Ten-hut.”
That’s the way the soldier covered with shrapnel scars informed me I should probably wake up. That I had visitors.
Only I’d been visiting a place where little children cowered in terror before blue giants with bloody knives. I had trouble opening my eyes and focusing.
Detective Wolfe. He was standing there with a new partner who didn’t look much like a policeman. There was a palpable menace in the room.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Maybe not,” Wolfe said. “You said you’re a reporter but you’re not just a reporter, Mr. Valle.”
Dennis was up, too. Dried blood had formed around the corners of his lips.
“You’re famous,” Detective Wolfe continued. “You didn’t tell me you were famous.”
The other man had pulled up a chair and placed one foot on it, resting his arms across his knee. Detective Wolfe might’ve been asking the questions, but his new partner seemed to be the one listening.
“For fifteen minutes,” I said.
“You’re being modest,” Wolfe said.
“No. Not really.”
“Come on, Tom. Fifty-six stories? That’s quite a fucking accomplishment. Maybe you should’ve let me in on it.”
“Why? It didn’t have anything to do with Dennis being attacked in the gas station.”
“No? You might, I’m just saying here, fall under the heading of unreliable witness. Given your habit of lying through your fucking teeth.”
“Old habit. I’ve been working at a newspaper for more than a year.”
“You’re on leave from a newspaper-you were sent to the corner for being bad. Something to do with someone getting shot.”
“That someone was supposed to be me. He missed.”
“He who?”
“The shooter.”
“Right. There’s a suspicion the shooter had your gun.”
“He stole it.”
“Yeah, that’s what you told everybody.”
“That’s what happened. Why would I want someone to shoot me?”
“Maybe you didn’t. After all, you didn’t get shot, did you? Someone else did.”
The other man occasionally closed his eyes and nodded at something or other.
“Here’s the thing,” the detective continued. “Mr. Patjy was shot too. The shooter was nice enough to leave an empty cartridge outside. He was shot with a Smith amp; Wesson.38. Just like the kid in Littleton. Just like the gun you purchased-illegally, apparently, from Ted’s Guns amp; Ammo.”
Okay, it had just been a matter of time.
Time’s up.
“I told you. I was asleep in the car. I woke up and found Dennis in the bathroom.”
“Right. You like Doritos, Tom?”
“Not especially.”
“Somebody did. Their prints are all over the bags. The ones they dropped on their way out.”
I didn’t answer him.
“Back in New York, after you were arrested for-what was it, breaking and entering, malicious destruction of property, lying your ass off-after that, you were court-ordered into therapy. It was your get-out-of-jail-free card, wasn’t it?”
“I wasn’t going to jail. Not for a first-time offense.”
The other man squinted, furrowed his brow in thought.
“I’m asking if the court recognized you as having mental problems.”
“I had problems. I don’t think I would define them as mental.”
“How would you define them?”
“I was trying to get ahead. I made things up. That was a problem.”
“Now it’s my problem.”
“Why?”
“Don’t act stupid. I’ve just told you why.”
“I don’t see it that way. I didn’t shoot anybody. I didn’t cut out Dennis’s tongue. And here’s the wonderful thing-you can ask him. He’s right here. Give him a pencil. Ask him who attacked him in that bathroom. It’s the same person who killed Mr. Patjy. And yeah, I’m 99 percent sure it’s the same person who shot my intern in Littleton. He’s been following us.”
“Thanks for telling me. Maybe you forgot that withholding information in a homicide is a crime. Anyway, we still have a little problem.”
“What’s that?”
“What’s that? Your friend here-no offense-is a fucking mental case. Which means whatever he says means 100 percent shit. He goes in and out-your words, not mine. Swats bugs that aren’t there. Which makes him just a little, only a tiny bit, less reliable than you are.”
That seemed to jar the other man out of his reverie. He trained both eyes on me.
“Aren’t you in the wrong ward, doctor?” I asked him.
He smiled. “Was my Freudian slip showing?”
“Kind of.”
I turned to the detective.
“You know, if you wanted to have me psychoanalyzed, you should’ve asked.”
“Really? What if I wanted to put my fist down your throat? Should I ask you that too?”
“Okay,” the doctor said, looking slightly alarmed. “We’re just talking here.”
“You’re just talking, doctor,” Wolfe said. “I’ve got a dead body and a vet who can’t speak anymore. You’re not a vet, are you, Tom?”
“Not unless ROTC counts.”
“Didn’t think so. I fucking hate it when I have to take in a vet.”
“Are you taking me in?”
“I don’t know. Should I?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. I didn’t do anything.”
“Right. But you speak with forked tongue. Maybe you’re just off your rocker. Is he off his rocker, doctor?”
“I’m not familiar with that diagnostic term,” the doctor said.
“Okay, use another term. Is he sociopathic, schizoid, delusional, paranoid? Doctor, doctor, give me the news.”
“I’ve listened to him for less than five minutes-I wouldn’t know. Sorry for talking about you as if you aren’t in the room, Mr. Valle.”
“For crying out loud-how long does a diagnosis take, doctor? Haven’t you ever watched an expert psych on the stand? Two minutes with the defendant and they just know he wasn’t responsible for his actions.”
“I’m afraid expert testimony isn’t my forte.”
“You’ve got to have a forte, doctor. You don’t go anywhere without a forte these days. Take mine, for instance.”
“Which is?” the doctor asked.
“Closing cases. It’s the marine in me. Don’t leave anybody on the ground. Nobody. Not ever. I’ve got one on the ground and one in a hospital. And I’ve got this world famous bullshit artist over here telling me he didn’t do anything.”
“You want my opinion?” the doctor said.
“Sure.”
“He didn’t do anything.”
“What happened to ‘I’ve listened to him for less than five minutes’?”
“Call it a first impression.”
It was decidedly odd being talked about as if I weren’t there. I was back in the New York City courtroom-my lawyer against theirs, debating my fate as I sat there and mostly kept my mouth shut.
“He was in that store, doctor. I’ll bet you one hundred dollars his prints are all over the Doritos,” Detective Wolfe said. “Otherwise he would’ve gone in and told the Indian to call an ambulance after he found Mr. Flaherty with his tongue cut out. But he didn’t go in. So either he was in that store first and saw the dead Indian, or he was in the store first and he killed the Indian.”
“And then cut out Mr. Flaherty’s tongue? The man he was escorting back to a hospital for treatment?” the psychiatrist asked. “Forgive me, but I think both events are twinned. He did both or he did neither.”
“Okay, fine, he did both.”
Major DeCola walked in and said that he needed to examine Dennis and would we please clear the room.
Now.
Court recessed.