“Well, ever since that night you and I went out for beers after the Atkins murder, I’ve been thinking that the same guy also did Yancy and Jenkins,” he said. “Same MO-weapon, bloodbath, and cherry on top, the killer cleans up in the apartment after bloodlust.”
“You think our perp is the guy?” Marks said doubtfully.
“I think there’s a good chance,” Graziani said. “I’d like to ask him a few questions before he’s arraigned and gets a lawyer. Can we put the arraignment off until late this afternoon?”
“Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem,” Marks said.
“Do you know if a quickie indictment is in the offing?” Graziani asked.
“Not sure,” Marks replied. “They had some assistant DA take a statement from him last night after Brock got him to confess. They have our reports; now it’s up to them.”
“Then I should do this quick,” Graziani said.
The sergeant thought about it. “You know, I should probably call homicide at the Two-Six. It’s their case.”
Graziani felt his chance slipping away. “C’mon, buddy,” he said. “I worked for the task force. I know the details of the case, stuff only the killer would know. You call the Two-Six and they’ll take over the case. They’re Manhattan and this is a double homicide. The Four-Eight probably won’t even get credit for Atkins, not until they’re done with him. The brass here won’t be happy with that either.”
Marks considered Graziani for a minute. He didn’t believe that his old partner gave a lick about the Forty- eighth getting credit, but what he said was true. NYPD worked all five of the boroughs, but everybody knew that Manhattan got preference and everybody else was a red-haired stepchild.
“Okay,” he said. “But I’m calling Brock into this with you. It’s his guy. If you can make the case for Yancy and Jenkins, you’ll both get credit for it.”
Graziani laughed. “Hey, no problem. Not trying to hog the glory.”
11
Felix sat dejected and alone wondering what he could say that would convince the police to let him go home. He glanced around. At least there wasn’t a mirror in the room now that he was in the jail instead of the police station-just four stark walls. But there was still a camera mounted high in one corner aimed at the table where he’d been told to sit and wait.
When the door to the room swung open, he hoped to see his mother. She would probably scold him, but she’d let him know that it would be okay. Then they’d go home and she’d fix him something good to eat. He’d have even welcomed the glowering face of his dad, knowing he would receive a beating later, if they’d just let him leave.
After he took the detectives out to “find the knife,” he thought they’d let him go. When he couldn’t find it he figured they’d realize that he wasn’t the man who attacked those women. It would be just like when he’d gotten in trouble for admitting to things he didn’t do. But this time, they told him he was under arrest for murder.
Of course there was no knife, never had been. He’d just wanted out of that room, and the idea had come to him. He felt bad that he lied to the detectives. But once they were in the car-the detectives in front and he in the backseat wearing handcuffs-he thought he’d better continue to play along or they’d get mad.
Detective McCullough drove while Detective Brock sat in the passenger seat; they went to an alley near his home. They got out of the car and he made a show of looking under a Dumpster for the knife. The detectives had also got down on their hands and knees to help look.
“You sure this is where you left it, Felix?” Brock had asked when nothing was found. “Maybe this is the wrong alley? Or you left it somewhere else?”
Felix thought about it and agreed. He said that maybe he’d left it in Mullayly Park. But when it didn’t turn up there, and the detectives were obviously getting angry, he claimed he couldn’t remember where he put it. He hoped that they’d then let him go. But that’s when they told him he was under arrest for murdering Dolores Atkins and put him in jail.
Of course, he had no idea who the woman was-though he now had everything he’d been told about her memorized. His ability to remember things was his “gift from God,” his mother said, but now he wasn’t so sure. He’d have rather not remembered some of the things they accused him of doing.
They reminded him that he could have a lawyer and that he wouldn’t have to pay for one. But he knew when someone didn’t want him to do or say something-and although the detective had said he could have a lawyer, it was clear that Brock really didn’t want him to have a lawyer. So he said no. And when the detective asked if he was still willing to talk to him, he politely agreed.
So they talked for a while longer before Brock said he needed to go to the jail. “Then they’ll take you to court and probably appoint an attorney to represent you.”
Although Brock had not let him go and had yelled at him some, Felix thought he was a nice man. When the detective took him over to the jail, he seemed like he even felt sorry for Felix, or like he had more questions but didn’t know how to ask them.
As the detective turned to go, Felix asked if he would be allowed to go home in the morning. The detective furrowed his brow and looked at him for a long time without speaking. But then he shook his head. “I don’t think so, Felix.”
The horrible fact that he wouldn’t get to go home in the morning either rattled around in Felix’s head all night long as he lay terrified on his cell bunk. Jail was nothing like he’d seen on television. Here men screamed and yelled and cried and prayed all night long. There were sounds of struggle and sounds of sorrow.
Although alone in his cell, Felix had not been able to block out the sounds and had not slept. He’d gone to breakfast and then was allowed to return to his cell alone again, where he wondered what he could say to get himself out of trouble. Then he went to lunch, which actually wasn’t bad, though a large man who sat down across the table kept making kissing gestures at him until the guard walked over. “You have visitors,” the officer said as he escorted him to the interview room.
By “visitors,” Felix hoped the guard meant his mother, so he was disappointed, though he tried not to show it, when Brock walked into the room accompanied by another man, who was younger and looked more like the detectives he saw on the television.
“Good morning, Felix,” Brock said. “This is Detective Joey Graziani. He’d like to ask you a few questions, is that all right?”
Felix gave a worried smile. “Okay.”
The new detective swung a chair around so that he could sit in it backward as he leaned toward Felix over the table. “Thank you,” he said. He was smiling, but the way he looked at him reminded Felix of how a big alley cat looked at a rat just before he pounced. “But before I ask you my questions, I want to make sure that you understand your rights.”
“I do,” Felix said agreeably. “Detective Brock told me about them already. ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?’ That’s what you meant?”
Graziani glanced at Brock, who was looking at Felix with a frown, then shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much word for word. So?”
“So… what?” Felix asked, confused.
“So do you want an attorney present?”
Felix felt the detective tense when he asked the question.
“No?” he asked.
The detective smiled. Felix did, too. He’d guessed right.
“And you’re willing to talk to me, is that correct?”
It almost wasn’t even a question. “Sure,” Felix answered. “I just want to go home. My parents will wonder where I am.”
“Your parents have been told,” Brock said, not unkindly.
