ten guys staying at the halfway house at the time. All of them were on parole, but some had jobs and others were on a methadone program and just lived there. Do you remember the bag lady case at all?”
“No. How long ago was it?”
“Seven or eight years. I don’t remember exactly. Anyway, this old lady climbed onto the porch when it was raining. She was run down, physically, like most bag ladies, and she just laid there for four days. The guys in the halfway house, including Grogan, had to step over her for the first day or so, and then she managed to crawl over to the wall. The point is, no one helped her or gave her any food or water. She was too weak to move, so she just died there. Finally, after she died, someone told Grogan the woman was dead, and he called the rescue squad to pick up her body. When he was asked why he didn’t call them the first day she showed up on the porch, he said he didn’t mind her lying there. She didn’t bother anybody, he said, but he would’ve called the police if she’d tried to come inside the house. When they were questioned, the parolees in the halfway house all claimed that they didn’t see anything wrong with a woman lying out there, moaning, on the porch.”
“And so Grogan lost his license for the halfway house?”
“Yeah, but not for that. If someone comes up on your front porch to get out of the rain, you can let him do it out of the goodness of your heart. That person isn’t your personal responsibility. But a lot of people in town were pissed off because the old lady died. Four days is a long time. So housing inspectors were sent out, and they yanked Grogan’s license for faulty wiring and drainage problems.”
“But Grogan’s house is still there, Hoke,” Henderson said. “Only now his place is a rooming house, and that’s where Captain Morrow lives. Ellita picked me up in the car, and we came back here. I went over his file and I thinkwe should talk to Captain Midnight again. The man owned a hundred-thousand-dollar home, he had money in the bank, and he was an airline pilot. Where did all of that go in only three years? He looks like he’s been on the street for months. And he looks at least twenty years older than he did the last time we talked to him. If he’s sitting around on a bus bench waiting for his dead wife, he’s confused and disoriented. Maybe he’ll admit now that he killed her if we lean on him a little. The time to kick a man, Hoke, is when he’s down. You know that.”
“Maybe he was waiting for a new wife. He could have gotten married again, you know.”
“Tell him, Ellita,” Henderson said. “Did he look like a married man to you?”
“No one would marry a bum like that. He’s a sick man, not a drunk, not talking to himself or anything like that, more like a man lost somewhere in his own thoughts.”
“Let’s go talk to him, Hoke,” Henderson said. “You know he’s guilty and so do I. If we can crack a case on our first day, Willie Brownley’ll shit his pants.”
“Okay. But let me look at the file for a minute.”
Everything in the file led to Captain Robert Morrow as a prime suspect. After dinner he had left his house, he said, to get a package of cigarettes. While he was at the 7/Eleven, he drank a cup of coffee, a large one, and talked to the Cuban manager. His house was only two blocks away, and he was gone for only twenty minutes—twenty-two minutes at most. When he returned home, he found his wife in the kitchen. Someone had taken his four-pound sledgehammer from the garage and hit his wife over the head with it while she was washing pots and pans at the sink. Death was instantaneous, with a hole in her skull big enough to hold an orange. From the way it looked, she hadn’t known what hit her. The sledgehammer, without prints, was on the floor beside her body. When he discovered her body, Captain Morrow had telephoned 911 and waited outside on the front lawn until the police arrived,smoking two of the
“No. How long ago was it?”
“Seven or eight years. I don’t remember exactly. Anyway, this old lady climbed onto the porch when it was raining. She was run down, physically, like most bag ladies, and she just laid there for four days. The guys in the halfway house, including Grogan, had to step over her for the first day or so, and then she managed to crawl over to the wall. The point is, no one helped her or gave her any food or water. She was too weak to move, so she just died there. Finally, after she died, someone told Grogan the woman was dead, and he called the rescue squad to pick up her body. When he was asked why he didn’t call them the first day she showed up on the porch, he said he didn’t mind her lying there. She didn’t bother anybody, he said, but he would’ve called the police if she’d tried to come inside the house. When they were questioned, the parolees in the halfway house all claimed that they didn’t see anything wrong with a woman lying out there, moaning, on the porch.”
“And so Grogan lost his license for the halfway house?”
“Yeah, but not for that. If someone comes up on your front porch to get out of the rain, you can let him do it out of the goodness of your heart. That person isn’t your personal responsibility. But a lot of people in town were pissed off because the old lady died. Four days is a long time. So housing inspectors were sent out, and they yanked Grogan’s license for faulty wiring and drainage problems.”
“But Grogan’s house is still there, Hoke,” Henderson said. “Only now his place is a rooming house, and that’s where Captain Morrow lives. Ellita picked me up in the car, and we came back here. I went over his file and I thinkwe should talk to Captain Midnight again. The man owned a hundred-thousand-dollar home, he had money in the bank, and he was an airline pilot. Where did all of that go in only three years? He looks like he’s been on the street for months. And he looks at least twenty years older than he did the last time we talked to him. If he’s sitting around on a bus bench waiting for his dead wife, he’s confused and disoriented. Maybe he’ll admit now that he killed her if we lean on him a little. The time to kick a man, Hoke, is when he’s down. You know that.”
“Maybe he was waiting for a new wife. He could have gotten married again, you know.”
“Tell him, Ellita,” Henderson said. “Did he look like a married man to you?”
“No one would marry a bum like that. He’s a sick man, not a drunk, not talking to himself or anything like that, more like a man lost somewhere in his own thoughts.”
“Let’s go talk to him, Hoke,” Henderson said. “You know he’s guilty and so do I. If we can crack a case on our first day, Willie Brownley’ll shit his pants.”
“Okay. But let me look at the file for a minute.”
Everything in the file led to Captain Robert Morrow as a prime suspect. After dinner he had left his house, he said, to get a package of cigarettes. While he was at the 7/Eleven, he drank a cup of coffee, a large one, and talked to the Cuban manager. His house was only two blocks away, and he was gone for only twenty minutes—twenty-two minutes at most. When he returned home, he found his wife in the kitchen. Someone had taken his four-pound sledgehammer from the garage and hit his wife over the head with it while she was washing pots and pans at the sink. Death was instantaneous, with a hole in her skull big enough to hold an orange. From the way it looked, she hadn’t known what hit her. The sledgehammer, without prints, was on the floor beside her body. When he discovered her body, Captain Morrow had telephoned 911 and waited outside on the front lawn until the police arrived,smoking two of the
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