coming down real hard on child molesters. I mean, we're talking some serious time.”

“I din't molest no one. She got paid.”

“Your basic business transaction.”

“Exactly.”

“How many other look-like-twentys you generally do business with?”

Silence.

“Maybe you don't go that far with all of them,” said Moe. “Maybe sometimes you're happy just looking at 'em.”

One of Wohr's droopy eyelids twitched. He stopped scratching, placed his palms on his lap.

“I guess that could be thought of as good manners, Ramone. Just peeping through windows, handling your own business, no one gets hurt.”

Silence.

“Plus, it's free. So how come this time you paid?”

Wohr closed his eyes and hunched.

“Had a bad day, Ramone?”

“Nah.”

“Want something to drink, Ramone?”

“Nah.”

“Sure? Your lips are looking dry.”

“A Coke?” As if snagging the drink was a pipe dream. Petra was up before Moe could ask her.

During her absence, Moe scrawled useless notes in his pad. Ramone reacted by closing his eyes and pretending to doze. Beneath the guy's eyelids, though, was a buzz of frantic activity.

Like the blowflies celebrating what had once been Alicia Eiger.

Petra returned with a tall paper cup of something brown. Wohr gulped all of it, pressed the flat of one hand under his rib cage. Belched and smiled at Petra. “'Scuse me, ma'am.”

She said, “Hey, enjoy. While you can.”

Putting emphasis on the last word, Moe figured it was a prompt. He said, “Enjoy any little thing, you're going away for a real long time.”

“Aw, man… I din't do nothing bad.”

Moe shrugged, wrote some more. “What can I say, Ramone?”

Petra took the cue and starting checking her cell phone.

Being with two bored detectives made Raymond Wohr fidget. “So what you're saying is, if I give you something, it could help me, right?”

“I didn't hear us say anything like that, Ramone.”

“You're here.”

“Just clearing paper, pal.” Moe continued to write.

“Sir,” said Wohr.

“Uh-huh.”

“What if I do give you something?”

Moe's heart thumped. He looked up from his notes. “Like what?”

“Names, places, sir. Big deals all around Hollywood, sir. I got a good memory.”

“Drug deals?”

“Man, I've seen stuff. I know who. I know what. I could clear half your cases.”

Moe turned to Petra. “That's pretty generous.”

She said, “Sure is.”

“Gimme pen and paper,” said Wohr. “Hope you got time because I'll write you a book.”

“Sounds like a bestseller,” said Moe.

“More than we could ever hope for,” said Petra.

Both of them using a mocking tone. Wohr had instincts. “Something wrong with that?”

Moe said, “What's wrong with that is we're not dope cops.”

“Uh-uh, no way, I can't give you sex stuff,” said Wohr, lying effortlessly. “Don't know about that, not my thing.”

“Don't want to rat out other pedos?”

“I'm not a-I don't know that stuff, sir. Like you said before, it's human need, I mind my own business.”

“Sticking mostly to peeping, huh?”

Head shake. “I'm not saying that, either. I just don't know that stuff.”

“So the way you look at it,” said Moe, “it's all victimless-a business transaction, who cares how a guy gets off.” He slapped his forehead. “Oh, yeah, judges and juries care. But guess what? I don't. And neither does Detective Connor.”

Moe leaned in close, fighting to keep his nostrils open after a cloud of Wohr's reek blew his way. The stink of jail and fear and poor personal habits.

“We're not sex cops, either, Ramone.”

Wohr's eyes swung wide to the left. “What are you?”

“We're murder cops.”

Wohr's head snapped up and back as he tried to retreat as far as possible from Moe. The way they'd tucked his chair into the corner meant he wasn't going anywhere.

“Aw, man.”

“You keep saying that, Ramone. Like it's some prayer, going to get you redeemed.”

Wohr lowered his head to his lap, clasped both hands behind his own neck. “No, no, that I really don't do.”

Moe waited.

Wohr looked up.

“Hear that, Detective Connor?”

Petra slipped her cell into her purse. “Uh-uh, sorry, what?”

“Mr. Wohr says he really doesn't do murder.”

Ramone said, “Nope, man-sir-ma'am. Someone told you that, they're lying.”

“Who would tell us that?”

Eye-dance. “No one.”

“Why would anyone tell us that, Ramone?”

“No reason-they wouldn't.”

“They, meaning…”

“No one.” Wohr folded scrawny arms across his chest.

Moe turned to Petra. “Remember what they taught us about guys who like little girls? It's all about power and control. And we know the same thing goes for murder. Especially sicko murder.” Back to Wohr: “No bigger power-trip than being in charge when the lights go out.”

Ramone's hands shot out palms-forward. “No way, no, no, no.”

Moe sighed.

Petra's knowing smile was perfect: You believe this guy?

Ramone W scratched his head, then his arms, rocked a bit. “Aw, man. Gimme paper and a pen, I'll write you a book on dope-you can trade it to the dope cops, you give 'em something, they give you something, everyone walks away happy.”

Petra said, “You've got an interesting view of police work.”

“Hey-ma'am, everything gets traded.”

“Guess that's true,” said Moe. “Including human life.”

When Wohr didn't answer, he went on: “Everything's got a price. Everyone. Some lives are expensive, some lives are cheap. Cheap lives get traded away easy so expensive lives can continue. Experienced individual such as yourself knows which is which.”

“Aw, man, I don't know nothing about that, you want that there's all sorts of guys right here who can tell you good stuff, just walk over to general pop and say tell me about that. Not me, sir, no way, no.”

Long speech. It took Wohr's breath away and he sat back, trying to regain wind.

Moe said, “Expensive lives, cheap lives.” A beat. “Guess Adella Villareal's life was pretty cheap.”

Wohr sat there. Not moving, not blinking. None of the eye-calisthenics Moe had expected.

Could I be that wrong?

“That name's not familiar to you, Ramone?”

Wohr let out a long, raspy sigh. Now his eyes were bobbling, like floats on a trout line. Scratching hard enough to raise welts on his arms. He forced the eyes still, but the resulting stare-scared, frozen-was the biggest giveaway of all.

Yes!

Moe said, “Adella and Gabriel. Tiny little baby. A tiny life means super-cheap in your world?”

Wohr buried his face in his hands. Rocked some more.

“Cheap lives,” said Moe. “We know a lot.”

Wohr's fingers spread, revealing runny eyes. “That was not me, sir.”

“That?”

“What happened.”

“What happened? Like we're talking about a something, not a someone? A what, not a who? This is a mommy and a baby we're discussing, Ramone. Human beings. They got murdered and we know who did it and we know you're involved.”

Wohr's eyes rounded and for a bizarre instant, terror made the old dope fiend look young, almost child-like-still vulnerable to surprise. A second later, the old weariness/wariness returned and the guy was squinting-first at Moe, then Petra. Figuring the odds.

Moe said, “You can help yourself, Ramone.”

“How much can I help myself?”

“What do you mean?”

Sly smile. “Business transaction. What's the deal?”

“I'm not going to lie to you, friend, 'cause that would be wasting everyone's time. And you've been around long enough to know reality. Anything official is up to the D.A. But we're murder cops, the D.A. listens to us.”

“Misdemeanor,” said Wohr. “No jail time?”

“On what?”

“Delishus.”

Meaning he wasn't worried about his involvement in murder. Or was the mope that clever?

Moe said, “Detective Connor?”

Petra said, “Theoretically, if two murders get cleared, I can't see any problem with that.”

Moe said, “Clearing three murders would be even better.”

“No doubt,” said Petra.

“Three?” said Ramone. Confusion clouded the mope's face.

Uh-oh.

Moe made the plunge. “Caitlin Frostig.”

“Who?” Not a hint of evasiveness in the squinty eyes. Real confusion.

“Caitlin Frostig,” said Moe. “Adella's babysitter. Pretty blond girl.”

Wohr said, “Oh, her.”

“You know her.”

“I seen her once, maybe twice. She also got killed?”

“Is that a real question, Ramone?”

“Yes, sir, yes, yes, yes, sir-I met her once. Coming to pick up Addie, like you said, Addie's going out, that girl's there with the baby. One, two times is all-yeah, it was two. That's it, sir. She got dead, I don't know about it.”

“But you do know about a dead mommy. And a dead baby,” said Moe, remembering the Reverend Wohr's account of his brother's cold attitude toward the infant. “Little, tiny baby with a name. Gabriel. Like the angel. Now he is a little angel, Ramone.”

Wohr didn't respond.

“Dead baby, dead mommy, dead babysitter, Ramone. Quite a scoreboard for a guy who doesn't know about stuff like that.”

Wohr's bony butt levitated out of the chair and for a second Moe thought he'd need to restrain the idiot. But Wohr sank down heavily, hugged himself, shook his head. Tugged at his cheeks.

“You're in it for triple murder, Ramone.”

“Oh, Jesus God.”

“Maybe you're not that bad of a person,” said Moe. “Maybe it really bothers you.”

“Aw, man-you should-in here.” Slapping his forehead. “Bad pictures, sir. Even though I never actually seen nothing.”

“Pictures of what?”

“You know.”

“Tell me, Ramone.”

“Dead people. I worked hard at turning them off. The pictures.”

“Trying to switch the channel.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Did getting paid to forget help, Ramone?”

“Huh?”

“One of your transactions,” said Moe. “Keep your mouth shut for the opportunity to keep pimping to rich folk.”

Stolid silence, but no denial.

Moe went on, “You might've cleared your own head but the law doesn't see it that way, Ramone. You're in the middle of it. It won't be any big stretch making this a three-strikes deal, Ramone. But even without that, we're talking…” To Petra: “Like forever?”

She said, “I'd guess forever plus a hundred years or so.” She edged closer to Wohr. “Poor little Gabriel. Talk about a tiny skeleton, like a toy, at first you don't even think it's real.”

“You found him?” Wohr blurted.

“Any reason we shouldn't?”

“No, no, no. I just…”

Moe hardened his voice. Crowded Wohr. Got closer to Petra, in the process. Her girl-scent helped take the edge off Wohr's stench. “You just what, Ramone?”

“I never heard he got found.”

“But you heard he got killed.”

Silence.

“Here's the deal, Ramone: Some people don't like surprises, but we do. Helps relieve the boredom. We've got all sorts of surprises about things you can't even imagine.”

Wohr's eyes passed from Moe to Petra, back to Moe. The guy's body was slumped and shaky and pathetic, but the eyes belonged to a stronger, shrewder man.

All the dope he'd pumped, all the booze he'd soaked up, his IQ could be down to double digits and he'd still retain a certain type of cunning.

He said, “You know what you know, but I don't know nothing.”

Moe sensed it: The danger point, any minute the mope could clam, ask for a lawyer.

Time to take another plunge. “Well, then, Ramone, we'll share-so everyone will know everything. You got paid off to keep quiet about the murders, but it was only a small-time payment. You never cashed in like you could've.”

Wohr's eyes froze but he couldn't plug up the sweat glands slicking his face and neck.

Petra's perfume no longer masking the stink.

Wohr's mustache trembled.

Moe said, “Maybe you didn't cash in because you were scared. Maybe you're basically a small-time guy, happy with small-time compensation-happy to keep peddling skin to rich folk. Maybe making nice to rich folk lets you pretend your own life is expensive, not cheap like Adella and Gabriel and Caitlin.”

Wohr shook his head.

“Thing is, Ramone, that flesh you kept peddling was Alicia's and she had enough, wanted you to cash in big. She was tired of partying in shitty motels like the Eagle because you were too scared to make demands. She got frustrated. Downright pissed-off frustrated. To the point where she bitch-slapped you on the street, front of the whole neighborhood.”

“No one saw nothing,” Wohr snapped.

Moe smiled. “You think?”

Realizing his error, Wohr shook his head hard enough to fling sweat. Droplets landed on Moe's khakis. Petra's black pants, too. Neither cop moved to wipe it off.

Wohr said, “What I'm sayin’, Alicia wouldn't do that, she never hit me.”

“Then how do you think we know about it, Ramone? I was there.” Letting that sink in. Describing Eiger's and Wohr's clothes made Wohr shake like he'd detoxed too fast.

Moe said, “She called you stupid, disrespected you, then hauled off and bitch-slapped you.” Moe rattled off the address on Taft. “I saw it, Ramone. Not a love pat, a real hard smack, you could hear it up the block. And what do you do? You just slink off like some beat-down dog, go get juiced up at Bob's, then you buy some dope from another mope over near Cherokee, then you wander around Hollywood all day and into the night, walking and drinking and smoking, like some useless, abused mutt. And then, because you still can't get rid of the anger at being disrespected but you can't stand up to Alicia, you go looking for someone you can control. Because Delishus looks ten and reminds you of all those little girls you peep when they don't know you're lurking outside their bedroom windows.”

“I don't do that-”

“Your niece Sarah says you do.”

Ramone's mouth dropped open.

Moe smiled. “It's your day for surprises, my friend. Just like you were surprised to find Officer Kennedy right there when Delishus's head was where it shouldn't.”

“Aw… no.” Moan of despair, not denial.

Placing both hands on Wohr's shoulders, Moe exerted pressure. “We know everything. And you still don't have the smarts to stop playing with us in order to better your situation.”

Wohr lowered his chin to his chest. Sniffled.

Moe gave an eye-signal to Petra.

She said, “I, for one, am feeling sorry for you, Ramone, because you're not a violent person. But who I'm really feeling sorry for is Alicia. Poor girl was getting smart, all she wanted to do was stop selling her body. How long has she been on you to make some serious dough from those murdering bastards?”

Head shake.

“How long, Ramone?” she said, gently. “Probably right from the beginning, right? Because Alicia saw an easy big payoff-I mean, we're talking multiple murder, rich folk, kind of a no-brainer.”

“Too scary,” muttered Wohr.

“To pressure the rich folk?”

Nod.

“Unfortunately, Alicia didn't see it that way,” said Petra. “Maybe because you were still selling her to the people who did those murders.”

“Alicia doesn't get it,” said Wohr.

Present tense dictated the next move.

Moe released Wohr's shoulders from his grip, drew two Polaroids out of a blazer pocket.

Alicia Eiger's multi-stabbed back, and a full-frontal close-up of her gray, lifeless face.

“Ramone, Alicia is never going to get anything anymore.”

Wohr stared. Began shaking violently. “Oh, Jesus God.” Lurching forward, he retched. Both detectives scooted back. Nothing but stink emerged from his gaping mouth. “Oh, Jesus, oh Jesus God Jesus.”

Feeling masterfully cruel-enjoying the feeling-Moe said, “Oh, yeah, four murders. Add a dead girlfriend to the scorecard. And you set her up.”

Wohr's legs shot back, hit the legs of his chair. “No way, no, no, no-”

Moe and Petra moved back in. Inches away, totally in the mope's face. Moe held the Polaroids in one hand, used the other to take hold of Wohr's jaw and rotate Wohr back toward the images.

Expecting Wohr to shut his eyes. But Wohr punished himself and looked.

Some capacity for guilt?

Moe said, “Hitting her back wouldn't have been nice, but it sure would've beat making that call, Ramone.”

Wohr murmured unintelligibly. Moe released the pressure on the guy's jaws. Wohr rubbed his mandible. “You didn't have to hurt me.”

“You don't need me to get hurt, Ramone. You're hurting yourself just fine. Maybe, like Detective Connor said, you're not a bad person, but you sure are a weak person. Always taking the easy way out. But funny thing, that always seems to put you in a hard place, doesn't it?”

Slow nod.

“We've got your throwaway cell, Ramone. We know about the call you made to set up Alicia.”

Hoping hoping hoping.

Wohr licked his lips. Blinked hard.

Victory!

“That's accessory to Murder One, Ramone. Now we're giving you the chance to help yourself, friend. But you've just got to stop lying-to yourself. We already know the truth.”

Wohr groaned. Knuckled an eye.

“Maybe you never intended to get Alicia killed, maybe you just thought they'd scare her. But that's not how a jury's going to think.”

“She hit me,” said Wohr. “Again. I got tired of it.”

“There you go,” said Petra. “Mitigating circumstances.” More like motive and evidence of premeditation. “If we had a history of domestic violence calls to your crib, that might help you. Without that, who's going to believe a big strong man was afraid of a small woman?”

Wohr said, “You don't know Alicia. She's fierce.”

“Was fierce,” said Moe, waving the Polaroids. “Even if we believe you, who cares? We're not who you're going to have to convince.”

Wohr didn't answer.

Moe checked his watch. Stood and did a Milo stretch. In addition to looking relaxed, it felt good after all those hours sitting.

Petra got up, too.

Moe's yawn was genuine. He pocketed the photos. “We gave you a chance to better your situation and once again, you made the wrong choice. Hope you enjoy incarceration, Ramone, because that's all you've got ahead of you.”

Petra opened the door, called for a jailer.

Raymond Wohr said, “Gimme a pen and paper. I'll write you a different book.”

When the detectives agreed, the fool started crying.