Blood Relatives (87th Precinct) Read online

  When it came to degrees of criminality, there were very few opinions that cops and crooks did not mutually share: Kling, on that Monday morning when he returned to work, found himself questioning these sex offenders with a rising sense of revulsion. Their names had been selected the morning before, and instructions had been left with the desk sergeant to have his uniformed force round them up for questioning first thing Monday morning. They were here now, a baker’s dozen of them in the squadroom or waiting outside on benches in the corridor. Carella and Kling were sharing the interrogations. There was not a single man in that squadroom who did not know he was there because a teenage girl had been found murdered and presumably sexually abused last Saturday night. The news had been in all the papers and on all the television shows. If you’re a sex offender, you get used to the fact that any time somebody so much as gets felt up in the subway, the cops’ll be around to talk to you about it. But this was a big one. This was a homicide.

  Kling started each of his interrogations with the exact same words. He told the man sitting opposite him why he was there, and he made certain the man knew he was not being charged with anything. A girl was found murdered, however, and there had been indications (he did not reveal which indications) that sex may have been a contributing factor, and since the man sitting opposite him was a known offender, Kling would appreciate it if he could account for his whereabouts on Saturday night between the hours of 10:30 and 11:30. Each of the men invariably (and reasonably) protested that just because he’d once taken a fall for Sodomy Three or Rape Two or any one (or more) of the other eleven crimes listed under Article 130, this was no reason for the police to pick him up and drag him into the station house every time some little girl had her skirt lifted. There was such a thing as rehabilitation, you know, and it didn’t help a man to be constantly reminded of his past errors. Kling immediately apologized for a system that forced a man to carry forever the burden of his criminal record, but if the man could only understand that Kling was trying to establish his innocence rather than his guilt, why then, the man would simply excuse the inconvenience and answer the questions and go on about his business.

  Sure, the man would invariably say. Until the next time.

  But he answered the questions.

  The fifth man who approached Kling’s desk had black wavy hair and blue eyes. He was wearing a navy-blue jacket over a paleblue sports shirt. His trousers were a dark blue too, but they did not quite match the jacket. Jacket and trousers alike were rumpled, and there was a beard stubble on the man’s face. He pulled out the chair opposite Kling and sat immediately.

  “Mr. Donatelli?” Kling said.

  “Yes, sir,” Donatelli said. His voice was low. His pale-blue eyes looked at the filing cabinets, the water cooler, the electric fan, the dock on the squadroom wall, anything but Kling.

  “James Donatelli?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Donatelli,” Kling said, “have you got any idea why we asked you to come up here?”

  “Yes, sir, I suppose it has to do with the little girl who was killed,” Donatelli said.

  “That’s right,” Kling said.

  “I had nothing to do with that,” Donatelli said.

  “Good, I’m glad to hear it.”

  “You know,” Donatelli said, “a man takes one fall in his life on an offense of this nature, he’s right away listed as some kind of maniac. I had nothing to do with that girl’s murder, and I’m happy to be able to tell you that.”

  “That’s good, Mr. Donatelli, because no one’s accusing you of anything. I’m sorry we have to inconvenience you this way, but—”

  “That’s all right,” Donatelli said, and waved the apology aside with an open hand. “But what is it you want to know? I’d like to get this over with, I’ll be losing half a day’s pay as it is.”

  “Can you tell me where you were last Saturday night?” Kling said.

  “What time?”

  “Between ten-thirty and eleven-thirty.”

  “Yes, I know exactly where I was,” Donatelli said.

  “Where was that?”

  “I was bowling.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Avenue L Alleys.”

  “Who were you bowling with?” Kling asked.

  “I was bowling alone,” Donatelli said, and Kling looked up from his pad, and their eyes met for the first time.

  “Alone?” Kling said.

  “I know that sounds funny.”

  “You always bowl alone?”

  “No, but my girlfriend got sick. And I didn’t feel like sitting home, so I went alone.”

  “Well, that’s okay,” Kling said, “I’m sure someone at the bowling alley will remember your being there, and can—”

  “Well, it’s the first time I was ever to this particular bowling alley,” Donatelli said. “My girlfriend is the one suggested it. So I was supposed to meet her there. But she got sick.”

  “Mm-huh. Well, what’s her name? I’ll give her a call and—”

  “She left for California,” Donatelli said, and Kling looked up from his pad again, and Donatelli turned his eyes away.

  “When did she leave for California?” Kling asked.

  “Yesterday. She caught an afternoon plane.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Betsy.”

  “What’s her last name?”

  “I don’t know her last name.”

  “I thought she was your girlfriend.”

  “Well, she’s only a casual friend. Actually, I met her in the park Saturday afternoon, and she said did I ever go bowling, and I said I hadn’t been bowling in a long time, so she said why don’t we bowl together tonight. So I said okay, and I arranged to meet her at the Avenue L Alleys at ten o’clock.”

  “Is that what time you got there?” Kling asked. “Ten?”

  “Yes. But she wasn’t there.”

  “She was sick,” Kling said.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know she was sick?”

  “What? Oh, there was a message for me. When I got there, the manager said Betsy had called and left a message.”

  “I see. When you came in, the manager said Betsy had left a message for James Donatelli—”

  “Jimmy Donatelli.”

  “Jimmy Donatelli, and the message was she was sick and couldn’t make it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then the manager knows your name, right?”

  “What?”

  “The manager. Of the bowling alley. The Avenue L Alleys. If he took a message for you, he knows your name. He’ll remember you.”

  “Well—”

  “Yes, what is it, Mr. Donatelli?” Kling said.

  “Well…I’m not sure he’ll remember my name,” Donatelli said. “Because it was the first time I’d ever been there, you see.”

  “Mm-huh,” Kling said. “What happened when you walked in on Saturday night? It was about ten o’clock, is that what you said?”

  “Yes, ten o’clock.”

  “So what happened when you walked in? Did the manager ask if you were Jimmy Donatelli?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what he asked.”

  “Was he asking everybody?”

  “No. Oh, I see what you mean. No. Betsy had given him a description of me. Black hair and blue eyes. So when I walked in, the manager saw my hair and my eyes, and he naturally asked if I was Jimmy Donatelli.”

  “What’d he say then?”

  “He gave me the message. That Betsy was sick.”

  “So you decided to stay and bowl alone.”

  “Yes.”

  “Instead of going over to see her.”

  “Well, I didn’t know where she lived.”

  “That’s right, you didn’t even know her last name.”

  “That’s right. I still don’t.”

  “So you stayed and bowled. What time did you leave the alleys?”

  “It must’ve been around midnight.”

  “You
bowled till midnight. From ten to midnight. Alone.”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t it get boring?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you stayed there and bowled.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what?”

  “I went home.”

  “And yesterday afternoon Betsy left for California.”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, she called me.”

  “Oh, she had your phone number.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t she call to tell you she was sick? On Saturday night, I mean. Why’d she call the bowling alley instead?”

  “I guess she tried to reach me, but I’d probably left already.”

  “And you didn’t think to ask her last name, huh? When she called to say she was leaving for California.”

  “Well, she was just a casual acquaintance, I figured I’d never see her again.”

  “How old is she, this Betsy?”

  “Oh, she’s old enough, don’t worry about that.”

  “Because I notice on your card here—”

  “Yes, you don’t have to worry about that,” Donatelli said. “I know what it says on my card, that was a long time ago. You don’t have to worry about anything like that. Besides, this was only supposed to be some innocent bowling, you know, so really there’s—”

  “Let’s run over to the bowling alley, huh?” Kling said.

  “What for?”

  “See if the manager remembers you.”

  “I doubt if he’ll remember me.”

  “Well, who the hell is going to remember you?” Kling asked. “You’re giving me an alibi nobody can back, now what do you expect me to do, huh? I told you up front that a girl was murdered Saturday night, you know that’s why you’re in here, now what the hell do you expect me to believe, Mr. Donatelli? That you were bowling alone for two goddamn hours because you got stood up by somebody whose name you don’t know and who conveniently leaves for California the next day? Now come on, willya?”

  “Well, that’s the truth,” Donatelli said.

  “Steve,” Kling called. “You want to step over here a minute?”

  Carella had just finished interrogating a man at his own desk, and he was standing now and stretching while waiting for the next man to be shown in. He walked to where Kling and Donatelli were sitting.

  “This is Detective Carella,” Kling said. “Would you mind telling him the story you just told me?”

  Some ten minutes later Donatelli changed his story.

  They had moved from the squadroom to the Interrogation Room down the hall, and Donatelli was telling them about how he’d been stood up by the mysterious California-bound Betsy whom he’d met in the park on Saturday afternoon. Carella suddenly said, “How old did you say this girl was?”

  “Oh, at least nineteen, twenty,” Donatelli said.

  “How old are you?” Carella asked.

  “I’m forty-six, sir.”

  “That’s picking them kind of young, isn’t it?”

  “He’s picked them younger than that,” Kling said. “Take a look at the card, Steve.”

  “Well, that was a long time ago,” Donatelli said.

  “Sodomy One,” Carella said.

  “Yes, but that was a long time ago.”

  “With a ten-year-old girl,” Carella said.

  “Well—”

  “I’ve got a daughter almost ten,” Carella said.

  “Well.”

  “So how old was this Betsy? The one you were supposed to bowl with Saturday night?”

  “I told you. Nineteen, twenty. Anyway, that’s how old she looked. I only met her that afternoon, I didn’t ask to see her ID card.”

  “Fellow with a record like yours,” Carella said, “you ought to make a practice of asking to see the ID.”

  “Well, she looked about nineteen, twenty.”

  “Yes, but how old was she?” Carella said.

  “Well, how would I know? I never even saw her again.”

  “Because she got sick, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “And called the bowling alley to leave a message for you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then left for California the next day.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where in California?”

  “San Francisco, I think she said. Or maybe Los Angeles.”

  “Or maybe San Diego,” Kling said.

  “Well, no, it was either San Francisco or Los Angeles.”

  “If that was where she was going,” Carella said, “and if she left yesterday—”

  “That’s when she left, sir,” Donatelli said.

  “We can check with the airlines. There aren’t that many lateafternoon flights to California, and there couldn’t have been too many girls named Betsy—”

  “Well, I’m not even sure it was California,” Donatelli said.

  “Mr. Donatelli,” Carella said, “are you aware of the fact that we’re talking about a homicide here? Are you aware of that? Are you sure you realize that a girl was brutally murdered on Saturday night and that—?”

  “Yes, I’m aware of it, I realize it.”

  “Then why are you giving us this bullshit about a bowling alley, and a girl you met in the park, now what is that supposed to be, Mr. Donatelli? Are we supposed to believe that goddamn story? If you want my advice—I’m not supposed to give you this kind of advice, Mr. Donatelli—I’d get a lawyer in here right away, because the bullshit you’re giving us, it sounds to me like you’re going to be in very serious trouble before too long. Now that’s my advice.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer,” Donatelli said. “I didn’t kill that girl you’re talking about.”

  “Mr. Donatelli,” Carella said, “I think we’re going to have to hold you in custody, in what amounts to something more than a routine interrogation, and that being the case, I’ll have to advise you of your rights. In keeping with the Supreme Court decision in Miranda versus Arizona, we are not permitted to ask you any questions until you are warned of your right to counsel and your privilege against self-incrimination. First, you have the right to remain silent if you so choose. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Second, you do not have to answer any police questions if you don’t want to. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Third, if you do decide to answer any questions, the answers may be used as evidence against you. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have the right to consult with an attorney before or during police questioning. If you do not have the money to hire a lawyer, a lawyer will be appointed to consult with you. Do you understand everything I’ve told you?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Are you willing to answer questions without an attorney here to counsel you?”

  “Yes,” Donatelli said. “I didn’t kill that girl.”

  “Then what did you do?” Carella asked at once. He was able to question Donatelli more freely now; the man had signified that he understood all the warnings, and had waived his right to have an attorney present. This did not give the police license to keep him there for four days and four nights while successive teams of interrogators bludgeoned him with questions. As a matter of fact, if Donatelli changed his mind at any point during the questioning, he could simply say, “I don’t want to answer any more questions,” and that would be that; the police would have to respect his wishes and cease all questioning at once. In many respects, America is a very nice country.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Donatelli said.

  “Where were you on Saturday night? And please skip the bowling-alley bullshit, if you don’t mind.”

  “I told you where I was.”

  “We don’t believe you.”

  “Well, that’s where I was.”

  “If you’re hiding something, Mr. Donatelli, it can’t be anything as serious
as this homicide, I’m sure you realize that. So if you’re hiding something, I suggest you tell us about it, because otherwise we’re going to start thinking things you don’t want us to think, and then you’d better change your mind and get a lawyer in here to help you. What do you say?”

  “I can’t tell you where I was Saturday night.”

  “Then you weren’t at the bowling alley, huh?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I tell you that…no, I can’t tell you that.”

  “Mr. Donatelli, we’ve got an eyewitness to the murder. We’ve got a girl who can identify the man who killed Muriel Stark. Now we can bring that girl up here, Mr. Donatelli. We can have a car pick her up, and she’ll be here in five minutes flat, and we can ask her to identify that man for us, we’ll put him in a lineup with six detectives and ask her to pick out the man who killed her cousin. Do you want us to do that, Mr. Donatelli, or do you want to tell us where you were on Saturday night between ten-thirty and eleven-thirty?”

  “Well, I…I wasn’t at the bowling alley,” Donatelli said.

  “Where were you?”

  “With a girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “A girl I know.”

  “Betsy?”

  “No. I made Betsy up.”

  “Then what girl?”

  “Well, what’s the use?” Donatelli said.

  “Who’s the girl, Mr. Donatelli?”

  “It won’t help me. If I tell you who she is, it won’t help me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’ll lie. She’ll say she doesn’t know me.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “It’s what I told her to say. I told her if ever anyone asks her about me—her mother, her father, a policeman, anyone—what I want her to say is she’s never even heard of me.”