When One Man Dies. Dave White

ushered me into the back of the car. Both cops went to take a closer look at the carpet. One of them looked like he was about to be sick. I peered harder and could see the face of a woman, someone I’d never seen before.

      ***

      I must have sat in the cop car for nearly an hour, watching an ambulance pull up, unmarked cop cars, photographers, an ME, and every other initial you could think of. Two detectives came over, one man, one woman, eyed me up. With the window closed, I couldn’t hear what they said when they turned to the two cops who had first happened on the scene. All I knew was the cops got into the car and pulled out on the street.

      “What’s going on?” I asked.

      “The detectives want to talk to you, but they want to do it at the station,” one of the uniforms said.

      “Am I under arrest?”

      “Not that I’m aware.”

      “Do I have a choice about this?” The cruiser stopped at a red light.

      I nodded at the unspoken answer. In the back of the car, sitting at the red light, I lawyered up and didn’t say another word until I saw him.

      ***

      Lester Russell showed up two hours later in a wrinkled shirt and tie. He was still rubbing sleep out of his eyes with his left hand, and held a cup of coffee with the other. His briefcase rested on the table I was sitting behind. There was another chair, empty, next to the table.

      “Have you charged my client?”

      Russell was talking to the two detectives I’d seen on the scene earlier in the evening. I’d since learned the woman was named Daniels and the male, Blanchett. They stood across from me looking at Russell.

      “No,” Daniels said. “We just thought it’d be easier to get some answers out of him down here rather than out on the street.”

      “According to my client, you didn’t even give him the option.”

      Blanchett shrugged. “He was already cuffed. We figured, what the hell?”

      He smiled, tried to play it off as a joke, but Russell jumped all over it.

      “We can sue. That’s all sorts of illegal.”

      “Listen, Mr. Russell—” Daniels said, giving Blanchett the evil eye. “Don’t ‘Listen’ me, Detective. I’m taking my client out of here.”

      Blanchett swore. He was probably in his midthirties, but the bags under his brown eyes aged him. His blonde hair was uncombed and hung over his forehead, with a cowlick in the back, as if he’d spent all day running his hands through it. He wore black pants and a white shirt. He opened his collar and loosened a red tie, which was frayed around the end.

      Daniels said, “If you take him out of here now, it’s just going to make us more suspicious. We can arrest him. Illegal concealed weapons charge. That won’t go over too well. We just want to ask him a few questions, get some answers, and we’ll overlook the gun. We understand you’re a private investigator, Mr. Donne?”

      Looking at me now, I saw she had black hair pulled back into a bun, and wore a crisp gray suit with pants. Her skin was dark, like caramel, and her eyes matched. High cheekbones, thin lips, she was more a model than a cop. It surprised me. Most cops wear the job on their face, in their clothes, in the way they hold themselves. She was professional.

      Daniels waited for me to speak. I didn’t say a word.

      “Not only can we give you a hard time about the gun, we can take away your license.”

      She kept looking at me. Blanchett rubbed his face. I stared at his frayed tie. Like he didn’t take care of his clothes. Like he had nothing else, no time to buy clothes, no time for anything but the job.

      “Let me consult my lawyer for a minute.” Daniels nodded.

      “In private?”

      Daniels sighed. Blanchett swore. Again.

      “Can’t believe this, Donne. You’re being stupid,” he said. “Ten minutes.”

      Daniels nodded toward the door, and Blanchett followed her out of the room. He slammed the door behind him. Russell looked at his watch.

      There was only silence in the room as Russell waited for me to speak. When I pushed my chair back, the squeak off the tiles echoed from the ceiling.

      “I want to talk to them,” I said.

      “Not a good idea,” Russell said, pulling out the other seat and sitting.

      “Why not? They have my camera, all they have to do is develop the film and they’ll see who did it. They’ll know it’s not me. It’s going to be suspicious if I don’t tell them what’s on it.”

      “They might find a way to use it against you.”

      “Why?”

      “Because they’re cops. That’s what they do. What if this guy—this Rex guy—runs? If they can’t find him, these guys will turn back to you. I guarantee Daniels or Blanchett is on the phone with the New Brunswick Police Department right now getting background on you. You know the New Brunswick cops aren’t saying good things.”

      “More reason for me to be honest. If I’m up-front with them, they can stop wasting their time on me and find Hanover.”

      Russell leaned back in his chair. Letting his client talk to the police probably went against everything he stood for. “Suit yourself,” he said. He looked at his watch again. “They’ll be back in three minutes.”

      “Okay.”

      Russell took his briefcase off the desk, put it on the floor next to his chair. “That thing with your friend. The one who got hit by the car.”

      “Gerry. Yeah.”

      “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t have a chance to say so on the phone.”

      “Thanks.” I told him about Martin.

      Russell nodded. “They put him on that case, huh? Jesus.”

      “No kidding.”

      “Stay out of it.” Russell opened his briefcase, closed it again, as if his hands needed to be doing something. “If Martin’s involved, stay out of the whole damn thing.”

      I didn’t say anything. If Russell didn’t know any more about it than I had already told him, and I got myself into trouble, he could plan a defense better. Not that I was planning on getting into trouble. One night in an interrogation room was plenty for me.

      Russell could tell my answer anyway. “You play him wrong, he’ll put you away. My professional suggestion is let the police do their job.”

      I didn’t get a chance to respond. The door opened, Blanchett and Daniels came through. Blanchett had now taken his tie off, and his sleeves were rolled up. The missing tie said a lot about him. With all the swearing, the frustration he let show through, I respected him more than Daniels. He cared about the job.

      Daniels’s suit was neatly pressed, nothing out of place. She cared more about appearances, to me. She was great to look at, long legs, great hips, breasts pushing against her shirt and the jacket, but there was something about her. She put up a professional front; something came between her and me. Blanchett, the frayed tie, the out-of-place hair, he put it all in the job. All in the solution. He let it get to him; Daniels didn’t.

      They looked at me expectantly. “I want to talk,” I said.

      “You’re going to confess?” Blanchett asked.

      “I’m going to tell you who did it and what’s on my camera.”

      Daniels looked at Blanchett. He looked like he wanted to high-five her.

      “Are you cold, Mr. Donne? I am. Mind if