Part 19 (2/2)
”Where were you taking her? What were you going to do to her?” He shrugged. ”I was ... I was going to park right there at the end of Palmero Street. She's a bad girl, you know that. I was going to ... pay her to . .
”Were these bad girls?” Reece motioned to the photographs. Benefield stared at them for a few seconds and then smiled again. ”If you say they were.”
”Do you think this is funny? Do you think what you were about to do to Vicki Harris was funny? How often do you cruise Hollywood Boulevard?”
”Once in a while.”
”Looking for bad girls?”
Benefield glanced over at the attorney and s.h.i.+fted uneasily in his seat.
”Yeah, I guess so.”
”Have you ever heard of the Roach, Benefield?”
He shook his head.
”It's been in all the newspapers. Don't you read the papers?” No.
”But you know how to read, don't you? And you know how to write?” ”Yeah.” Reece nodded and reached for a smaller manila envelope at the edge of the table. He opened it and took out photostats of the Roach letters, placing them over the pictures in front of Benefield. ”Have you ever seen those before?”
”No, sir.”
”That surprises me. You remember how you wrote you name for us, once with the right hand and once with the left? Well, handwriting doesn't lie even when you try to distort it. You know what a graphologist is, Benefield? Two of them say you wrote these letters with your left hand.”
”They're lying,” he said quietly.
”Are they? They're experts on handwriting, Benefield. The judge isn't going to think they're lying. Neither is the jury.”
”Leave me alone!” Benefield whined. ”I never saw those letters before!”
”We talked to Mr. Pietro at your apartment house,” Reece continued. ”He told us that sometimes he hears you come in late at night and then you leave again. Where do you go?”
”Just . . . out. Places.”
”What places? Hollywood Boulevard? Where else?”
”Just around. I like to drive.”
”What about your mother? Do you go see her?”
Benefield's head snapped up. ”My . . . mother? You leave her out of this, you black b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” He was almost screaming.
Reece smiled and nodded. He leaned back in his chair, watching Benefield's eyes.
”We've got the evidence, Benefield. We've got witnesses who've seen you cruising Hollywood. We know everything we need to know. Why don't you tell us about those four young women?”
”No ... no ...” He shook his head, his face reddening.
”Four women.” Recce's gaze sharpened. ”Strangled and raped, thrown away like garbage. And that thing with the roaches, that was real cute. Whoever did that is a very sick man, wouldn't you agree?”
”Leave me . . . leave me . . . alone . . .”
”Whoever did that was warped and belongs in a hospital. I've seen your record, Benefield. I know about Rathmore . . .”
Benefield's face went scarlet, his eyes bulging. He grabbed for Reece, snarling like an animal, and Zeitvogel was up in an instant reaching for him. Benefield got one hand clamped on Recce's throat. The three men struggled for a few seconds, then Zeitvogel got the man's arms pinned behind him and snapped cuffs on his wrists. ”You ... filth!” Benefield shrieked. ”You dirty n.i.g.g.e.r filth! I'm not going back there! You're not gonna send me back!” Reece stood up, his knees shaking. His throat felt bruised and contaminated.
”I am going out for a cup of coffee,” he breathed. ”When I get back, you'd better be ready to talk to me, or I'll make it d.a.m.n hard on you. Understand?” He stared at Benefield for a few seconds, then glanced over at Murphy. The attorney was sitting bolt upright, his eyes slightly glazed. Reece turned and stalked out of the interrogation room.
Palatazin was waiting outside, patiently going through the contents of another file. When he looked up, Reece could see the deep blue circles under his eyes.
”How is he?” Palatazin asked.
Reece shrugged and rubbed his throat. ”He's pretty worked up. I tried the line about his mother that you suggested and got a real rise out of him. How'd you know?”
”There's something strange going on. According to this”-Palatazin waved the folder-”Beverly Teresa Benefield died in a fall down a tenement stairway in 1964. She was carrying a suitcase with her, evidently about to abandon her fifteen-year-old son, Walter. It was the middle of the night, the neighbors heard some shouting, but the coroner ruled the death accidental. Anyway, Benefield made a reference to” ”', his mother to Mr. Pietro not long ago. I figured we could probe that to good effect. Also . . .” He took his notepad from his s.h.i.+rt pocket. ”He used a cloth soaked in a combination of chemical bug-spray on Miss Harris. The lab says breathing it like that in the close confines of a car would be just short of lethal. And an interesting point-they think Benefield had built up a resistance to the fumes, just like real roaches do. But now my question is-why go to the trouble of keeping them alive? If he is our man, why did he change his M.O.?”
”Because he's a nut,” Reece said.
”Possibly, but even nuts stick to some kind of pattern. Well, I suppose it's my turn now. Let me borrow your cigarettes and matches.” Reece reached in his s.h.i.+rt pocket and handed him a pack of Kents and a lighter. ”Good luck,” he said as Palatazin entered the interrogation room. Benefield was sitting with his chin slumped forward on his chest. Palatazin sat down beside him, pus.h.i.+ng away the letters and photographs. He closed the M.E.'s file on the death of Beverly Benefield and laid it on the table.
”Would you like a cigarette, Walter?” he asked.
Benefield nodded. Palatazin lit it for him and put it into his mouth. ”When can I go home?” Benefield asked.
”Not just yet, Walter. First there are some things we have to talk about.” Benefield's eyes narrowed. ”I know you. You're the cop who shot at me.”
”I fired a warning shot, yes. I was trying to protect you from the others. They might've killed you.”
”Oh.”
”Take the cuffs off,” Palatazin told Zeitvogel. The detective started to protest, then he shrugged, took the cuff key from his pocket, came over, and unsnapped them. Benefield drew deeply on his cigarette and watched Zeitvogel carefully as the man took his seat again. ”Are you comfortable now?” Palatazin asked.
”I'm okay, I guess.”
”Good. I know Lieutenant Reece can be a bit too hard sometimes. Pretty overbearing. My name's Andy. Is it all right if I call you Walter?”
”I don't mind. Listen, I told that n.i.g.g.e.r a thing or two. He won't be bothering me anymore.”
”I hope not. I imagine he came in here and talked about the Roach, didn't he?”
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