Part 8 (1/2)
”G.o.d almighty,” he said. ”Jesus.” He threw open a window. The weather had turned in the last few days and winter was more than an idea. The air was dry and cool, about forty-five degrees. Squirrel had begun crying again as soon as Larry was through the door.
Larry returned with a garbage bag and a newspaper. He had Gandolph, who wore no underwear, peel off his trousers and toss them in the bag.
”Don't I get a lawyer or nothin?”
”I'll get whoever you want, Squirrel. But what do you need a lawyer for? How do you think that looks?”
”Looks like he gone sue your a.s.s, man. Makin me s.h.i.+t my pants. That ain right. That ain legal or nothin.”
”What kind of stuff is that, every creep can c.r.a.p all over himself and call the cops bad guys? I don't think that works.”
Squirrel cried harder. ”Man, that wasn't how it was a-tall.”
There was a little smear of s.h.i.+t on one of his shoes and Larry told him to throw it in the bag, too. Squirrel sobbed as he dropped it inside.
”You cold, man. You the coldest po-lice I ever met. Where'm I gone get shoes, man? These here, they the onlyest shoes I got.”
Larry replied that it might be a little while before Squirrel left. He covered Gandolph's chair with newspaper and told the man, who remained naked below the waist, to sit again. Mumbling to himself, Squirrel appeared too distraught to listen. Larry slammed his hand on the table to shut him up.
”Squirrel, what happened to Gus? Good Gus? What happened to him?”
”Dunno, man.” He lied like a child, his face cast down.
”You don't know? He's dead, Squirrel.”
”Oh, yeah,” he said. ”I think I done heard that.”
”Bet that broke your heart. Guy who wumped you the way he did.”
Dumb as he was, Squirrel saw where that would go. He used his fingers to wipe his nose.
”I dunno, man. All kinda folk wump me. Seem like. Po-lice wump me.”
”I haven't wumped you, Squirrel. Not yet.”
”Man, why you doin me like this? s.h.i.+ttin my pants and makin me sit in it like I'm some baby, man. Strippin me naked.”
”Now listen, Squirrel. You're runnin around with the jewelry of a dead woman. Who was killed at the same time as a man who beat down on you whenever he saw your spotty little face. Now are you telling me that's just a funny f.u.c.king coincidence? Is that what you're saying?'
”Man, it's cold in here. I ain got no clothes on. Look here. I got goof b.u.mps and everythin.”
Larry slammed the desk again. ”You killed them, Squirrel! You shot Gus. You shot him and you shot Luisa and you shot Paul. You rifled that register you were so hot to get your mitts on. That's what happened. Then you dragged those poor people into the freezer, and you corn-holed Luisa Remardi. That's what happened.”
Squirrel shook his head no. Larry figured it was time for something else.
”We have your fingerprints, Squirrel. At the scene. Did you know that? All over the register.”
Gandolph stilled. If he hadn't been inside, or near the register, then he'd have known Larry was lying. But there was no chance Squirrel was going to cash him in on this.
”I ain said I wasn't never there. I been in there. Lots of folk tell you that. Kinda liked to play with Gus and all.”
”Play? Is that what you call killing him?”
”Man, bein in there, sayin howdy and all, that ain the same as killin.”
”Keep saying no, Squirrel. We have plenty of time. I got nothing better to do than have you lie to me.”
Larry turned off the radiator before leaving the room.
Forty minutes later, he re-entered with Wilma Amos, his Task Force partner, who had finally arrived. Squirrel was hunched down by the lockers, perhaps hoping to work the cuff off, or just to withstand the cold, and he screamed out.
”Don't you bring no lady in here when I don't got no pants on.”
Larry introduced Wilma, who straightened her stout form to cast an appraising look in Squirrel's direction. Squirrel had turned as far from her as he could, covering himself with his one free hand.
”Just wanted to ask in Detective Amos's presence, Squirrel. You want food? You want a cold drink?”
He told Larry he was a mean po-lice, no question about that.
”I guess the answer's no,” Larry told Wilma. They'd agreed in advance that she'd leave, but stand outside the door to make notes.
”I want some pants, man. Tha's what I want. I'm gone die or somethin from the cold.”
”You have pants, Squirrel. You can put them back on any time you like.”
Squirrel began crying again. With gusto. He was beat now.
”Man, what'd I do, you gotta do me like this?”
”You murdered three people. You shot Gus and Luisa and Paul. You robbed them all. And you screwed that lady up the p.o.o.p chute.”
”You keep sayin that, man.”
”Because it's true.”
”Is it?” Squirrel asked.
Larry nodded.
”If I done somethin like that, kill three people and all, how come I don't 'member nothin about it.”
”Well, I'm helping you remember. I want you to think, Squirrel.”
They always said they couldn't remember. Like a drunken husband coming home. Larry frequently said he couldn't remember. And he couldn't. If he didn't want to. But sooner or later as you talked to the perps, it came back. There was always something critical, details the cops themselves hadn't tumbled to yet, which emerged.
”When all this happen?” Gandolph asked listlessly.
”July Fourth weekend.”
”July Fourth,” Squirrel repeated. ”Seem like I wasn't even around July Fourth.”