Little Bird of Heaven (17 page)

“No need for a lawyer, Mr. Diehl. Not yet.”

Liking it that Martineau continued to call him “Mr. Diehl.” Not many people called Eddy “Mr. Diehl”—the last he recalled, one of his son’s teachers he’d run into on the street.

He didn’t want a lawyer of course. God damn
no.
All of the Diehls distrusted lawyers, had only disparaging things to say about lawyers, and calling one now, in the wake of Zoe’s murder, would be the action of a guilty man.

Repeatedly during the seven-hour-and-forty-minute siege that fol
lowed, Eddy was assured that he had not been arrested, he was only just being “interviewed.” This was a “conversation”—not an “interrogation”—though for accuracy’s sake it would be taped. Eddy saw how this was an advantage of course. He was an innocent man—though he would not utter the word
innocent
—shying away from the word
innocent
—a ridiculous word,
innocent!
—for he would tell these police officers everything he knew, all that he knew, he would hold nothing back—he swore, he would hold nothing back—willing to cooperate in any way he could, to help them in their investigation into the homicide of Zoe Kruller.

This woman, Mrs. Delray Kruller, with whom Eddy Diehl had been “acquainted,” wasn’t that so?

Yes. That was so.

Licking his lips, frowning. He’d been scratching at his chin and his fingers came away with faint blood smears—the shaving cut. Wondering what he could say that the detectives might not already know. It was their strategy to ask questions and never to answer questions. It was their strategy to ask questions repeatedly, from slightly different perspectives. He began to hear his voice over-loud and hoarse in the windowless room, the voice of a guilty man, a very confused man. Strange to think—as an insect caught in the sticky tendrils of a spider’s web might think—the more he struggled to free himself, in the exertions and agitations of the guileless, the more he was caught.

Yet it was true: he didn’t know who might have hurt Zoe Kruller, really. There were those who believed—so Eddy explained, as if the detectives might not know this fact though it had been aired publicly for more than twenty-four hours—that Zoe’s husband Delray was the most likely person to have “hurt” her—there was even a rumor—“Don’t know if it’s true”—that Delray had confessed to hurting her but of course Eddy Diehl had no idea if this was so, no firsthand knowledge of his own.

They asked him how he knew the Krullers and he told them: Kruller Auto Repair. Kruller Cycle Shop. In certain quarters in Sparta, Delray Kruller was well known. If you needed a good auto mechanic, Kruller was your man. If you liked specialty cars, Kruller was your man. Eddy
spoke with admiration of how Delray had rebuilt a Pontiac GTO for him some years back—“Y’know, a ‘Goat’? Nineteen seventy-five model.” He’d taken a 1980 Stingray for Delray to customize for him, plus a Mustang, a ’Cuda, and the Willys Jeep he was still driving. So hot! As he spoke he was conscious of not-saying something that should be said, not-saying the name
Zoe Kruller
which was what the detectives were waiting patiently to hear. So hot! It was like a joke—it was a joke—he’d have wanted to wink at them, to acknowledge the joke—his enemies were making him sweat:
sweating it out of him.

Except: there was nothing to
sweat out.

There was nothing he could tell them, that would lead them to Zoe Kruller’s murderer.

(Or—murderers? How’d anyone know for certain, there weren’t more than one?)

(If Zoe had been involved with drugs as everyone knew she’d been, it might’ve been more than one. But Eddy didn’t want to tell the detectives this, to insult Zoe.)

He’d taken off his corduroy sport coat, that was worn at the elbows, his favorite coat he’d been wearing for years, with his long-sleeved white-cotton shirts for the office. Damn his forehead was beaded with sweat, his skin felt flushed, his head lowered between his shoulders and in his face the look of a goaded bull.

Fuckers can’t make me say the wrong thing. Incriminate myself.

How can I? I can’t, I am innocent.

Finally as the questions continued he acknowledged yes, he’d known Zoe also. Delray was his friend and his wife Zoe—well, Zoe was Delray’s wife—that was how Eddy knew her. Yes he’d heard that the Krullers were “estranged”—that wasn’t a word people used exactly, you’d have said the Krullers were “living apart”—“separated”—“having trouble”—but Eddy Diehl didn’t know particulars, he wasn’t the type. Except he’d heard from friends that Zoe had left Delray and was living on her own, Zoe was seeing other men, Zoe was frustrated with living just in Sparta and her career—her “singing career”—not getting anywhere; guys who were Del’s
friends were likely to be harsh about Zoe saying she’d left Delray with their son, left her own household,
the shit Del had to take from that woman you wouldn’t blame him, he lost control.

Covering his face with his hands, rubbing his knuckles against his eyes. So hot! He understood that he should leave, he should tell the detectives that he’d had enough, he had said all that he knew, and yet the wish had lodged deep inside him
I will make them like me, trust me. These are men no different from me.

Strange how, like a man on a river, in some sort of small rudderless boat on a turbulent river, he’d ceased thinking of where he might be, if he wasn’t where he was: he’d ceased thinking of his office at Sparta Construction, and of the work crews he’d be instructing, at this moment; he’d ceased thinking of his house, his home on the Huron Pike Road where by this time only his wife Lucille was likely to be, the kids were at school, he was grateful none of them knew where he was, the shame would have been unbearable.
Daddy questioned by police? Daddy in the police station, like a man on TV? Questioned by police—why?

Martineau was asking, Brescia was asking, calmly asking the most intimate of questions, words you could not ever imagine being uttered in your face except when they are uttered, and with such astonishing calm, even a kind of logic, bemused, patient, seeing the angry flush in his face and meaning to diffuse it, rephrasing the question—had he had “intimate relations”—“sexual relations”—with Zoe Kruller—rephrasing it had he ever “had a relationship” with Zoe Kruller that was “more than just friends” and Eddy Diehl heard himself say
God damn no, he had not
.

Calmly then they asked him again. Asked him again, and again. Calmly if edgily, the look in Brescia’s eyes behind tinted glasses, the look in Martineau’s eyes, they knew he was lying did they, if they knew he was lying why the fuck did they ask him. But they asked, and again he said
No
cleared his throat to say more forcibly
No! God damn I told you.

These words were pebbles in his mouth, barely he could speak with pebbles in his mouth in danger of swallowing, choking. Barely he could speak. Rivulets of sweat ran down his heated face. His heart was a fist
banging slowly against his ribs. His gut, where the hot phlegm-plug of undigested Jim Beam whiskey was defined solid as a pebble. They were daring to ask him if he’d been “involved” with Zoe Kruller—“having sexual relations” with Zoe Kruller—for a long time, or just the past year; was that why Zoe had moved out of her husband’s house, or had Zoe moved out first; did Delray Kruller know about him, Eddy Diehl, “having sex with” his wife; and Eddy was shaking his head
No! None of this is true
.

With their calm bemused eyes they regarded him. As hunters keep a little distance regarding the shot bison, the shot bear, a thrashing wounded creature dangerous at such times so you let him bleed out in the grass, you are the victor and time is on your side.

Repeatedly asking was he sure? Was Mr. Diehl sure? Was this Eddy Diehl’s statement, he was sure he wanted to sign?

He told them
yes.
This was his statement, he wanted to sign.

And had he visited Zoe Kruller at the West Ferry address he was asked and blindly, quickly said
No.
And asked if he’d seen her there, on Saturday of the previous week, just two nights ago had he seen her, had he driven there, parked on the street, gone in and seen her, and when had this been, and how long had he been there, and had he had sexual relations with her then, and had he been angry with her then, and had he struck her, strangled her, killed her and left her body in her bed, had this happened, Mr. Diehl?—was this what had happened?—and he was coughing now, sweating and miserable and unable to think except wanting to get out of this room, out of these fluorescent lights, away somewhere he could be alone, get a drink to steady his nerves, sink into sleep for he was so very tired.

No
he said
no I did not. Not ever.

G
OD DAMN WHY SHOULD
I hire a lawyer. Spend money on a God-damned lawyer you can’t trust. I’m not the one, I didn’t hurt Zoe. Never hurt Zoe oh Christ. Why’d I hurt Zoe. I did not touch Zoe not ever to harm her. I was the one who’d told her she’s got to go into rehab. In December I told her. Before Christmas I
told her. Driving me crazy the way she was living so careless of herself saying Go to hell Eddy, you don’t love me you can go to hell then there’s others who will love me if not you. Sick-worried about Zoe but fuck her she wants to kill herself, track marks on her arms and inside her thighs she’d tried to say were from a cat’s claws but the fact is she was shooting heroin, I’d all but caught her that one time. Shooting death into her veins, why’d she do it? Zoe’s beautiful arms, freckled and soft. Zoe’s beautiful legs not fleshy like a woman’s legs can be but slender, muscled. Jesus she’d been shooting that shit into a vein at her ankle. Saying it’s just so good, just try it Eddy c’mon just once, it won’t kill you. Except she’d had some bad scares. Shooting up with a guy she’d been seeing, or maybe more than one guy, who supplied her all the drugs she needed, this guy from Port Oriskany and nobody known to me, nobody I wanted to know, saying she’d passed out for forty minutes and he’s shouting at her and slapping her face trying to revive her, running cold water into the tub, carries her to the tub and drops her into the water, wouldn’t call an ambulance he’d have let her die, a guy like that avoids cops at all costs, one look at him and a cop knows, a cop can see, ex-con, junkie-dealer a cop can identify, I told her Zoe for Christ’s sake that’s crazy, living like that’s crazy, so close to the edge, a beautiful woman like you what is wrong with you, and Zoe says Yes you’re right Eddy, I know you’re right Eddy, say know what, Eddy—I love you!—leaning over to kiss me, Zoe’s warm wet mouth on my mouth, tongue like a snake darting, Kiss-kiss Eddy, c’mon Eddy kiss-kiss c’mon fuck me Eddy if you love me fuck me and make me forget other things and Zoe’s arms around my neck bearing me down, and Zoe’s tight-muscled legs around my waist, ankles crossed behind my buttocks, I’m trying to keep my head clear but can’t, trying to believe her but I can’t, if the woman would not lie to me if she would not disrespect me as she’d been disrespecting her husband Delray, she starts to laugh, she’s laughing and there’s a sob catching in her throat, Eddy I promise, oh Eddy I promise, no more damn needles if you love me, not ever.

“S
EARCH WARRANT, MA’AM.
We need to come inside these premises.”

Out of nowhere they’d come like tanks in wartime. Sparta PD vehicles driven up our lane and a violent rapping at the front door and no one but Eddy Diehl’s left-behind wife Lucille to open the door, white-faced and astonished.

My mother in a flannel shirt, slacks, woolen socks—hair disheveled and one side of her sleep-dazed face creased from where she’d been napping—in the wake of an insomniac night—her face against the coarse-woven fabric of a sofa. My mother hoarsely stammering, “W-what?
What—?”

This was soon after my father had been “brought in for questioning”—“taken into police custody.” This new shame!—my mother would never outlive.

Never forgive my father, for bringing this upon the family.

She would say afterward—we would hear her, on the phone—the tone of her voice varying from plaintive and stunned to indignant, incensed—angry, resigned, stricken—her words frequently incoherent, interrupted by sobs—that it was as if her very body was being invaded, searched by strangers. The privacy of the home she’d taken such pride in, and such care. And none of this was her fault! How was this her fault! How did the Sparta police dare to invade Lucille’s home like this! Pleading with the officers whom she followed into the rooms of the house even as they ignored her—for only the senior plainclothes detective Martineau who bore the search warrant was authorized to speak with Eddy Diehl’s wife—she
protested, “Stop! Go away! You have no right! I’ll tell my—”

But there was no
husband
to tell.
Husband
was no longer a word in my mother’s vocabulary.

My mother was being shown the search warrant which in her rattled state she could barely read. The senior officer—this was Martineau—explained to her that nothing would be damaged in the search and nothing removed from the premises without a receipt and whatever was taken would be returned in time if it wasn’t found to be “evidence” crucial to their investigation and my mother heard only the term “evidence” and became further upset asking, “Evidence for what, officer? Evidence for
what?”
and with blunt politeness Martineau said: “This is a homicide investigation, ma’am. You’ve been informed.”

But Lucille had not been informed. She didn’t think so. In the strange calm of terror as in the wake of a violent thunderclap she heard herself demanding of this man—a stocky gray-haired man of no distinction except that he’d shown her his shiny Sparta PD badge like a TV cop—what the “homicide” was—and what had it to do with
her?

Though Lucille knew. Should have known. Yes, Lucille surely knew. These many days that
Zoe Kruller
had been a name not to be uttered in this household.

Knew to ask Martineau in a pleading voice if her husband had been arrested?—and Martineau said no ma’am, not yet.

“Not
yet
? Not arrested
yet?
But—”

“Not yet, ma’am. That’s all that I am authorized to say.”

“Where is he? Is he—with you? At police headquarters?”

This was where Eddy Diehl was, yes. This was information Lucille already knew.

“And the husband of that woman who—the one who—who’d been killed—is he—is he arrested?”

No. Neither was Delray Kruller arrested, yet.

Police officers had already searched my father’s Willys Jeep which was still parked in the lot at Sparta Construction and now in the driveway of our house they searched the family car which was a turtle-colored
1981 Plymouth sedan in reasonably good condition, by default now my mother’s, that Daddy had left her. With grim frowning thoroughness they searched the back seat of the Plymouth and beneath the seats and inside the trunk as with equal thoroughness they searched the basement—every corner of the basement including the furnace and hot-water tank room—and Mom’s laundry room—taking away from Daddy’s workbench many of Daddy’s tools for the police officers were looking for the “murder-weapon”—nothing is more crucial to a homicide investigation than the
murder weapon
—and among my father’s tools which were precious to him, always kept neatly arranged, hanging from hooks in the wall or placed side by side on the top of the workbench, were several hammers of varying sizes including a newly purchased twelve-inch claw hammer; and all these hammers the police officers took away with them in their neatly labeled cardboard boxes.

Did my mother ask herself
Is one of them what he used? Should I have thrown it away oh God what should I have done?

Or did my mother think
Good! If one of them is the hammer they want, now they have it. Now it’s too late.

This search of our house—“Basement to attic, every room”—over which my mother would be grievously upset for hours, days, weeks took place in the late morning of a weekday while Ben and I were in school. When we returned home we knew at once that something had happened—strangers had been on our property—the snow in the driveway was raddled with tire marks and inside the house my mother was feverishly vacuuming the living room. She’d opened several windows, the air was cold. Ben called, “Mom? Hey Mom is something wrong?” for my mother’s eyes were swollen and red-rimmed and her face flushed but my mother didn’t seem to hear him until Ben pulled the plug from the wall socket—and the roaring vacuum abruptly ceased—and Mom began to scream at him, tried to throw the cleaner’s wand at him but the hose was too short.

Later, when she was calmer, Mom told us what had happened: the Sparta police, no warning, the “search.” Things they’d carried away in
their cardboard boxes taken from closets, bureau drawers, the spare room where he kept financial records, even from the family laundry hamper, even his near-flattened tube of toothpaste, spray-shaving cream, wadded-up tissues and such in the pockets of his work trousers—she was laughing now, and Ben laughed with her, and with a queer twist of his mouth as if these were words meant to entertain both of us—his Mom and his kid-sister—he said, “Shit if they found some damn hammer of his how’d they know it hadn’t been washed clean? You could boil water and wash away blood with detergent or bleach, I bet.
He’d
know that, wouldn’t he? And if a hammer was missing, Daddy has so many damn hammers down there how’d they even know one was gone?” Ben laughed. Lately my brother’s laughter had been raw, harsh and jeering like something part-alive being squeezed through a grinder, horrible to hear.

“Might’ve taken it myself. They gave us enough time. Threw it into the river. Maybe I was the one who cracked her head. ‘Brained’ her—her brains had got to be all over the floor, I heard. See, I know how to use a hammer, too. Any asshole does.”

My mother stared at Ben. For a moment I thought that she would slap him—I could see that Ben was expecting to be slapped—a twitch in his right eye—the jeering smile fixed in place—but she only stared at him, and shuddered in the cold draft from the opened windows, and turned away.

Upstairs in her bedroom Mom slept for the rest of the day. Slept and slept and next morning we fixed our own cold-cereal breakfasts and tramped out the driveway to the school bus through a new-fallen snow that covered most of the tire tracks so you wouldn’t have known.

Ben said with a nasty laugh we’d ought to’ve woken her, maybe she was passed out or dead.

But it was too late. Neither of us was going back. We waited for the school bus as always. There was a curve in the Huron Pike Road, you could see the carrot-colored bus on its way, a quarter-mile to the east approaching us. A curve in the road along the glittery river where ice was broken along the shore like ravaged teeth.

Somewhere close by a bird was singing. It was a bright liquidy persistent song, beautiful to hear. So beautiful my heart felt pierced. In the snowy boughs of an evergreen I could see a red cardinal—bright red feathers and a black cap—a male cardinal, this was—and the female was there also, olive-green feathers, identical black cap and chunky orange beak and the two of them were singing and I said, “Think that’s the ‘little bird of heaven’—right here? In our tree?”

Ben said, laughing, “No.”