Sadie When She Died полностью

Back at the ranch, they weren’t shooting a movie. They were standing in an informal triangle around Gerald Fletcher, and raising their eyebrows at the answers he gave them. The three points of the triangle were Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes and Detectives Meyer and Carella. Fletcher sat in a chair with his arms crossed over his chest. He was still wearing homburg, muffler, overcoat, and gloves, as if he expected to be called outdoors at any moment and wanted to be fully prepared for the inclement weather. The interrogation was being conducted in a windowless cubicle euphemistically labeled on its frosted glass door INTERROGATION ROOM . Opulently furnished in Institutional Wood, circa 1919, the room sported a long table, two straight-backed chairs, and a framed mirror. The mirror hung on a wall opposite the table. It was (heh-heh) a one-way mirror, which meant that on this side you saw your own reflection when you looked into the glass, but if you were standing on the other side, you could look into the room and observe all sorts of criminal behavior while remaining unseen yourself; devious are the ways of law enforcers the world over. Devious, too, are the ways of criminals; there was not a single criminal in the entire city who did not recognize a one-way mirror the minute he laid eyes upon it. Quite often, in fact, criminals with a comic flair had been known to approach the mirror, place a thumb to the nose, and waggle the fingers of the hand as a gesture of esteem and affection to the eavesdropping cops on the other side of the glass. In such ways were mutual respect and admiration built between the men who broke the law and the men who tried to uphold it. Crime does not pay—but it doesn’t hurt to have a few laughs along the way, as Euripides once remarked.

The cops standing in their loose triangle around Gerald Fletcher were amazed but not too terribly amused by his honesty; or, to be more exact, his downright brutal frankness. It was one thing to discuss the death of one’s spouse without frills or furbelows; it was quite another to court lifelong imprisonment in a state penitentary. Gerald Fletcher seemed to be doing precisely that.

“I hated her guts,” he said, and Meyer raised his eyebrows and glanced at Byrnes, who in turn raised his eyebrows and glanced at Carella, who was facing the one-way mirror and had the opportunity of witnessing his own reflection raising its eyebrows.

“Mr. Fletcher,” Byrnes said, “I know you understand your rights, as we explained them to you . . .”

“I understood them long before you explained them,” Fletcher said.

“And I know you’ve chosen to answer our questions without an attorney present . . .”

“I am an attorney.”

“What I meant . . .”

“I know what you meant. Yes, I’m willing to answer any and all questions without counsel.”

“I still feel I must warn you that a woman has been murdered . . .”

“Yes, my dear, wonderful wife,” Fletcher said sarcastically.

“Which is a serious crime . . .”

“Which, among felonies, may very well be the choicest of the lot,” Fletcher said.

“Yes,” Byrnes said. He was not an articulate man, but he felt somewhat tongue-tied in Fletcher’s presence. Bullet-headed, hair turning from iron-gray to ice-white (slight bald spot beginning to show at the back), blue-eyed, built like a compact linebacker for the Minnesota Vikings, Byrnes straightened the knot in his tie, cleared his throat, and looked to his colleagues for support. Both Meyer and Carella were watching their shoelaces.

“Well, look,” Byrnes said, “if you understand what you’re doing, go right ahead. We warned you.”

“Indeed you have warned me. Repeatedly. I can’t imagine why,” Fletcher said, “since I don’t feel myself to be in any particular danger. My wife is dead, someone killed the bitch. But it was not me.”

“Well, it’s nice to have your assurance of that, Mr. Fletcher, but your assurance alone doesn’t necessarily still our doubts,” Carella said, hearing the words and wondering where the hell they were coming from. He was, he realized, trying to impress Fletcher, trying to ward off the man’s obvious condescension by courting his acceptance. Look at me, he was pleading, listen to me. I’m not just a dumb bull, I’m a man of sensitivity and intelligence, able to understand your vocabulary, your sarcasm, and even your vituperative wit. Half-sitting upon, half-leaning against the scarred wooden table, a tall athletic-looking man with straight brown hair, brown eyes curiously slanted downwards, Carella folded his arms across his chest in unconscious imitation of Fletcher. The moment he realized what he was doing, he uncrossed his arms at once, and stared intently at Fletcher, waiting for an answer. Fletcher stared intently back.

“Well?” Carella said.

“Well what, Detective Carella?”

“Well, what do you have to say?”

“About what?”

“How do we know it wasn’t you who stabbed her?”