do that without asking questions about the past.”
“Not every question deserves an answer.”
“I think tomorrow, when Inspector Hawkin and I talk with you, we will ask some questions that not only deserve an answer but demand it. We are talking about a human life, David. Even if he wasn’t a very pleasant person, which I have heard he wasn’t, the questions deserve an answer.”
“Murder, though it have no tongue, will speak with most miraculous organ.”
“You knew it was murder from the first time I laid eyes on you, didn’t you, David? How was that? No, no, don’t answer that, not tonight,” she said quickly, although there was no sign that he was about to respond, not even a flash of fear at being trapped into an admission. She wasn’t about to lay the groundwork for his defense lawyer to claim she had badgered him into giving inadmissible evidence.
That reminded her: “Are you going to want a lawyer present while you are being questioned, David? We will provide you with one if you want.”
He had to search his memory for a moment, but eventually he came up with an answer, spoken with a small conspiratorial smile that was nearly a wink of the eye. “There are no lawyers among them, for they consider them a sort of people whose profession it is to disguise matters.”
“I guess that’s a no. Okay. Let us know if you change your mind.” She stood up, and his eyes followed her, though his head had not moved from the wall during their conversation. “I will see you tomorrow, then. I hope you get some sleep tonight.” This last was intended merely as a wry comment and unspoken apology for the racket of the place, but it served only to draw the man’s attention to his surroundings, and for the first time he looked about him. His gaze traveled over the tired walls, the loud, bored policeman, the drunk and belligerent and bloody prisoners, and he shuddered,- the whole length of him gave way to a deep shiver of revulsion, and then he shut his eyes and seemed to withdraw. Kate stood up and caught the eye of the guard to nod her thanks and signal that she had finished with this prisoner, but before she could move away, she heard Sawyer’s voice, speaking quietly, as if to himself, but very firmly.
“Go and sit in thy cell,” he said, “and thy cell shall teach thee all things.”
Kate gaped at him, but his eyes remained shut, so in the end she threw up her hands and took herself home to her own unquiet bed.
¦
TWENTY
¦
The interrogation, if it could be called that, began the next morning, the last Friday in February. Of the three of them gathered in the stuffy room, Al Hawkin was the only one who looked as if he had slept, and even he came shambling down the corridor like an irritable bear. He did not like having his hand forced, he did not like arresting someone with less than an airtight case, and most of all he did not like jousting on the way in with reporters who treated the whole thing as something of a joke.
“Christ, Martinelli, were you in such a hurry to see him that you couldn’t have arranged for the sheriffs to have car trouble or something? We’ve only found two of his hidey-holes, don’t even have the warrants for them yet, and I’m supposed to conduct an interrogation on the strength of his being in the neighborhood at the time the victim was bashed? And to put the frosting on the whole absurd thing, the victim’s still a John Doe! Give me strength,” he prayed to the room in general, and walked over to fight with the coffee machine.
“What was I to do?” she demanded. “He would have been in Florida by next week, or Mexico City.”
“Of course we had to have him brought in. Just maybe not quite so fast.”
Stung by the unreasonableness of Hawkin’s demands, Kate stalked off to call for the transport of Erasmus from cell to interrogation room.
So the three of them came together for the second time, Kate sulky and sleepless, Sawyer looking every one of his seventy-two years, and Hawkin so perversely cheerful, he seemed to be baring his teeth.
This was to be an interrogation, unlike the earlier noncommittal interview. An interview might be considered the polite turning of memory’s pages. Today the purpose was to rifle the pages down to the spine, to shake the book sharply and see what might drift to the floor. Politely, of course, and well within the legal limits—the tape recorder on the table ensured that—but their sleeves were metaphorically rolled back for the job. The only problem was, the process assumes that the suspect being interrogated is to some degree willing to cooperate.
Kate, as had been agreed, opened the session with the standard words into the tape recorder, giving the time and the people present. Then, because Hawkin wanted it on record, she readvised Sawyer of his rights. The first snag came, as Hawkin had anticipated, when Sawyer sat in silence when asked if he understood his rights. Hawkin was prepared for this, and he sat forward to speak clearly into the microphone.
“It should be noted that Mr. Sawyer has thus far refused to communicate in a direct form of speech. He has the apparently unbreakable habit of speaking in quotations, which often have an unfortunately limited application to the topic being discussed. During the course of this interview, it may occasionally be necessary for the police officers conducting the interview to suggest interpretations for Mr. Sawyer’s words and to note aloud any nonverbal communications he might express.”
Hawkin sat back in his chair and looked at the older man, who nodded his head in appreciation and sat back in his own chair, his long fingers finding one another and intertwining across the front of his ill-fitting jail clothes. Somehow, for some reason, life was slowly leaking back into his mobile face, and as animation returned, the years faded.
“Tell me about Berkeley,” Hawkin began. There was no apparent surprise on the fool’s part at this unexpected question, just the customary moment for thought.
“We shall establish a school of the Lord’s service,” he said, “in which we hope to bring no harsh or burdensome thing.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” said Hawkin flatly. Sawyer merely twitched a skeptical eyebrow and said nothing. Hawkin’s practiced glare was no match for the older man’s implacable serenity, either, and it was Hawkin who broke the long silence.
“Are you saying you find it restful there?”
“Oh Lord, support us all the day long, until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes, and the busy world is hushed, and the fever of life is over, and our work is done. Then in Thy mercy grant us a safe lodging, and a holy rest, and peace at the last.”
This heartfelt prayer, simply recited by a man who so obviously knew what it was to be tired, gathered up the ugly little room and gave pause to the proceedings. Kate thought, This is why he is so curiously impressive, this man: When he says a thing, he means it down to his bones. Hawkin thought, This man is going to be hell before a jury: They’ll be eating out of his hand. He cleared his throat and pushed down the craving for a cigarette.
“So, you go to Berkeley for a rest. Do you go there regularly?”
There was no answer to this, only patient silence, as if Sawyer had heard nothing and was waiting for Hawkin to ask him the next question.
“Do you have a regular schedule?”
Silence.
“You spend time in San Francisco, too, don’t you? In Golden Gate Park? With the homeless? Why won’t you answer me?”
“Not every question deserves an answer,” he replied repressively. It was one of the few times Kate had heard him repeat himself.
“So you think you can choose what questions you answer and which you won’t. Mr. Sawyer, you have been arrested for the murder of a man in Golden Gate Park. At the moment, the charge is murder in the first degree. That means we believe it was premeditated, that you planned to kill him and did so. If you are convicted of that crime, you will go to prison for a long time. You will grow old in prison, and you will very probably die there, in a room considerably smaller and less comfortable than this one. Do you understand that?” He did not wait for an answer other than the one in Sawyer’s eyes.
“One of the purposes of this interview is to determine whether a lesser charge may be justified. Second- degree murder, even manslaughter, and you might sleep under the trees again before you die. Do you understand
