'Probably get a commendation out of it, too.'
The flush deepened. I wondered how old he was. Say twenty-two at the outside. I thought about his report and decided he'd make detective third in a year or so.
I said, 'I read your report. There was a lot of detail, but there were some things that you didn't have room for. When you got to the scene, Vanderpoel was standing about two doors from the building where the murder took place. Now what was he doing exactly? Dancing around? Running?'
'More or less standing in one place. But moving around wildly. Like he had a lot of energy he had to work off. Like when you drink too much coffee and your hands get shaky, but his whole body was like that.'
'You said his clothing was disarrayed. How?'
'His shirttail was out of his pants. His belt was fastened, but his pants were unbuttoned and unzipped and his thing was hanging out.'
'His penis?'
'Right, his penis.'
'Was he exposing himself deliberately?'
'Well, it was hanging right out. He must of known about it.'
'But he wasn't handling himself or thrusting out with his hips or anything like that?'
'No.'
'Did he have an erection?'
'I didn't notice.'
'You saw his cock and didn't notice if he had a hard-on or not?'
He flushed again. 'He didn't have one.'
The waiter brought my drink. I picked it up and looked into the glass. I said,
'You put down that he was uttering obscenities.'
'Shouting them. I heard him shouting before I even turned the corner.'
'What was he saying?'
'You know.'
He embarrassed easy, this one. I kept myself from snapping at him. 'The words he used,' I said.
'I don't like to use them.'
'Force yourself.'
He asked if it was important, and I said it might be. He leaned forward and pitched his voice low.
'Motherfucker,' he said.
'He just kept yelling motherfucker?'
'Not exactly.'
'I want the words he used.'
'Yeah, okay. What he said was, he kept yelling, I'm a motherfucker, I'm a motherfucker, I fucked my mother.' He kept shouting this over and over.'
'He said he was a motherfucker and he fucked his mother.'
'Right, that's what he said.'
'What did you think?'
'I thought he was crazy.'
'Did you think he killed someone?'
'Oh. No, the first thing I thought was he was hurt. He had blood all over him.'
'His hands?'
'Everywhere. His hands, his shirt, his pants, his face, he was all covered with blood. I thought he was cut, but then I saw he was all right and the blood must of come from somebody else.'
'How could you tell?'
'I just knew. He was all right, it wasn't his blood, so it was somebody else's.' He hoisted his glass and drained it. I motioned for the waiter and ordered another beer for Pankow and a cup of coffee for myself. We sat there looking at the table until the waiter brought the order. Pankow was remembering things he'd spent the past few days trying to forget, and he wasn't enjoying it much.
I said, 'So you expected to find a body in the apartment.'
'I knew I would, yeah.'
'Who did you think it would be?'
'Hell, I thought it would be his mother. From what he was saying, motherfucker, I fucked my mother, I thought he went nuts or something and killed his mother. I even thought that's who it was when I went in there, you know,
