Nobody Lives Forever (10 page)

The man was slim and blue-eyed. Sipping coffee and enjoying a sandwich, he looked at home in the stark and heartless interrogation room, like somebody's visiting kid brother. He had confessed to the rape of a teenage schoolgirl attacked at knifepoint in her own bed. He had been caught in the act. Simmons, a detective in the sexual battery unit, took his statement and began to question him about other unsolved cases.

The young man glowed at the attention. He liked to boast and play word games. His mention of San Remo Island and a pretty girl who lived there had sent Simmons to the telephone to suggest that the man might be a suspect in a more serious crime. By the time the detectives in the Thorne homicide arrived, the man had confessed to another rape.

The suspect studied Rick and Jim curiously when Simmons asked if he would mind them joining the discussion.

“Why not?” he shrugged. A court reporter, a chubby, wavy-haired young woman whose impassive face reflected nothing, took down every word, her graceful fingers moving nimbly.

“We were talking about the victim last month, near Morningside Park…” Simmons said.

“Yeah, a stuck-up, tight-ass little number,” the suspect said, eyes hooded behind his cigarette smoke, watching to see how the new arrivals would take the remark. Rick and Jim showed no reaction. He had tried to speak to her twice, he said, from his moving car as she walked on the street near her home. She had ignored him. She found him impossible to ignore when he tickled her throat with the blade of his knife at three
A.M
. in her own bed.

“How did you get into the house that time?” Simmons asked.

“Sliding-glass door.” He slouched down in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him. “Love those sliding glass doors. Nothing to it.”

Rick saw the subtle glint of confirmation in Simmons's eyes. That was how the rapist had entered the house.

He explained that he knew the right bedroom because he had watched her at night.

“Once I saw her at the Omni Mall and followed her home. A couple of other times I just parked down near the Boulevard and walked the neighborhood.”

“Were you ever challenged?” Simmons asked. “Did anybody ever stop and question what you were doing there?”

“Nah, I was wearing shorts, jogging shorts, headband, the works, so if I get stopped by the cops, I'm just getting my workout.” He looked pleased. “I don't carry ID. If some cop stops me, I give a phony name and address. No way he can check. That way, if something comes up later, no cop even has my name. No law against jogging, and joggers don't usually carry wallets.”

His eyes sought approval for his cleverness. “Hey, if it hadn't been for that gung ho neighbor butting in the other night, I'd still be out there and you guys wouldn't have a clue.”

“Probably so,” Simmons said mildly.

At the mention of the neighbor, Rick and Jim had exchanged brief glances. “He a friend of yours?” the suspect asked.

“No, never met the man,” Rick said.

“He's the neighborhood block captin for Crime Watch,” Simmons explained. “A Vietman vet.”

“A crazy son of a bitch, running around with that shotgun,” the suspect said, shaking his head. “Somebody ought to do something about that guy.”

“You ever carry a gun?” Rick said quietly.

“Nah, they do nothing but get you in trouble. You don't need 'em,” he said. “I took a few, when I found them in houses, but I got rid of them right away, sold 'em.”

“Who was buying?”

“A guy named Manny, down on Southwest Sixth Street and Second Avenue.”

“Does he have a business address, or were these street deals?”

“A business, he's got a little shop.”

“One thing I'm curious about,” Rick said. “This all happened not far from the Boulevard, where hookers, all shapes, all sizes, all ages, parade up and down day and night. You could have had a hooker with no problem, so why did you go to all this time and trouble and run the risk?”

The suspect's stare was incredulous. “I never paid for sex in my life!” He was obviously indignant at the suggestion. “You ever take a good look at most of those hookers? They're dogs. You don't know what the hell kind of diseases they've got, or if they're gonna set you up to get robbed. I wouldn't have nothing to do with them, man. Besides,” he gave a leering grin, “it's more interesting this way. You know what I mean.”

He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “How about sending out for some cheeseburgers?”

“That can be arranged,” Simmons said agreeably. “The officers did advise you of your constitutional rights at the time of your arrest?”

“Yeah, so did you, twice.” He seemed impatient.

“Well, let's go over it one more time.”

Jim stirred in his chair. Rick shot a warning glance at him. “Got to make a pit stop,” Jim said, and got up to go to the john.

“While you're out there, maybe you can order the cheeseburgers,” the rapist said cheerfully. “I'll take two, medium well, with catsup and pickles on the side. And, eh, a couple of Classic Cokes.”

Jim stared at the man. The room fell silent, all eyes focused on him. “Medium well, catsup and pickles on the side,” he repeated. “A couple of Classic Cokes.”

He shambled out of the room, telling himself that any man about to cop out to an unsolved homicide should have all the cheeseburgers he can eat.

He rejoined them a short time later, his broad face carefully arranged into what he hoped was an amiable expression. He watched the wavy-haired, chubby-cheeked court reporter. Neither she nor the suspect seemed at all uncomfortable at her presence, Jim thought, so why was he?

“So you've raped two or three of them,” Simmons was saying in a casual fashion.

The suspect put down his fresh cup of coffee, paused and looked slyly at his questioners. “Try adding a zero to that number,” he said. “You'll be a lot closer.”

“Twenty or thirty?” Rick said, looking impressed. “All here in Miami?”

“That's for me to know and you to find out. You're the detectives.” The suspect seemed amused by his attempt at wit. “Got any more cigarettes?”

Simmons slowly shoved a pack of Marlboros across the scarred wooden table top.

The rapist tapped the pack, slid out a smoke and waited for the attentive detective to light it for him. He let them chew awhile on his latest revelation. He would have preferred not being caught, but now that he was, he enjoyed the recognition, the attention and the break from the dismal jailhouse routine.

Talking to the detectives entitled him to special food, special privileges and a celebrity of sorts. He intended to milk it for as long as he could.

“So you know Morningside, the Roads section, Allapattah, and you've been over there around the causeway islands?” Simmons said casually.

“Yeah, I been over to Sam Remo, nice neighborhood.”

Rick felt a chill in his stomach, thinking of Laurel, alone at night. His face remained frozen in a half-smile. Rapport with the rapist was important.

“Did you assault anybody over there?” Simmons asked.

“Nah, I just looked around.”

“What brought you there?”

“Some broad, a little dark-haired girl, nice ass. I saw her in a bookstore at the mall a couple times. She was driving one of those small Japanese cars. I followed her over to the island, thought she lived there, but I guess she was just visiting. I went by a few times after that. No sign of her car and she wasn't around, just an older couple.”

“How could you tell she wasn't there?”

“Parked up by the causeway and walked around in my jogging clothes.”

“Which side of the island was that?”

“The south side, a pink house with some kind of birdbath out front on the lawn.”

Christie, Rick thought. He knew her, knew the house. She'd grown up on the island, too, like Rob Thorne. She was in college at Gainesville, probably in summer session now. Smart as a whip, determined to get through in three years. He'd last seen her home at spring break.

“When was that?” Simmons said.

“I don't know, months ago, maybe April.”

“When were you on the island last?” Simmons said.

“That was it. Maybe I rode one more time in June to see if her car was there, but it wasn't.”

Thank God, Rick thought, his face revealing nothing.

Simmons nodded slightly to Rick, handing the interview over to him at that point.

“What about last week?” he asked the rapist. “Say Friday night, Saturday morning. You went over to the island that night too, didn't you?”

“San Remo? Nope.” The rapist lit another cigarette and watched the blue smoke as he slowly exhaled. “Haven't been in that neighborhood for a couple of months.” He looked amused. “Why, some broad say I been there?”

“You weren't walking around? On the north side of the island that night, maybe four or four-fifteen
A.M
.? Carrying a gun?”

Something changed in the rapist's eyes. He glanced over at Simmons. The rape squad detective was leaning back in his chair listening intently and did not seem about to speak up for him.

“What is it with you guys? This is straight arrow. I haven't been over there in months. I got no reason to lie.” He looked at Simmons again. “You been telling me what a good memory I got. If I'd been there, I'd remember. And I told you before, I got nothing to do with guns. Don't like them.”

“Come on, pal,” Jim said. “You've been pretty up front until now. Why not tell us about the shooting?”

“Shooting!” The rapist shot out of his chair so fast that it fell over backwards. “What the fuck you talking about?”

Rick ignored the outburst. “You were prowling the island,” he said calmly, “looking for a victim, you got chased by a neighbor and you shot him.”

“Why don't you just tell us about it?” Jim said soothingly. “Maybe it wasn't your fault. He was a big guy. Did he come at you out of the dark? Maybe it wasn't homicide, maybe it was self-defense.”

“Homicide!” The rapist's eyes swept the faces of the detectives so fast that it looked like his head was spinning. “I don't believe you guys! I didn't kill nobody. You hear me?” He jabbed a forefinger. “No guns, no shooting. You ain't pinning nothing like that on me. No way!”

He snatched his nearly empty Styrofoam coffee cup off the table and hurled it to the floor. “No way! Goddamnit!”

The detectives sat quietly. Drops of splattered coffee rolled slowly down the wall, leaving dun-colored trails on the drab off-white paint.

“I ought to make you clean that up. I guess you don't want your cheeseburgers now, either,” Jim said sadly.

“What day was it? Friday night, Saturday morning? I've got an alibi. You can check it out!” he raged, his face reddening, the muscles taut in his neck and jaw.

“What did you do with the gun?” Rick asked. “Sell it to Manny? Or drop it in the bay?”

“What alibi?”

Simmons looked earnest, still maintaining the goodguy posture.

“You tell them! Didn't I give you the truth about everything!”

“That's right,” Simmons said. “As far as I'm concerned, you've been very open and truthful. If you do have an alibi, we can check it out. No problem.”

“Well, you do that!” The rapist uprighted his chair, sat down sullenly and lit a cigarette. “My mom and stepfather own a bungalow down in the Keys. She doesn't drive, and he had a stroke so he can't. Every Friday night after rush hour, I pick them up, and sometimes a couple of their neighbors, and drive them down there. We come back late Sunday night.”

Jim snorted. “Your folks would say anything to back you up. What about witnesses from the real world?”

The rapist looked smug. He was calmer now and thinking clearly. “Well, my stepfather would not lie for me since I am not exactly his favorite person. Then there are their neighbors, a nice Christian couple who would not lie for anybody, but how about,” he paused, “the cops?”

Eyes glittery, he gazed at them one by one to see if he had their full attention. He did.

“If you recall,” he said slowly and distinctly, “the U.S. Border Patrol put up a roadblock at Florida City last weekend and stopped every motherfucking car.”

Rick nodded. The drastic attempt by the government to block the endless flow of illegal drugs and aliens had made controversial headlines. Weekend traffic was tied up for hours. Cars overheated in ninety-degree weather. Motorists were infuriated, and the groundswell of outrage had caused Key West citizens to launch a movement to secede from the United States and form their own republic.

“You still coulda made it back in time,” Jim said.

The rapist shook his head and looked sorry for him.

“When we finally got through the jam-up, I tried to make up for lost time.”

“And?” Rick said.

The rapist paused for effect. “I guess I was driving too fast. On the Seven Mile Bridge. A trooper pulled me over for speeding. I was mad as hell—in fact, he'll probably tell you I gave him a hard time—but now I see he did me a favor. He is the man who's gonna get you two assholes off of my case.”

A muscle in Jim's right cheek began to twitch.

“You have the citation he wrote?” Rick asked.

“Sure. You'll find the ticket in my car, in the glove box.” He turned to Simmons. “If you don't mind, I don't want to talk to those two anymore.”

“Sure,” Simmons said. He nodded at Rick and Jim, who stood up to leave. “I'll be right back,” he said, and walked outside the room with them.

“Don't forget the cheeseburgers,” the rapist called after them.

“Catsup and pickles on the side,” Jim muttered.

“And two Classic Cokes!” the rapist sang out.