The Interrogation by Thomas H. Cook

the lobby?”
    “Yeah, she was.” Getz nodded. “Standing right at the door, just like before.”
    “Was anyone else in the lobby?”
    “No.”
    “And that was the last time you saw the girl?”
    “Yeah, it was. I went through the lobby again about ten minutes later. It was raining like hell by then. Anyway, on the way out I didn’t see the kid, so I figured her mother picked her up.”
    “Did you see anybody else in the lobby?”
    “Just Mr. Stitt. He was—” He stopped.
    “What?” Pierce asked.
    “He was … straightening stuff up. Chairs and stuff. It looked like things had been tossed around a little.” Getz glanced about furtively. “Look, we got all kinds in this building, you know. I wouldn’t want to get nobody in trouble.”
    “What kind is Mr. Stitt?” Pierce pressed.
    “He’s … well … he’s … He plays the horses, that sort of thing.”
    “A bookie?”
    “Yeah, okay, but, look, I can’t … I mean, I can’t go telling stuff on people in the building. I’d lose my job, I started doing that.”
    Cohen presented a reassuring smile. “We’re homicide detectives, Mr. Getz. We’re looking for a guy who killed a little girl, nothing else. And if this Mr. Stitt was in the lobby when you say he was, he might have seen something.”
    “Okay, but don’t say it came from me,” Getz said, lowering his voice. “That Mr. Stitt was in the lobby, I mean. What he does. None of that came from me,okay?” He glanced about. “Apartment 14-F. That’s where Stitt lives. Burt Stitt.”
    “Thanks,” Cohen told him.
    Seconds later Pierce and Cohen stood at the door of Apartment 14-F.
    Pierce knocked once, then called, “Police! Open up.”
    The door swung open instantly. A tall, gaunt man stood before them, black hair swept back and greased down, a narrow mustache across his lip. His cheeks were sunken, like his eyes, and there was a slick snaillike quality to his skin, the sense that wherever he went, a slithery trail followed behind.
    “Burt Stitt?” Cohen asked.
    “Yeah.”
    Pierce and Cohen presented their shields.
    “Homicide,” Pierce told Stitt. “We’re looking into the murder of a girl in the park yesterday.”
    “What’s that got to do with me?”
    “May we come in?” Cohen asked.
    Stitt shrugged. “Sure, okay,” he said indifferently. “But I don’t know nothing about a little girl.”
    Pierce gave the room a quick perusal, taking in the things that told him most about Burt Stitt, the racing form on the sofa, the cheap detective novel on the floor, a torn ticket stub from a nearby strip joint. But more than these, Pierce noticed the things that weren’t in Stitt’s apartment. There were no family photos, no dining table, no chair that didn’t face the radio. The absence of such things told Pierce that Stitt ate alone, with the plate in his lap, had no memories that meant anything to him, no wife or children he hadn’t lost touch with long ago.
    “We understand that you were down in the lobby yesterday evening,” Cohen said. “Around seven.”
    Stitt nodded. “That sounds about right.”
    “Did you happen to see a girl in the lobby at around that time?”
    “Eight years old,” Pierce added. “Long, dark hair.”
    Stitt considered this. “Yeah, I remember a kid in the lobby.”
    “What else do you remember?” Pierce asked.
    “I don’t remember nothing else. Just some kid. That’s all. Like you said, a little girl. Hair down to her waist. Dark.”
    “Did you notice anyone else in the lobby?”
    “No.”
    Pierce leveled his gaze on Stitt. “Do you remember straightening up the place?”
    Stitt smiled. “Yeah, sure. I was straightening up a couple of chairs. But that didn’t have nothing to do with that kid I seen. I mean, she was just standing in the lobby when I came in. Looked like she was waiting around for somebody. Anyway, she didn’t have nothing to do with them chairs being all thrown around.”
    “What did happen in the lobby, Mr. Stitt?”