listened to by people beyond the mirror. Millthorpe had glanced at the …? once, shook his head, and turned in real or feigned boredom back to the two policemen.
“No crime,” he repeated. “Like all the other times. I didn’t threaten, didn’t throw anything at the lady. Threw a can down the street. Picked it up later and put it where I’d found it. Said a lot of bad words. That I rightly admit, but not at the lady. At the world. Not been treated kindly by the world, gentlemen, not been treated kindly at all. So, if you’re gonna arrest me, get me a public defender. If you’re gonna turn me over for another psycho-this or psycho-that evaluation, let’s get to it. If not, take me back home. Either way, I’m hungry.”
“Where’s home?” asked Hanrahan.
Someone screamed in the squad room behind the closed door. None of the three men knew if the scream had come from a male or female voice. Millthorpe looked at the door for about ten seconds, lost in some thought or memory, and then turned back.
“Where’s home?” asked Hanrahan again.
“Where you found me.”
“The hood of a red pickup truck on Lunt?” asked Hanrahan.
Millthorpe shrugged and said, “Round abouts there.”
“This is the seventh time you’ve been brought in for questioning,” said Lieberman, looking at the file open in front of him.
“I think it’s eight,” Millthorpe said with satisfaction.
“Right,” Lieberman amended. “This makes eight.”
“What’s your real name?” asked Lieberman.
“Clarence Millthorpe. We gonna do all this again? If we are, I’d like something to eat. I told you. No candy bar and coffee or a Pepsi or some such shit. A bowl of chili, a burger.”
At that point the door to the room opened and a young uniformed officer who was, basically, running errands and answering phones for a month or two of penance came in. He was stocky, Hispanic, perfectly groomed, and obviously nervous about intruding on an interrogation.
“Yes?” said Abe.
“Sorry,” said the young officer whose name was James Guttierez. “But Detective Hanrahan is needed out here.”
Hanrahan shrugged and Lieberman nodded.
“Maybe with the big man gone,” said Millthorpe with a smile, “someone might misbehave and tear this little Jew into tiny pieces.”
Hanrahan didn’t pause. He wasn’t worried about his partner.
When Hanrahan had followed Guttierez out and closed the door, Lieberman wearily said, “Look under the table. Big surprise.”
Millthorpe cocked his head again, hesitated, pushed his chair back about a foot, and looked under the table where Lieberman was holding an army .45 in his hand.
“You even talk that kind of garbage again,” said Lieberman, “and the cleaning crew will be picking up big pieces of chopped Millthorpe. They’ll put the parts in a Hefty bag and throw it in the incinerator and no one will ever even ask about you.”
Millthorpe sat back, folded his arms, and tried to decide if the skinny little old fart of a detective was telling the truth.
“You’re shittin’,” he said.
“No,” said Lieberman. “I’m tired. I’ve got a family to take care of, responsibilities. There is no way I would allow myself to be murdered when I have a gun in my hand and you have nothing but a big mouth.”
“You got a point,” said Millthorpe.
“Good,” said Abe. “We can start again with that point of agreement.”
Outside the interrogation room Hanrahan found himself facing a black man in his thirties. The man was handsome, athletic looking, close-cropped hair and wearing jeans, a white shirt, and a heavy denim jacket.
“Father Parker?” said Hanrahan, holding out his hand.
Guttierez had fled for a ringing phone and a shout from one of the detectives across the squad room.
“I know that’s not a question about my identity,” said the priest. “I’ll assume it’s a sign that you didn’t expect to see me here.”
Sam “Whiz” Parker had been a star running back at the
“No crime,” he repeated. “Like all the other times. I didn’t threaten, didn’t throw anything at the lady. Threw a can down the street. Picked it up later and put it where I’d found it. Said a lot of bad words. That I rightly admit, but not at the lady. At the world. Not been treated kindly by the world, gentlemen, not been treated kindly at all. So, if you’re gonna arrest me, get me a public defender. If you’re gonna turn me over for another psycho-this or psycho-that evaluation, let’s get to it. If not, take me back home. Either way, I’m hungry.”
“Where’s home?” asked Hanrahan.
Someone screamed in the squad room behind the closed door. None of the three men knew if the scream had come from a male or female voice. Millthorpe looked at the door for about ten seconds, lost in some thought or memory, and then turned back.
“Where’s home?” asked Hanrahan again.
“Where you found me.”
“The hood of a red pickup truck on Lunt?” asked Hanrahan.
Millthorpe shrugged and said, “Round abouts there.”
“This is the seventh time you’ve been brought in for questioning,” said Lieberman, looking at the file open in front of him.
“I think it’s eight,” Millthorpe said with satisfaction.
“Right,” Lieberman amended. “This makes eight.”
“What’s your real name?” asked Lieberman.
“Clarence Millthorpe. We gonna do all this again? If we are, I’d like something to eat. I told you. No candy bar and coffee or a Pepsi or some such shit. A bowl of chili, a burger.”
At that point the door to the room opened and a young uniformed officer who was, basically, running errands and answering phones for a month or two of penance came in. He was stocky, Hispanic, perfectly groomed, and obviously nervous about intruding on an interrogation.
“Yes?” said Abe.
“Sorry,” said the young officer whose name was James Guttierez. “But Detective Hanrahan is needed out here.”
Hanrahan shrugged and Lieberman nodded.
“Maybe with the big man gone,” said Millthorpe with a smile, “someone might misbehave and tear this little Jew into tiny pieces.”
Hanrahan didn’t pause. He wasn’t worried about his partner.
When Hanrahan had followed Guttierez out and closed the door, Lieberman wearily said, “Look under the table. Big surprise.”
Millthorpe cocked his head again, hesitated, pushed his chair back about a foot, and looked under the table where Lieberman was holding an army .45 in his hand.
“You even talk that kind of garbage again,” said Lieberman, “and the cleaning crew will be picking up big pieces of chopped Millthorpe. They’ll put the parts in a Hefty bag and throw it in the incinerator and no one will ever even ask about you.”
Millthorpe sat back, folded his arms, and tried to decide if the skinny little old fart of a detective was telling the truth.
“You’re shittin’,” he said.
“No,” said Lieberman. “I’m tired. I’ve got a family to take care of, responsibilities. There is no way I would allow myself to be murdered when I have a gun in my hand and you have nothing but a big mouth.”
“You got a point,” said Millthorpe.
“Good,” said Abe. “We can start again with that point of agreement.”
Outside the interrogation room Hanrahan found himself facing a black man in his thirties. The man was handsome, athletic looking, close-cropped hair and wearing jeans, a white shirt, and a heavy denim jacket.
“Father Parker?” said Hanrahan, holding out his hand.
Guttierez had fled for a ringing phone and a shout from one of the detectives across the squad room.
“I know that’s not a question about my identity,” said the priest. “I’ll assume it’s a sign that you didn’t expect to see me here.”
Sam “Whiz” Parker had been a star running back at the
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