EXECUTIVE PARKING LOT, says the sign on the steel racks of Samsonite briefcases. It’s the only spark of humor in the grim police station, from the aging alcoholic asleep in the lobby to the battleship-gray paint peeling off the cinder-block walls. Detective Ruscinjki blends in here, with his gray hair and gray eyes. He folds his furry arms behind an ancient typewriter in the bustling Central Detectives’ office and looks up at me. “You sure you’re not with the media?” he asks.
“No.”
A black detective in shirtsleeves and shoulder holster walks by, ignoring us.
He looks unconvinced. “We got lots of calls from the media on this case. Print media. Electronic media. They’d say anything to get past the desk, anything to get the gory details.”
“I’m not a reporter. I told you, I worked for Judge Gregorian. I have court ID if you want.”
He leans back in his chair at a long table in the common room. “All right, Miss Rossi, so you’re not with the media. You’re not his lawyer, either, or a member of the family. That means I tell you what I tell the reporters. The case is closed. We have no reason to believe that the judge’s death was anything other than a suicide.” A lineup of battered file cabinets sits behind him, solid as the stone wall he’s putting up for my benefit. Or detriment.
“I was just wondering how you can be so sure. Is there some physical evidence you found?”
“Not that I intend to discuss with you. Trust me, it was a suicide. I saw it.”
I feel my mouth open. “What? You
He frowns, confused for a moment. “The judge? I was on the squad Monday night, I got the call. That’s why you asked the desk man for me, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t ask anybody for you. I just said I needed to talk to one of the detectives about Judge Gregorian.”
He takes one look at me and seems to sense there was something between Armen and me; he’s not a detective for nothing. “I’m sorry,” he says, softening. “Sit down.”
So I do, in a stiff-backed metal chair catty-corner to him.
“Listen to me,” he says, leaning on the typewriter. “I’ve been a detective for nine years now, spent twelve years on the force before that. I don’t rule it a suicide unless I’m one hundred percent. On this one, I was one hundred percent. So was the ME.”
“ME?”
“Medical examiner. He was there himself, since the judge was so prominent, husband of the senator and all. They’ll have the toxicology reports in a month, and the autopsy results. But I tell you, we agreed on the scene, him and me.”
A medical examiner; an autopsy. I can’t even think about it, not now anyway. “What was the evidence?”
He shakes his head. “I couldn’t tell you that even if I wanted to.”
“I read a lot about it in the newspapers. They seemed to have plenty of information.”
“An important man, a case like this, the papers will know a lot. We may have a leak or two, there’s nothin’ I can do about that. But none of it comes from me.”
“I read in the paper that the gunshot wound was to the right temple. Armen—the judge—was right-handed. Is that the type of evidence you look for?”
“One of the things.”
“The papers said the gun was his wife’s.”
“She kept it in the desk. Felt very bad he used it that way. Cried a river.”
“The paper also said the doors and windows were locked. So that’s something you look for too, right? In a suicide.”
“Yes. Generally.”
“In the
“Miss Rossi, I’m not going to tell you about this case. I can’t.”
“Just generally, not in this case. Does it mean a wound where the gun makes contact?”
Ruscinjki purses his lips; they’re as flat as the rest of his features, and his receding hairline is a gentle gray roll, like a wave.
“How can you tell that it made contact?”
“I can’t say—”
“I’m just asking a question. Not in this case or anything. Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically?” A faint smile appears.
“Yes. If I were to say to you, How can you tell if something is a contact wound, what would you say?”
“How we know it’s a contact wound is the gunpowder residue. If it’s a contact shot it sprays out like a little star. A shot from a coupla inches away, the gunpowder sprays all over.”
I try not to think about the gunpowder star. “Okay. What else do you see with a typical suicide? Educate me.” I imagine I’m taking a deposition of a reluctant witness, and I’m not far wrong.
“Gunpowder residue on the hand, and blowback.”
“Blowback?”
“Blood on the hand that held the gun. Blood on the gun, too.”
I try not to wince. “Okay. Anything else?”
“Cadaverous spasm.”
“And that is?”
“The body’s reaction to the pain of the blast, the shock of it.”
“How does the body react? Generally?”
“The hand grips around the gun and stays that way. After death.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No. That’s mostly all of it.”
“I see. Now. If you don’t have this type of evidence, the three things you mentioned, the case is not one hundred percent. Is that right?”
“Right. In a case where there’s no note.”
I almost forgot. “Is it odd there was no note? I mean, in the typical case do you see a note?”
“Most times there is a note. Most suicides lately are your AIDS people, people who know they’re going to die. They leave a note. They prepare.”
“So if there’s not a note, does that tell you it’s not a suicide?”
“Not at all. It doesn’t tell me anything, one way or the other. Lots of suicides leave their notes way in advance—depression, preoccupation, withdrawal.” His tone grows thoughtful, more relaxed; he’d rather talk psychology than pathology. So would I.
“But Judge Gregorian wasn’t depressed.”
“According to the secretary, he did become depressed about this time of year. Something about Armenians.” He brushes dust off the typewriter keys. “The press was all over him because of that death penalty appeal. Not that I’m talking about the actual case.” The sly smile reappears, then fades.
“But he seemed to handle that fine.”
“The senator said his mother committed suicide. It runs in families, you know.”
“But it’s not inherited.”
“They get the idea. All of a sudden it becomes a possibility. It’s like kids in high school, they come in clusters.” He looks sad for a moment. “People kill themselves all the time, for lots of reasons we can’t understand. Who can understand something like that, anyway?”
I consider this and say nothing, sickened by the image of Armen slumped over, his lifeblood seeping out. A lethal black star on his temple. His own blood spattered on his hand.
“The judge had a watchdog, too. A good watchdog.”
Bernice. “What about his dog? Did you see her that night?”
He laughs. “I would say so, it tried to take my arm off. We had to lock it in the bathroom, wouldn’t let us near him. I read the wife donated it to the Boys Club.”
So much for his detective work; Bernice is in my wagon out front, she fussed so much I decided to take her
