“Are you aware of anybody with a strong dislike for Freeman Bishop?”
“No.” Again I cannot help elaborating: “He was not the sort of man who generated, uh, strong emotions.”
“No enemies of whom you are aware?”
“No.”
“Have you had any recent conversations with Freeman Bishop?”
“Not since the funeral, no.”
“Prior to the murder, but after the funeral, have you had any conversations with any person about Freeman Bishop?”
I hesitate. What is she driving at? What does she think happened? But hesitation in an interrogation is like a red flag to a bull. Sergeant Ames lifts her intense gaze from the manila folder and settles her eyes on me. She does not repeat the question. She waits, terrifying in her patience. As though expecting me to confess. To a conversation? To something more? Does she think that I… surely she doesn’t think…
You’re being ridiculous.
“Not that I can recall,” I say at last.
She gazes at me a moment longer, letting me know that she recognizes the hedge, then looks down at her notes again.
“Have you recently noticed any peculiar behavior by Freeman Bishop?”
“I didn’t know him that well.”
She glances up. “I thought you saw him last week, at your father’s funeral.”
“Well, yes…”
“And did you notice any peculiar behavior?”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
“He seemed the same as always?”
“I guess so.” I am puzzled by her questions now, not scared.
“Did anybody else recently tell you about any peculiar behavior by Freeman Bishop?”
“No.”
“Did anybody tell you anything that could have a bearing on this murder?”
“Don’t hurry. Think hard. Go back a couple of weeks if you have to. Months.”
“The answer is still no, Sergeant. No.”
“You said you think there is a connection between your father’s death and the murder of Freeman Bishop.”
“I… we wondered, yes.”
“Did your father ever talk about Freeman Bishop?”
This one puzzles me again. “I guess. Sure, lots of times.”
“Recently?” All at once her voice grows gentle. “Go back, say, six months from your father’s death?”
“No. Not that I remember.”
“A year. Go back a year.”
“Maybe. I don’t recall.”
“Was it your father’s wish that Freeman Bishop perform his funeral?”
Mariah and I exchange a glance. Something is up. “I don’t think he ever talked about his funeral,” I say, once it becomes clear that Mariah is not going to speak. “Not to me.”
Sergeant Ames turns her attention to the folder once more. I wonder what she could be reading in it. I wonder what she did when she learned that we were coming to see her, where she went for information, what information she found. I wonder where these questions are coming from. I am sorely tempted to violate the rules every lawyer lives by… and just ask.
Instead, I ask something else.
“Do you have any leads?”
“Mr. Garland, you have to understand the way this kind of thing works. The police usually are the ones who ask the questions.”
Pushing my buttons: nothing galls me as much as being patronized.
“Look, Sergeant, I’m sorry. But, you know, this is the man who just did my father’s funeral. Nine years ago he performed my wedding. Now, maybe you can see why I would be a little bit upset.”
“I do understand why you are upset,” Sergeant Ames says sternly, hardly bothering to glance up from her notes. “But I also have a murder to investigate, and as long as you have used your connections to barge in here on a very busy day, I expect you to try to help if you can. Because he did your father’s funeral. Because he did your wedding.”
Mariah tries to fix everything: “How can we be of assistance, Sergeant Ames?”
“Did you hear the questions I asked your brother?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Something registers in the sergeant’s face: why didn’t I think to say ma’am? Because she is white and I am black? Is rudeness the legacy of oppression? Downward, downward, civilization spirals, and all we Americans seem able to do about it is quarrel over the blame.
“Do you have any different answers to offer?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, ma’am.” My sister has never sounded so contrite in her life. The tactic seems to have some effect.
“I want you to look at these,” the detective says, her voice softer. She slides two glossy black-and-white photographs from her folder. “These are, mmm, the least horrible.”
Mariah glances down and then looks away; but I do not want to lose face before the formidable B. T. Ames, so I force myself to stare, and force my protesting mind to process what it is seeing.
To look at the photographs is to realize immediately that whoever tortured Father Bishop did it, at least in part, for the fun of it. One picture is a close-up of a hand. If not for all the blood, you might not notice on first glance that three fingernails are missing. The second shot appears to show the meaty part of Freeman Bishop’s thigh. Bright, almost bubbly circles are burned into his skin. Puckers of pain, like craters on the moon. I count them-five, no, six-and this is just one small area of his body. I try to imagine what kind of person could do this to another. And keep on doing it, because this took a while. And where somebody could do it, to ensure that nobody would hear his screams. I doubt that a gag over his mouth would have been enough.
“It’s different when you see it, isn’t it?” the detective asks.
“Do you-did you-” I am stuttering. This can’t be what Jack Ziegler was talking about. It just can’t. I start over. “Do you have any idea why somebody would do something like this?”
Sergeant Ames answers my question with one of her own. “Do you?” Her eyes are on me once more, watching as I examine the photographs. I sense an uneasy stirring in Mariah next to me, and I am not sure why.
“Do I what?”
“Do you have any idea why somebody might have done this?”
“Of course not!”
My protests do not interest Sergeant Ames. “Do you have any reason to think that Father Bishop had any information that somebody else would want?”
“I don’t know what you mean…”
“Well, he was tortured.” The detective gestures at the photographs in what seems to be exasperation. “Usually, that means somebody wants information.”
“Unless the torturing was just for show,” Mariah interjects quietly.
Sergeant Ames turns toward my sister, her eyes alight with cautious re-evaluation-not of the case, but of Mariah.
“Or the work of a psychopath,” I put in unwisely, not wanting to be left out if the detective is now ready to toss respect around.
“Right,” says Sergeant Ames, her words made all the more scathing by the monotone in which they are delivered. “If it turns out that somebody cut out his liver and ate it with fava beans, I’ll give you a call.”
