Violence (33 page)

Crotty took the news in stride, picked up the report and thumbed diligently through it.

“You still got a jones for this guy?” Peterson asked him intently.

Crotty didn’t answer. It was obvious. To Peterson anyway.

“Even some of the other tenants have seen Anderson around Lysander’s place. Just not on the night of the murder.” Peterson continued listing the other pieces of information working against them in pursuing Anderson. “I mean, if he did it, and I don’t buy that bullshit about him helping the guy out either, you don’t give a guy who helped rape and murder your wife money, but
if
he killed Lysander, and maybe the other guy, he sure as hell covered his tracks beautifully.”

“I wonder if he paid someone else to do it?” Crotty speculated, undeterred by Peterson’s defeatism. “Or helped someone? You know, drove the getaway car, and helped get rid of the clothes and the murder weapon?” Crotty sat back in his chair and looked off contemplatively.

The suppositions hung there in the antiseptic room for a long moment. Crotty’s office had no personal touches. It matched his personality. Guarded. Bland. No attachments. It was how he felt about the job. Do your work but don’t leave any sign you were there. He hated it when he took over the space seven years ago and after they moved the file cabinets he found a convenience store receipt, coffee stirrers, a ticket stub to a baseball game, and a coupon for $2 off a pack of cigarettes. It told him too much about his predecessor. He never wanted anyone to know him that well. Peterson was the closest any person had ever come to him, and all Peterson knew was that Crotty liked fishing. Peterson told him he hated fishing and their friendship was sealed.

Peterson, for his part, couldn’t stand it when his partner was like this, which was almost always. Peterson was used to his partner’s unemotional nature. He knew it was a defense mechanism to aid in dealing with the job of homicide, which at the beginning and the end of the day is about dead bodies. Peterson was just always afraid that one day, being composed and relentless like Crotty, that those qualities alone would take the place of his own individuality completely, and any shows of emotion, from laughter to tears, would be forever just playacting at being a person

“We went over this before: he doesn’t seem ‘connected’”…” Peterson finally offered. “…and he doesn’t seem like the type to start stupidly hunting around for a hit man, because those people always end up getting cuffed by an undercover cop in some supermarket parking lot.”

“What if he used someone else’s shoes?” Crotty tossed another theory out there. “They had a real unique wear pattern. We know they weren’t new shoes right out of a box.”

“We’re going to go around to everyone this Anderson guy knows, or has had contact with, and ask if we can have a shoe sample?” Peterson asked sarcastically. “I don’t think he’d be dumb enough to pull some friend’s shoes out of their closet and use them in a murder. And what would that prove anyway, unless you can find the actual shoes that were used for the murder and link Anderson’s DNA to them. I’m sure he would’ve tossed them. It’s not something you hang on to. Anyway, my take is he doesn’t have many close contacts in his life. Maybe before, but definitely not now.”

Crotty nodded, sighed, which was a tacit signal to Peterson that he reluctantly agreed it was probably not a fertile avenue to pursue.

“I know I said ‘if the second guy dies’ and everything…” Peterson commiserated. “…and it doesn’t make me happy to say it: but we just don’t have enough to go on.”

A female uniformed officer stepped into the doorway and said. “Wayne, someone here to see you.”

Crotty and Peterson both looked past her into the reception area that connected the offices.

It was there they saw, standing behind some security glass, this leather-jacketed rocker-type guy with long shaggy hair waiting nervously, his fingers tapping anxiously on a countertop.
It was Jack Trax.

CHAPTER 32

         J
eannie smiled tightly at the people who filed past her into the Our Lady of Sorrows church for the Saturday evening services. She looked off anxiously into the parking lot from her perch atop the steps and saw Anderson drive up in his Mercedes and park.

She had only spoken to him briefly after the Crotty encounter at her workplace and Anderson had assured her that it was just a routine visit by the detective.

Anderson got out of his car and met her gaze. He smiled and walked towards her.

Jeannie eagerly descended the staircase.

Suddenly, two police squad cars, along with the Crown Victoria containing Crotty and Peterson, screeched to a stop next to Anderson.

Two teams of uniformed officers got out of the squad cars, and converged on Anderson. One policeman wrenched Anderson’s arms behind his back and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him.

Crotty stared hard at Anderson as he climbed out of the Crown Victoria with Peterson who moved up to Mirandize and take custody of Anderson.

“Noel Anderson, you’re under arrest for the murder of Gabriel Lysander.” Peterson recited as Jeannie looked on aghast and Father Cannova emerged from the vestibule, moving down to stand next to her. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to an attorney and have legal counsel present while you are being questioned. If you cannot afford to hire legal counsel, an attorney will be provided to represent you. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”

Anderson nodded and Peterson escorted him to the back of one of the squad cars, pushing Anderson’s head down as he deposited him in the cramped rear seat.

A uniformed policeman firmly slammed the squad door shut behind Anderson in front of the now growing, gawking crowd of stunned churchgoers.

The cops and detectives all climbed back into their vehicles.

The Crown Victoria led the way out of the parking lot and the squad car containing Anderson fell in behind it. Anderson just stared soberly ahead as the group of police vehicles soon disappeared from sight almost as quickly as they had appeared.

The interrogation room at Crotty and Peterson’s stationhouse was built right from the standard blueprint for designing a confined space where a suspect would have a complete sense of hopelessness. There was a seat for the suspect, and a desk and two chairs for the interrogating detectives (which is where Crotty and Peterson were currently planted). The room had nothing on the walls and a two-way mirror. Everything that occurred there was videotaped and recorded. And everything about the space made you want to confess and get the hell out of there.

Crotty and Peterson also took the textbook approach for questioning a suspect and coaxing an admission of guilt. Ask easy questions up front, in addition to some that require a little thought (usually each shows a different standard reaction), and once you see a pattern, go for the kill. For instance, asking someone their name, where they live, and what kind of car they drive, this is simple remembering and a person tends to answer calmly and their eyes tend to look to their left when answering. However, if the answer requires thought such as “where were you at such and such a time,” that is they would have to either construct or fabricate something, a subject would be apt to look to their right and also do a lot more gesticulating or even show anger. There are numerous “tells”, but these are the simplest and usually help to form a usable guide to “getting the goods” on a suspect.

Of course, Crotty and Peterson asked for a fast confession after Anderson waived his right to an attorney and agreed to a custodial interview. To which Anderson replied, “I can’t confess to something I didn’t do, although I know you want your job to be as easy as possible.” This response indeed set a pattern, but it was from Anderson’s point-of-view: Crotty and Peterson were beside themselves in their desire to get him to admit his guilt, which they were now absolutely, positively sure of.

Peterson had actually still been reluctant at first to pick Anderson up, and was hoping Anderson could maintain an airtight alibi, but Anderson’s insinuation about law enforcement being lax in their duty even pushed him off his neutral stance and set him firmly in Crotty’s camp of – “let’s get this prick.”

Anderson, seated with one hand cuffed to the chair, for his part, didn’t want to provoke them, but when they started the “interview” with the usual “I’m your friend” and “we understand where you’re coming from” patter that included the typical apologist phrase “the system isn’t perfect but it works” it sent Anderson into an android-like commentary that soon drove Crotty and Peterson nuts.

“‘The system isn’t perfect but it works.”’
Anderson repeated the phrase back to Crotty as soon as Crotty had uttered it. “So, if you carried this argument to its logical conclusion then you must accept the whole system and that would include malicious prosecutors, corrupt judges, crooked police, dishonest government officials, all of it. Accept it. The system isn’t perfect but it works. If a defendant lies and his attorney gets him off, actually everybody expects a defendant to lie, then you have to accept it. It’s a verdict. The system isn’t perfect but it works.”

“Is that what you’re doing right now when you tell us you had nothing to do with his murder? Lying?” Crotty asked, holding up a mug shot of Gabriel Lysander.

“If a jury lets off an obviously guilty person because they didn’t want to make a hard decision… accept it.” Anderson just continued, showing little emotion. “If some kids are plowed into and killed by a drunken off-duty cop, or a cop is caught on video beating the hell out of a defenseless barmaid, and the judge lets the cops off because he doesn’t want to upset the police union… accept it.”

“You tryin’ to get cute with us, smart guy?” Peterson bristled, rising up off his seat.

“Back before the days of the civil rights movement…” Anderson simply went on, undeterred. “…if a black man was shot in the back or found hanging from a tree with his hands tied behind his back, there was no need for a real investigation. The killer can’t be found or it’s been ruled a suicide. Accept it. The system isn’t perfect but it works.”

“So, is this a confession?” Crotty asked Anderson again after he had finished.

“I’m merely expounding on your remark.” Anderson answered with a level tone.

“Admit it, you killed him! You crossed the line and we got you, motherfucker!” Peterson angrily erupted, getting right in Anderson’s face, which was another trick for bringing about a suspect’s admission of guilt: invade their space. However, Peterson’s getting nose to nose with Anderson only seemed to relax Anderson even more as Anderson simply stared calmly back at him.

“I’ve already told you I would never hurt these men.” Anderson replied evenly.

Peterson, frustrated, straightened and threw a furtive look at Crotty who stood up from his chair to assume a power position of towering over Anderson now. It was clear they weren’t going to get a read from Anderson’s eye movements or posture changes. They would have to continue to resort to the other tactics of alternating declarations of sympathy for the suspect with explosions of anger, maintaining close-quarter taunts and interrupting any denials to a crime a suspect wishes to express (a suspect’s confidence increases significantly with each expression of innocence).

“I know you think you didn’t receive a fair shake at the trial. I understand that.” Crotty said, stopping in front of Anderson with Gabriel’s mug shot. “If anybody deserved to die, this guy did. And so did Ruben Roney for that matter-”

“Nobody deserves to die. All human life is sacred.” Anderson interrupted.

“You’re so full of it, you rotting piece of shit!” Peterson howled.

“They’re children of God as we all are.” Anderson responded, staring at Peterson. “I pray for them.”

“Cut out the religious crap! We’re not buying it!” Peterson snarled with increasing spite. “You’re just as bad as they are! Come clean now or we’ll fucking bury your ass!”

“You’re not doing yourself any favors taking this approach.” Crotty coolly told Anderson, trying to act like the levelheaded one among the group. “A jury is going to see all this.”

“That’s good.” Anderson said, looking back and forth between them. “I was going to ask you if you remembered to turn on the recording equipment. I’ve heard if interviews don’t go the way the police like, they have a tendency to disappear.”

Peterson appeared ready to pounce on Anderson but Crotty backed him off with a look.

Crotty pulled a chair up next to Anderson, trying the bonding technique again. He placed a hand on Anderson’s shoulder and cozily said, “This ain’t the Old West. This is a civilized society. We have to live with the decisions of our courts. We can’t have vigilantes running the streets. It’d be a free for all. Now we got motive. We got your fingerprints all over Gabriel Lysander’s room-”

“I told you I visited him often. I was working with him.” Anderson reaffirmed monotone.

“And you killed him!” Peterson cut in.

“He lived a hard, tortured existence most of his days.” Anderson commented, eyes set with concern. “It’s a pity he won’t get the chance to live at least part of his life happily.”

Peterson slumped and sighed with exasperation. He ran a hand restlessly through his hair. This is what Anderson was supposed to be doing: fidgeting, surrendering, shoulders sagging (in Anderson’s case: from the weight of carrying around all the guilt).

“We know you’ve been studying criminology.” Crotty revealed, straightening his tie in the two-way mirror before turning back to stare at Anderson. “Yeah, I went by that library you spend so much time at. People there told me you hang out a lot in the section on crime solving.”

Crotty bent over and rested his fists on the desk in front of Anderson. He guessed he saw a reaction from Anderson, a flicker of anxious eye movement. But there was none.

“And you got yourself an alibi.” Crotty continued. “Smart. Real smart. But there’s always a chance an alibi might fall apart…” Crotty remarked with a good measure of self-satisfaction, leaving the thought hanging out there like a piercing threat.