Читать книгу The Descent of Man - Kevin Desinger - Страница 7

Sergeant Rainey looked as if he were the principal of a grade school and I was the tenth consecutive kid to be marched into his office. Or I felt like a naughty boy being marched into the principal’s office, and Rainey seemed weary of me at first glance. He gave me a frozen-faced, I’m-watching-your-pupils-dilate-so-don’t-lie-to-me look, and all I could think about was the lie I planned to tell. Tapping his pencil against a notepad on his desk, he invited me to sit.

“Let’s see, here. You’re a wine steward in a sandwich shop?”

I nodded.

“And your wife is a schoolteacher. You live in a house on Juniper and park your Toyota Camry out front. Why don’t you tell me what happened tonight.”

I gave him the truth until I reached the part about getting close to the truck. Then I said I heard one of the guys make a move toward me, so I ran down the block, took a right at 37th, and kept going until I holed up in Fred Jackson’s garage, about two blocks away. I told him I hid in the corner behind the boat—Fred’s aluminum drift boat—and I took a piece of firewood from the stack along the back wall, and if I heard anyone coming I planned to beat on the boat and yell for help. I found it surprisingly easy to invent the details. But then it occurred to me that I had made a mistake because of how closely this version paralleled what had really happened—me beating on the truck with the length of pipe.

Rainey said something I didn’t catch.

“I’m sorry?”

“That was your plan?”

“Actually, I was in a hurry.” I laughed, and it surprised me. I had a lot of nervous energy. It’s amazing how worked up you can get over lying on record to the cops, even when it’s not your only thrill of the night. This was different from driving away in the truck because it was face-to-face. And I couldn’t react to the adrenaline rush by beating on something and roaring like a prehistoric galoot. A pressure was building in me—made worse by the sense that I was a suspect in the disappearance of the truck—and I had to just sit there and maintain the restrained demeanor of modern man.

I said, “I didn’t have what you might call a plan.”

“Did you see any of the thieves?”

“Only shapes.”

“How many?”

“At least two.”

“No, I asked how many shapes you saw, not how many you think might have been there.” This was when I realized I still didn’t have my story straight. He said, “It’s my job to figure out what happened. All I want from you is your side of it. So again, how many car thieves did you see?”

“Two.”

“And the one that came after you?”

“That was later. Not a lot later, I mean, but I didn’t see anyone right then. I was looking at the truck.”

“Still, in your story, one of them came after you.”

“Actually, it might’ve been a noise, like a scuff. It happened right after something broke in the car. There was a snap, then this other noise, and I ran.”

“But in fact, you didn’t see anything.”

“I think I panicked. In fact, my wife—”

Oops. Why bring her into it?

“What about your wife?”

“Oh. Well, I was telling her what happened because I was gone so long, and it made sense to her that I ran. I wanted to see the license plate of the truck, but when I got close, I got scared. I mean, they were right there, and it was so quiet.” He watched me. I said, “Actually, I might have made the noise that spooked me. My wife doesn’t think I’m very brave.”

It’s interesting how often you can use the word actually when you’re making it all up, when nothing you’re describing is actual.

“Were you carrying anything?”

“What do you mean?” I was worried that he had a witness, one of our neighbors perhaps, who had seen the whole thing—including me carrying the pipe into the truck. Was he just riding out my version to see how far I would go? Well, I thought, I’m in this far. Also, I still felt I was one of the good guys, an ordinary citizen trying to protect what was his.

He said, “Did you have a weapon?”

“We don’t keep guns in the house. When I was hiding, I found a piece of firewood, but that was more of a—you know, something to pound on the boat with.”

“In Fred Jackson’s garage.”

“Yup. I mean, yes.” I cautioned myself, Don’t get too comfortable. Then I realized I was making mistakes because I was too tense, not because I was too comfortable. The middle part was missing, the kind of relaxed you get when you’re in a serious situation but innocent, and telling the truth. I was close to what Marla calls the church giggles, where the tension alone can make you explode with snickers at notions that normally wouldn’t spark a chuckle. If I got any less comfortable, who knew what pumpkin-seed remarks might be pinched out of me?

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing. I didn’t know what it would be like, is all.”

“What what would be like?”

“This.”

“Did you hear the dog go off ? The one they call Barky?”

I felt certain that a loud dog could be heard from two blocks away, but when you put me in the back of Fred’s garage, I wasn’t so sure.

“Barely,” I said. “It sounded like a million miles away.”

“Is that the dog’s real name?”

“It’s what we all call him. He’s got a hair trigger, and then you can’t shut him up. His real name is Jeeves.”

“Jeeves.”

“I know. They missed by a mile with that one.”

“Yeah, but with dogs you can’t be sure.”

“They could have named him Stupid. You figure that out right away.”

He scribbled on his pad, then sat back, took a deep breath, and sighed.

“Okay, Mr. Sandusky. Mr. Jim Sandusky.” He was consulting his notes, holding the pad at arm’s length. “I think we’re about done here, but I want to say something off the record.” He set the pad on the table and looked at me. I waited for him to move the pad to a drawer or turn off a tape recorder, some indication that “off the record” was anything other than a mental construct.

Eventually I said, “Okay.”

He said, “I’ll be honest here. There might be repercussions if you took the truck. But if you were to tell us where to find it, you would get your life back in pretty short order.”

I recalled my last look at the windowless, battered wreck.

He watched me with a slight smile for a moment, then said, “I do like the idea of you taking it.” I leaned forward, and he raised a hand. “I’m not saying you did, but a timid guy like you seeing two thugs stealing your car, and somehow you end up in their truck, angry as hell, stomping on the gas, your eyes as big as baseballs …” He peered at me through his hands, which were miming binoculars, then sat back and looked at the pad. “But no, we’ll accept your story as you told it. Officially it doesn’t have any holes—no gapers, anyway. Believe me, the cops don’t care whether or not it’s true.”

After a moment he said, “If you stole the truck, right now you would be wondering how to read me. You’d be asking yourself if legally I can say I don’t care if you stole the truck—and by legally I mean whether it would hold up in court if I used it to trap you into confessing. You would also want to talk about it, not have to worry about the phone ringing with me on the other end saying we found a partial print on the parking brake and we need you to come down for more questions.”

I said, “Makes sense.”

“That’s good,” he said, nodding. “Neutral.” He paused, but I couldn’t tell if it was for effect or a real pause. What I could tell was that, in spite of what he had said when he’d set down the notepad, we weren’t nearly done here. I kept quiet, waiting for the rest of it. He said, “And partly you’re wondering if we would go easy on you, maybe even let you off, if you were to confess right now.”

He leaned back and sighed. “Well, Jim, I can’t help you. I could swear on my grampa’s pocket watch that this really is off the record, but the more I said it the less you would believe me because I’d say the same thing either way. Obviously, if you took the truck, you’d have to play it as if I’m trying to smoke you out. That’s your disposition.” He liked that word. “Which is interesting, see, because now you’re assuming I’m lying, and I’m assuming you’re telling the truth. It sounds like I’m not, but believe me, I am. Which is the opposite of what usually happens at this desk.” His believe me was beginning to sound like my actually.

But the man had an interesting mind. And to be honest, I wanted him to admire me for what I’d done: I had taken their own vehicle right out from under their noses! I also wanted him to see how I had to lie to keep the law, which was too general to appreciate the special circumstances of this situation, from treating me like a criminal. In a way it made us equals. And adversaries.

He gave a conceding nod. “You say you heard something—sure, that could do it, turn you back into a timid guy.” He didn’t seem any more convinced than I was. He flipped through his notes for a moment, then thumped his index finger on one of the pages.

“But someone took that truck. If it was you—if you sneaked out of the house and made it across the street and moved into position, and then somehow you jumped into their truck and drove off—that doesn’t make any sense either. No one does that. I mean, no one would do that. It’s just as likely that an alien spaceship beamed you and the truck aboard and then for some reason kept the truck and dropped you off somewhere nearby. And now you’re sitting there with some kind of probe up your ass. You are a first-class head-scratcher.”

He looked at me for a moment. “From your side of things—I know it’s late, but give me a second here, let me work this out—you say you ran. Which is what you would normally do, and now you’re uninteresting. But it’s also what you would say you did, if you took the truck.” It started to seem as if he would simply talk until he had everything figured out, even the details of my conversation with Marla. And it probably showed on my face. I was sitting there waiting for this absolute stranger to say, “You probably lied to your wife about stealing the truck, and then I’ll bet she leaned back against the sink and told you she watched you climb in and drive away.”

I mentally focused on what I recalled of Fred Jackson’s garage, its door stuck open all these years, the drift boat that had never seen a river and probably wouldn’t until it belonged to someone else, and the firewood stacked against the back wall. I tried to imprint the image on my brain so that it would be the only thing Sergeant Rainey found when he got that far in there and started rummaging around. In order to get away with the lie, I would have to become the lie.

I said, “We’re still off the record?”

“Sure.”

“Were they in their own truck?”

“We believe so.”

“But why? Why would they do that?”

“Well, think about it. They’re driving around at two in the morning, perfectly legal. They stop in the middle of the street—not so legal, but hell, a hundred newspaper-delivery people do that same thing every morning of the year. So they’re stopped in the street, they get out and look in the window of someone else’s car—they might flash-light the interior or test the handle to see if it’s locked—questionable but still legal. It’s when they try to get in that they leap the fence. See, they’ve been committing the crime all along, but this is when they’re committed to the crime. Now, if you go back and put them in a stolen vehicle from the start, they’re bustable all night long. Roll through the wrong stop sign and get nailed for grand theft auto.”

“So what happens now?”

“I want to hold them for a few days for resisting arrest, which might put them on the defensive. It won’t last long, but it’s worth a try. Eventually they’ll start thinking about what happened to their truck.”

“Do they think I took it?”

“That’s the real question, and frankly, I don’t have an answer. We asked about a third guy ditching them, and they gave us—I mean they each gave it because we had them in separate rooms—the big ol’ Bob Hope double take like they really didn’t know what we were talking about. There wasn’t a third guy.”

“But that doesn’t mean it had to be me.”

“My point is, if they suspect you—if they think they’re being run through the court system by the guy who stole their truck—they’re going to get hot. Irony is lost on people like this. And let’s not forget, they know where you live. Now, if you were to drop the charges and make a show of good faith by paying for the ignition repair out of your own pocket, this might be the end of it.”

It felt as if dropping the charges would be the same as admitting that I had taken the truck. Finally I said, “I’m not sure what to do, so let’s go ahead with it.”

He turned in his swivel chair, which groaned as if similarly disappointed by my decision. “Oh, boy, that’s not what I wanted to hear. And I probably can’t change your mind?”

“Why do we keep letting guys like this off the hook?”

“You know where it could go, don’t you?”

“No.”

“All the way.”

“By ‘all the way’ you mean to court? Lawyers and newspapers?”

“No, I mean one of them might try to kill you.”

I was glad Marla wasn’t there to hear this. He said, “We can’t hold them forever, and just a whiff of guys like them causes cancer in guys like you. Think of yourself as a slice of bread, and they’re a can of Drano. After they come in contact with you, all that’s left is a puff of smoke and little crusty bits. So if they start phoning or following you around—if this goes nonboring—I want to know about it.”

He watched me. I acted like I was thinking. I wanted to show that I wasn’t shaken by his words, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. I didn’t want him as an adversary, especially if one of these guys went “nonboring” on me. I hated not being able to help him figure me out.

He said, “They saw it, by the way.”

My heart sank. “Saw what?”

“The truck, an older beer-bottle-brown Ford, was seen a few blocks from your house. The two officers in the first patrol car mentioned it later.” To no one in particular he said, “We missed the boat on that one too.”

He picked up the phone and punched three numbers.

“Franklin? Rainey. Are those throw-downs ready?” He nodded and said, “That’s right.” He waited, then said, “On your way, could you stop in on Stevens and get the wife? I want her here too.”

He hung up and said, “We have some shots for you to look at.”

“What kind?”

“They’re instead of a lineup. It used to be we’d put you in the room with that big window you see in the movies and trot out a row of guys. Now we show you photos.”

“It would be better if you showed me silhouettes.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t use those in court.”

“I was just saying—”

“I know, but we’re back on the record. Our little heart-to-heart is over.”

A moment later the door opened, and Marla looked in. Behind her a cop with a manila envelope said, “This is the place. Go on in there and take a seat.”

Rainey said, “Stevens, did Franklin hand those shots off on you?”

“I guess he did.”

“Well, that’s not important now. Let’s see what we got.”

Stevens approached the desk and patted his midsection, which had pretty much the normal swell for a middle-aged guy. “I can always use a walk, Sarge. I don’t mind.”

“Either our little alpha up there stops trying to take over or I’m going to march him by the ear into a cold shower.” He took the envelope from Stevens and thanked him.

Stevens looked at Marla and me. “You want a coffee? Soda pop?”

We said we were good. He looked at Rainey, who put up a hand. Stevens pointed at Marla, said, “Thanks for coming in,” and closed the door behind him.

Rainey said, “He’ll make some kid a wonderful grandfather.”

Marla said, “Yes, he’s nice.” I could tell she’d missed his point.

Rainey emptied the envelope onto his desk and pushed a dozen photographs toward us. “Just go through and take a good look at each face.”

I gathered up the shots, and Rainey said, “Come on, Jim. You have to share. Your wife was at the scene too. If I turn you loose and my boss asks me if both of you looked at the shots, and I say no, he’ll make us go through it again. So each of you, look at the shots, and we’ll be out of here in no time.” He looked at his watch. “Believe it or not, I have to get some sleep too.”

I laid out the photos and pretended to study them. I gave my full attention to each before moving on to the next, recognizing none of the faces. Marla looked at each one but paid less attention.

At the end we looked up, and Rainey said, “Nothing?”

We shook our heads.

“Well, I’ve taken up too much of your time.” He pushed back from his desk and stood. “You know what I’m going to say, but I’ll say it anyway. You have my card. If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

I stood at the bedroom window and said, “What did they do?”

Marla joined me from behind, sliding her hands under my arms and interlacing her fingers across my chest. She pressed her mouth into my shoulder as we looked down at our dead car beside the curb. The police cruiser that had dropped us off had left a while ago. It was four in the morning, and the world outside was as still as a painting. The session with Rainey had me sleepless, my head buzzing from the verbal tennis match. Marla can sleep anywhere for any length of time, and I could tell she was exhausted, but she stayed up with me.

She said, “I don’t know. I stayed by the phone like a good little girl.”

I bumped her pelvis with my butt. “Come on. It must have been strange. What did they do?”

“They just stood there like it was okay for their truck to leave without them. Like it wasn’t theirs.” After a pause she said, “Which, I mean, did you think about that? What if it wasn’t theirs?”

“There wasn’t a lot of thinking going on for a while. It was only after I wrecked it that I figured anything out. But Rainey said these guys won’t drive around in stolen vehicles looking to steal another one.” She accepted this with a nod. I gave it a moment before asking what had happened next.

She said, “Well, you took off in the truck, and the one in the street walked a short way after you, then just stood there. The other one jumped out of the Camry, and they kind of barked at each other, and suddenly they both ran up the street, which was when I heard sirens. I went downstairs and met the cops at the sidewalk. Two more cop cars went by without slowing down, lights going—no sirens on those—and the neighbors started showing up. I told the cop who questioned me—that guy Stevens—that I stayed by the phone and didn’t see anything. I’m pretty sure he believed me.”

“That’s good because Rainey didn’t even pretend to believe me. He said he didn’t care, but I’m pretty sure he thinks I took the truck.”

I was looking down at our car, trying to picture it—trying to imagine any earlier activity out there at all. Marla dropped her arms down around my waist, holding my belly. I’m self-conscious about the softness of my midsection when it’s relaxed, but tonight for some reason it seemed okay that I was showing signs of middle age. I was doing better than Stevens, though not by as much as I would have liked.

She said, “Are you in trouble with him?”

“Rainey? I don’t think so. I believed him when he said he didn’t care. In fact, that might have been the only truth told tonight.” Even this wasn’t true because he had certainly been telling the truth when he’d said the situation might go all the way. Nonboring.

She said, “You were so smooth. It was like a dream, especially from up here, not being able to hear much of anything. At first I didn’t think it was you …” she was picturing it, “because you were on the other side of the street, and I didn’t see how you got there. And mostly you were in the shadows and behind the parked cars, sliding along. But then you were right across from them, and I almost pounded on the window to distract them from seeing you. Then you were inside the truck, and it moved up the street, and you were gone.”

“Not the brightest thing I ever did.”

She gave me a warm squeeze, and I was reminded that I’m not very good at seeing myself through her eyes. Then she gave me a different kind of squeeze and said, “You shouldn’t have left me here like that.”

“I know. I’m sorry. That’s one of the things I figured out on my way back. I shouldn’t have taken the truck either, but leaving you alone was worse. I still like the idea of getting the plate number.”

She brought a hand up and patted me on the chest. “And I still like the idea of letting the cops handle it.”

We stood there for a while.

I said, “On my way home I realized the car thieves wouldn’t be hiding as I walked by because the cops would still be in the area, looking for them. Then it occurred to me that the cops should still be looking for me.”

“I told them you were probably hiding. Rainey asked if I was sure you didn’t take the truck, and I said you would never do anything like that. Then he asked me for like the third time if I looked out the window. He said it seemed more natural for me to want to see what was happening—with you out there and all—but I told him I was afraid they would look up and see me.”

“That guy figures stuff out like lightning.”

“He told me they probably wouldn’t chase you—they would want to just get the hell out of there. And all I could do was stand there and think how …”

“Stupid the whole thing was?”

She said, “I was going to say risky. How unlike you it seemed.”

“Okay, but it felt pretty stupid.”

“I’m not sure I’d—”

“I mean the kind you spell with two o’s. Stoopid.”

She said, “The same two o’s as in ‘boob’?” She pressed against me.

“Exactly. I’d never do it again. That I can promise you.”

Rainey’s warning about the possibility of repercussions flitted through my head again, as it had been doing about every five minutes. I concentrated on the idea, tried to make it real, but it wouldn’t conform. It remained abstract, along with my hiding out in Fred Jackson’s garage, how aspirin works, and the grassy-knoll slant to the JFK assassination.

After a long silence she said, “Someday you’ll have to tell me why.”

“Why I’d never do it again?”

“No, why you did it in the first place.”

“Someday I may know myself. Bubba factor is my guess.”

“You, my dear, are underendowed in the bubba department. I’m guessing midlife crisis.”

“Well, it’s better than growing a ponytail and buying a Corvette.”

She laughed. “No, it’s about the same.”

“Actually, I think I went prebubba.”

She gave me a kiss behind my ear. “Men shouldn’t waste calories on thinking.”

“Underendowed,” I said, shifting my shoulders and hips to create more contact with her. “You know what that kind of talk does to me.”

She slid her hands back down over my belly, then lower. “Yes, I do.”