The Interrogation by Thomas H. Cook Page A

Cohen asked.
    “A tussle, that’s all,” Stitt answered. “I had a tussle with this freak who followed me into the building. Bum. Most of them, they leave you alone. They ask for a handout, and if you say no, they take no for an answer. But not this guy. He went nuts. Tossed a chair right at my face. Screaming his head off.”
    “Where was the little girl during all this?” Cohen asked.
    Stitt thought a moment. “She was there when it started, but then, I guess she left. Maybe she got scared.”
    “Okay, the guy you had the fight with? What did he look like?”
    “A bum, like I said.”
    “You can do better than that.”
    “Not by much. I was too busy getting rid of the bastard to pay much attention to him. He was white. I can tell you that much. Twenty-five, thirty, somewhere in there. Shorter than me by maybe four, five inches. Skinny as hell.”
    “Do you remember what he was wearing?”
    “What they all wear, baggy pants, some old ragged jacket smelled like piss. Bum clothes.”
    “Where did he go?”
    “He just left the building. Turned right, I think. Yeah. To the right.”
    “What did you do after the argument?” Cohen asked.
    “Nothing. I mean, straightened the place up, like you said. Then I went upstairs.”
    “Did you ever see this guy again?”
    “No,” Stitt answered promptly. “Never seen him before neither. Just a bum, like I said. A panhandler.”
    “There was a bum hanging around in the alley at about this time. The super chased him off. Could this have been the same guy?”
    Stitt shook his head. “Nah. I know the guy you mean. I’ve seen him in the alley a few times. The bum who came at me was bigger than him.”
    “Okay, well, if you do see the guy who attacked you again, let us know,” Cohen said.
    “Yeah, sure,” Stitt said.
    Pierce gave the room a final glance, found the look of it uncomfortably like his own place, then followed Cohen out the door.
    On the street, they stood, facing the park, the iron gate that led into its emerald depths.
    “Cathy got scared,” Pierce said. “Two guys yelling, one of them throwing things. Any kid would try to getaway from something like that.” He continued to stare at the gate. “But why did she go into the park, Norm? She could have just stood by the gate, watched for her mother. Why did she go into the park?”
    “Maybe he went after her,” Cohen answered, knowing it was sheer supposition. “The guy who threw the chair at Stitt. Maybe he came across the street and she saw him and she ran away from him into the park.”
    “But what about the other guy, the one Getz chased out of the alley?” Pierce turned back toward the alley that bordered Clairmont Towers. “If he were still at the gate, he would have seen Cathy cross the street at seven. He might even have seen if the other guy was after her, followed her into the park.”
    They walked to the alley in the hope that the man Getz had chased away might have returned, but they found only the deserted overhang and clumps of sodden newspapers that had been gathered into what resembled a bed.
    Cohen peered beneath the overhang. In the murky light he saw a crayon drawing of a young girl, her body draped in white, long dark hair falling to her waist.
    “Look at this, Jack,” he said.
    Pierce settled down upon his haunches.
    “It’s the same picture we found in the tunnel,” Cohen said. “That bum we questioned last night.”
    “Questioned and let go,” Pierce said. “Smalls.”
    They reached the tunnel six minutes later, but Smalls was not there. And so they waited, sitting on a wooden bench, the duck pond and Dubarry Playground distantly visible through the surrounding trees. An hour passed, then another. It was approaching noon before they saw him.
    “Look,” Cohen said, pressing his elbow into Pierce’s side.
    They got to their feet and watched as the man continued toward them. He was dressed in the same rags he’d been wearing the night before, and as he walked he