Betsy CarterChapter 8
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"How's Sandy?" asked Jock the Joke while the group of interviewers and I settled into our seats in the interrogation room.
"Great," I said.
"I could make her better," said the sleazebag with his patented sleazy smile.
I thought of a million retorts but kept them to myself.
Sweets and Joke sat with a man I didn't know. He had the conservative suit look of a Fed. I wondered who hid behind the glass, hoping for Nakamoto and fearing my dad's old friend Lieutenant Sam Kamalua.
As the questioning began my lack of sleep slapped me silly, nearly twenty-four hours since I last awoke. And considering all the events that had filled that time--two bouts of sex, breaking and entering, seeing the most disturbing video I have ever seen, saving one of my best friends from killing himself--I felt exhausted. I knew I had to be careful about what I said. I didn't know how well I could manage.
Luckily they mostly asked about Preston, the scumbag porn guy. I didn't know the guy, so I didn't have much to say. Unfortunately how I got the name was a problem. I decided to steer the interview as much as possible.
"I need to explain some things before I can tell you who gave me the information. If I can't, then I'm going to have to keep quiet from now on."
"Just answer the questions," said the never diplomatic Sweets.
"Not a problem, detective. It's just there's a long way to get there."
"We're not interest in long ways. We are interested in answers."
"That's the problem. The answer only comes with an explanation. Just let me talk. Let's see where it goes. If it doesn't go where you want it, then I'll shut up. I mean completely. You got nothing on me here. I can go when I please."
Everyone paused. City detectives looked at the Fed, as enigmatic as he had been throughout. The detectives looked at the glass wall. We heard a tap. Sweets exited the room, coming back after a couple of minutes. It had to be Sam watching.
"Okay Joe," said Sweets.
"You may have heard about a murder, the murder of a well known, highly respected businessman. Charles Boyle was..."
"Yes, yes, yes..." said the Fed. "We're not here about that."
"Maybe not, but I am."
"We're here about the child pornographer, Preston Phillips."
"Of course," I said. "I take it he worked off some jail time for you. You were looking to get his supplier or the big buyers or whatever. Fine. Noble. That's why you brought me in. That's why you know I was the second to last person to see him alive."
"Second to last?" snorted Sweets.
"Sure. First me and then the killer. The point is you ended up with some unexpected casualties including Preston. By the way, I can't help noticing I am being interrogated by three vice cops. Child pornography crossing state lines, right?" I asked the fed. "Not that child porn isn't the worst of the worst, but we're talking two murders, one of which I am associated with, and the other maybe has the same MO? I'm just guessing, but you know, I'm pretty good at that." I looked at the glass. I had a feeling very soon I would be seeing the man watching me from behind it. Being the middle of the night, the middle of his sleeping time I wondered if he felt as exhausted and as close to losing it as I felt. It was a scary thought. I steeled myself and went on.
"There was a third causality, an attempted suicide. The guy happened to be my childhood friend. Micah also happened to be the main suspect in Charlie's murder."
"Again with this Charlie," said the Fed. I noticed him wincing at the one way glass mirror.
"Yeah, so I heard about the murder and about Micah being the main suspect. Understandable. Micah tends to be dangerously unstable. Charlie caused his instability being one of Charlie's boys, one of his favorites in fact. So, yeah, revenge, especially from a psychotic prone to violence, was not a stretch, even if he is a friend. But what would make him so crazy mad that he would nearly decapitate the guy? Maybe Charlie's propensity for keeping ten year old boys and girls in his basement dungeon for long periods of time has something to do with it. He'd import some poor kid, stolen from some far flung part of the world. Or, in Micah's particularly sad case, he'd buy the kid from some greedy so called parents for a huge amount of money." I had said these last sentences quickly to get them on the record before the inevitable happened. Sam burst in.
"That's enough," said Sam, quietly malevolent. "Turn off the recorder. This has nothing to do with the case. I am ending this interrogation."
"But we're not done here," said the Fed.
"He's got nothing for you. Everything is tangential. It has nothing specific to do with Preston Phillips or his suppliers or buyers. If there's anything Joe knows, I'll let you in on it."
I witnessed to the power of Sam Kamalua. Even the Fed crawled away with cock between his legs. The guy had respect at the highest levels. If Charlie had not been a major part of Sam's life, I'm sure he would have wielded that power with a strong ethical backbone. Charlie had permanently damaged Sam's sense of justice. Sam had been Charlie's protector for far too many years. I wondered if Sam had some sense of relief within his desperate need to protect himself.
"Come on," said Sam. He sounded restrained.
"Where are we going?" I asked. As we exited the interrogation room, we met up with Nakamoto.
"We're taking you home."
"Can we stop off at the hospital? I want to see how Micah is doing."
Sam nodded.
Once we were in Sam's Cadillac De Ville, we began our dialogue or trialogue if you include Nakamoto. Having just the three of us with no one else listening, we felt free to talk the unadulterated truth. Still when I told them about hanging out with Micah (sorry, pun in bad taste) while the Honolulu police busily created a dragnet, or about breaking into Charlie's Dungeon, two officers of the law became uncomfortable in Sam's ultra comfortable ride. But the talks continued, even in the halls of the hospital, though in whispers. Not because anyone around might hear. We figured no one would know or care about what we said. Being in a hospital, we didn't want to disturb the sufferers all around us.
A uniformed cop sat outside Micah's door. He nodded when we approached and entered. Micah was being fed liquids of various sorts from hanging bags directly into his veins. His throat bandaged, he couldn't speak. A pad and pen whch lay on the table beside him while he slept. George sat a couple feet away looking wide awake and worried.
"How is he?" I asked her.
"Physically okay, mentally not so good," she answered. "At least he's not in some cold cell with a predator."
Micah awoke and half smiled at me. George sat up and smiled. Micah gestured towards the pad and pen, which George got for him. He whipped out a two stanza, eight line poem, which he handed to me, then relaxed and passed out.
The poem was titled "The Butler Did It II." Of course the cops all wanted to see this new bit of evidence. After reading it, I passed it to Nakamoto. He gave it to Sam.
"What is this shit?" asked the Hapa Haoli Lieutenant. The densely written poem, unusual for Micah, I quickly realized held a code. Numbers and a street name had been buried in the poem. I lived a couple blocks from the coded address. I shrugged. When I tried to pocket it, Sam said, "That's evidence, kid."
"Let me copy it down. He wrote it just for me after all." Sam nodded. I copied it.
"He didn't do it," said George with conviction. Neither of the detectives responded. "Show them Joe, goddamn it. Show them he didn't do it."
I nodded. George squeezed her hand in mine. The detectives and I left.
We took a side trip. I directed them to the haunted house. Using a couple of flashlights, I guided them to the living room where the remains of the rope still dangled and in front of the makeshift bed of foam rubber and bamboo mat lay the epic poem Micah had written and the infamous bloody knife. The knife disappeared into an evidence bag.
"He didn't do it, hunh?" said Sam.
I shrugged. "What about Preston. Juan obviously didn't know Micah lay in a hospital bed when he tried to emulate Charlie's murder."
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