The man is talking to him, and he's trying to listen. The man has a mustache. He watches the mustache move. He's talking about Louis, something about Louis. Asking what he does in the shop.
He tells the policeman what he does in the shop, how he copies the way Louis puts the flowers together in the water. He shows him with his hands. Yes, he likes doing that. He doesn't look at the man when he says it.
He doesn't say he hates riding in the van when Tito drives. It makes him remember things he doesn't want to remember, but he doesn't say anything about the van. He's so scared of the policeman he can feel his eyes rolling around in his head.
He knows people here are afraid of him. They look at him and move away on the street. In the subway they move away. He knows the policeman has a gun. He looks up for a second and sees the man's lips moving. He doesn't know what the man is asking him. He's trying to answer the man's question.
Now the man asks him if he has a gun.
He shakes his head, not anymore. He does know someone shot the girl. But he didn't do it. He doesn't hurt people. He sweats, worrying that the man might think he hurt people. He doesn't remember ever shoodng anyone or doing anything bad. He sees the pictures in his head, the blood pouring out of screaming people, and the bloody blankets that covered them. But he's sure he was one of the good ones. He tells himself this every day. He was one of the good ones.
He doesn't know which militia killed the girl. He doesn't know how it works here. His voice starts making no- talk sounds. He's talking no-talk, cowering in front of the man, almost on his knees. Not saying that they came into a quiet place where there were fields and a few huts. They put the first men they saw on a truck, took them away. Later they came back for the women and children.
They didn't have a system, no list of names. It didn't matter who was who. It was always the same. Whatever side they were on, rebels or army, the enemy was the people in the huts. The enemy was the people in the fields, in the schools, whoever they wanted it to be. Wherever they went, wherever they were, anyone they didn't like the look of was the enemy. Anyone who didn't give them food. Anyone who talked back or resisted. They took those people away, or they killed them right there.
It always happened fast, like a storm coming up on a sunny day. No warning, no dme to hide. They came in a truck or many trucks, waving guns in the air so everybody ran inside. The boys were in the fields, at school, with their fathers. Sometimes just by themselves away from their mothers. When the men in the trucks came, the girls stayed with their mothers. The boys ran away. That's what happened with him. His father and uncle and two of his cousins were killed. He saw their bodies in the field behind the house and ran away before the soldiers could find him. When the soldiers were gone, people came out of their huts to cry and bury their dead. But the trucks came back. In daylight, at night, didn't make a difference. When they came back they killed the little girls, the babies first; then they raped the bigger girls and the women. Sometimes they didn't rape them, just killed them.
The first time he came back to his mother. After the second time, he ran away and didn't come back. He was a little boy. He didn't know who shot his father, his uncle, cousins in the field. He didn't know who cut off his sisters' arms with a machete and sliced the baby out of his mother's big belly. He ran away and lived in the forest with other boys he called his brothers, places where no one came. They were sick and many boys died. They were frightened and naked and starving. When men in the trucks found them and gave them food and guns, they became killers, too.
All this fills his head, and his mouth is talking no-talk. He's peed in Iris pants. The policeman has strapped his wrists behind him. He sees the cuts on his arms and asks about the cuts. Then he asks more questions about his bloody clothes. His ID card. Where is it?
'What's your real name? Where are you from? Do you have a visa, a green card? Where's your passport?' The policeman asks him more questions.
He's so scared his eyes roll up in his head. He's forgotten what name is in his papers, what he's supposed to say.
'Brother,' he says. His name is Brother. He knows he's going to be executed right here in this chair. He's big and he's strong and he knows how to fight.
He strikes out at the policeman with his boots, kicking him in the head so hard the man falls over. The straps holding his arms break apart, freeing him to fight for his life. The other policeman runs over to help. The first one struggles to get up. Now they're all fighting. But he's big. He's the biggest, and he doesn't want to die in this basement.
Twenty-seven
A
pril and Inspector Bellaqua and her driver were waiting for Wendy outside her building in the inspector's unmarked four-by-four when she got home. Mike and his partner were off the radar screen somewhere in Brooklyn when Wendy strode up the block at nine-oh-five. The two cops slowly got out of the car. The driver stayed put.
'Oh, Sergeant Woo.' Wendy flashed April an uneasy smile from her higher vantage point of natural height plus spike heels.
'You know Inspector Bellaqua,' April said.
'Hello,' she said, looking down on her, too. 'What can I do for you?'
'We'd like to come inside and ask you a few questions,' Poppy told her.
Wendy hesitated, glanced in both directions, then nodded. 'Okay, I understand. Come inside, of course. Maybe you'd like a drink.'
Maybe not. It looked like she'd already had a few. The three women went up in the elevator without exchanging another word. When they got to Wendy's floor, she unlocked her apartment and switched on the light. The place was neat and didn't look as if it had been gone over a few hours ago. If Wendy had any sense that her apartment had been searched while she was out, she didn't show it. She dropped her purse and briefcase on her dining/conference table, then moved purposefully across the living room to the window.
Bellaqua didn't react, but April's heart raced. Several years ago during an arrest, a female homicide suspect like this one—much larger than herself—had jumped out of a window and tried to pull April out with her. She'd hung on as long as she could before the woman finally twisted out of her grasp and fell four stories. The resulting broken legs did not prevent a jury from convicting her of the two stabbing murders she'd committed.
'Hold it right there,' April barked.
Wendy stopped and raised her hands. 'Okay, no problem. Don't get jumpy on me, ladies.'
Bellaqua moved forward and grabbed the gauzy curtains. Nothing but an air conditioner behind them.
'Okay if I turn it on?' Wendy asked.
'Okay.' April relaxed, but only a little.
'What's your problem?' The sheers billowed out in icy air and Wendy gave them a disgusted look as the room cooled. Then she sat on her beige sofa, crossing her excellent legs. 'Your reaction is upsetting me.'
Bellaqua's eyes swept the living room as if the search there might have missed something, nodding at April to take the lead. April pulled out her Rosario and read Wendy's words from her notes.
'The key to your business is planning. You orchestrate everything from beginning to end,' she said.
'It's my living. I'm good at it.' Wendy swung one long leg over the other and bobbed her foot. 'I've already told both you and Sergeant Hollis everything I know. I gave him my statement.'
'Well, you'd better start over, Miss Lotte,' April told her breezily. 'You left out a few things.'
'Look, I answered all your questions. You can call me Wendy. Everyone else does,' Wendy said calmly. She checked her manicure, as if unconcerned about what was coming.
'Wendy, I want to level with you. Someone with planning ability, expertise with a rifle, knowledge of the timing of the event, and the ability to move around without suspicion planned and carried out this shooting.'
Wendy nodded seriously. 'I'm aware of that. I've been thinking about it, too.' She glanced at the inspector, who'd taken a call on her cell phone and wandered off into Wendy's office.
'And what are your thoughts on the matter?' April went on.
'I'm not sure. I don't know what to think.'
'Do you think there's a religious basis for the killing?'
'Maybe. I don't want to go into it though.' Wendy shook her foot, studied her nails.
'We know about your past. We know you can shoot,' April said. 'We know you can plan. We know you were there. Your story about where you were at the time of the shooting hasn't been verified. All we're missing on your case is the gun.'
