hit me, for Christ’s sake.”
“After you provoked her with some pretty strong language. We have a roomful of very impressed witnesses.”
He fairly exploded. “Language? What the hell’s going on here? She accused me of raping your fucking girlfriend, and you’re talking about two-edged swords? Did all your fucking witnesses turn into dummies when that happened?”
“No, no. They got it right. They also saw you hightail it for your car and lock the doors against a small woman with a shoe. That got a few laughs. How much do you weigh?”
Several expressions chased across his face as he began seeing where I was headed. “What was I supposed to do?” he finally asked a little lamely, “punch her out? You would’ve nailed me for sure.”
I glanced over the patrolman’s notes once more. “You could’ve tried to defend yourself. You ‘ducked and ran,’ according to these people. One said you screamed.”
“Horse shit I screamed. What the fuck’s goin’ on here, Gunther? You jerk me around anymore and I’ll sue your ass to hell.”
I put the note pad into my coat pocket. “Straight? Okay, you press charges against her, and I’ll make sure the eyewitness accounts get circulated all over town. You don’t press charges, and I’ll also make sure she stays out of your way—with a restraining order, if necessary.”
He didn’t react immediately. Ironically, for a man whose prose made sewage look clean, his self-image was important to him. What he saw in the mirror was a bastion of conservative rectitude, attending town meetings and writing letters to the editor as a saint might stand by the front door of a brothel, warning all of the sins within. My offer, though painful, had its impact.
He glanced out the window at Wallis and the two patrolmen. “What’s to stop them from blabbing?”
“Me. Some word might get out from the crowd that was here, but that’ll just be gossip you can deny.”
There was a long pause as he stared out the windshield, considering his options. What he finally said both surprised me and helped explain his decision, which had less to do with vanity than I’d thought. “I didn’t rape your girlfriend.”
“You said all she needed was a good fuck.”
“I say that to a lot of people.”
“Saying it that time made you a suspect.”
I expected outrage, but he looked at me, genuinely startled. “But I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t do that.”
I let it stand at that. I didn’t want to pursue this without seeing what Kunkle and Martens might have dug up about Ryan’s whereabouts last night. I gestured toward Mary Wallis. “So what about her?”
He frowned and touched his lip. “Tell her to stay the fuck away from me, and that if I hear one more crack out of her, I’m suing for libel. And that goes for you assholes, too. Shut the fucking door.”
I drew back and complied. He fired up the car and spun its rear tires leaving the parking lot. Across the now-empty space, I looked at Mary Wallis. “You’re off the hook, with a few provisions.”
· · ·
My first opportunity to see Ron Klesczewski’s handiwork came at around eight o’clock that night, not long after I’d filed a report about my meeting with Stan Katz, and a private memo to Brandt concerning the parking-lot spat I’d just arbitrated.
Ron’s command post reflected his penchant for order and tidiness. The room directly down the hall from the detective bureau—normally a wasted space in search of a proper function—had been transformed into a data-management center of classic design. Bulletin boards, desks, phones, in and out trays, rows of open cardboard filing boxes were all arranged clearly and logically, without clutter or duplication—an efficient bureaucratic information funnel, designed to guide every scrap of incoming intelligence, no matter how trivial, to an easily locatable parking spot.
I hadn’t expected to see much activity at this time of night. I knew Ron would be there—his
“After you provoked her with some pretty strong language. We have a roomful of very impressed witnesses.”
He fairly exploded. “Language? What the hell’s going on here? She accused me of raping your fucking girlfriend, and you’re talking about two-edged swords? Did all your fucking witnesses turn into dummies when that happened?”
“No, no. They got it right. They also saw you hightail it for your car and lock the doors against a small woman with a shoe. That got a few laughs. How much do you weigh?”
Several expressions chased across his face as he began seeing where I was headed. “What was I supposed to do?” he finally asked a little lamely, “punch her out? You would’ve nailed me for sure.”
I glanced over the patrolman’s notes once more. “You could’ve tried to defend yourself. You ‘ducked and ran,’ according to these people. One said you screamed.”
“Horse shit I screamed. What the fuck’s goin’ on here, Gunther? You jerk me around anymore and I’ll sue your ass to hell.”
I put the note pad into my coat pocket. “Straight? Okay, you press charges against her, and I’ll make sure the eyewitness accounts get circulated all over town. You don’t press charges, and I’ll also make sure she stays out of your way—with a restraining order, if necessary.”
He didn’t react immediately. Ironically, for a man whose prose made sewage look clean, his self-image was important to him. What he saw in the mirror was a bastion of conservative rectitude, attending town meetings and writing letters to the editor as a saint might stand by the front door of a brothel, warning all of the sins within. My offer, though painful, had its impact.
He glanced out the window at Wallis and the two patrolmen. “What’s to stop them from blabbing?”
“Me. Some word might get out from the crowd that was here, but that’ll just be gossip you can deny.”
There was a long pause as he stared out the windshield, considering his options. What he finally said both surprised me and helped explain his decision, which had less to do with vanity than I’d thought. “I didn’t rape your girlfriend.”
“You said all she needed was a good fuck.”
“I say that to a lot of people.”
“Saying it that time made you a suspect.”
I expected outrage, but he looked at me, genuinely startled. “But I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t do that.”
I let it stand at that. I didn’t want to pursue this without seeing what Kunkle and Martens might have dug up about Ryan’s whereabouts last night. I gestured toward Mary Wallis. “So what about her?”
He frowned and touched his lip. “Tell her to stay the fuck away from me, and that if I hear one more crack out of her, I’m suing for libel. And that goes for you assholes, too. Shut the fucking door.”
I drew back and complied. He fired up the car and spun its rear tires leaving the parking lot. Across the now-empty space, I looked at Mary Wallis. “You’re off the hook, with a few provisions.”
· · ·
My first opportunity to see Ron Klesczewski’s handiwork came at around eight o’clock that night, not long after I’d filed a report about my meeting with Stan Katz, and a private memo to Brandt concerning the parking-lot spat I’d just arbitrated.
Ron’s command post reflected his penchant for order and tidiness. The room directly down the hall from the detective bureau—normally a wasted space in search of a proper function—had been transformed into a data-management center of classic design. Bulletin boards, desks, phones, in and out trays, rows of open cardboard filing boxes were all arranged clearly and logically, without clutter or duplication—an efficient bureaucratic information funnel, designed to guide every scrap of incoming intelligence, no matter how trivial, to an easily locatable parking spot.
I hadn’t expected to see much activity at this time of night. I knew Ron would be there—his
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