Read Online Cruel Justice by William Bernhardt - Free Book Online

almost immediately—from one of utter tranquillity to one of haunted despair.
    “Leeman, a doctor has said that you’re capable of assisting in your own defense. Let’s prove him right, okay? Help me out here.”
    Leeman looked back at Ben, his eyes wide and helpless. One of two possibilities was true. Leeman didn’t want to help—he didn’t even want to talk about it. Or, the doctor in Ponca City was out of his mind and Leeman was not capable of assisting in his own defense.
    “Leeman, did you know the woman who was killed?”
    Leeman turned away from the stereo and closed the cabinet.
    “Did you see anything at the country club that night?”
    Still no answer. Leeman was acting as he had when Ben first came in—as if he wasn’t there.
    “Leeman, you’re going to have to tell me what you know about the murder.”
    “Hon … da,” Leeman said abruptly.
    “Honda?”
    “Honda.” Leeman held up his hands as if steering a car. “Honda.”
    “Oh—right. I drive a Honda. An eighty-two Honda Accord. How did you know?”
    Leeman twisted around and faced the window. He held his right hand over his eyes, as if to block out the nonexistent sun. “See?”
    Ben did see. Leeman’s window overlooked the front parking lot. Leeman must’ve seen Ben park.
    “You know your cars, don’t you?” Ben refused to be so easily distracted. “But getting back to the murder. Can you tell me what happened?”
    Leeman turned away.
    “Or what you saw? Whatever you know. Anything could help.”
    Leeman did not respond, did not turn around.
    Ben grabbed Leeman by the shoulders and whirled him around. To his astonishment, he found that Leeman was crying.
    Tears spilled out of his eyes and streamed down his bloated cheeks, dripping off his chin and onto his stained shirt. His lips trembled; the tears continued to flow.
    Ben took a step back. “I’m sorry, Leeman. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t think.”
    He decided against any further questions. It was pointless. All the doctors in the Southwest couldn’t convince Ben that Leeman was capable of assisting in his defense. Leeman might have some limited capacity for understanding, but he couldn’t communicate. Whatever information he possessed in his head was locked up tight.
    “I’m going to go now, Leeman.”
    “Honda?”
    “Right. I’m going to drive away in my Honda. But I’ll be back. Whether I take your case or not.”
    Leeman looked at him pensively.
    “And next time I’ll ask you to play me that Isserstedt recording. No excuses.”
    Leeman grinned. “ ’Scuses,” he echoed. He began humming the intro to the second movement of the Fifth while he carefully glued a left rear hubcap into place.

9
    B EN WALKED BRISKLY THROUGH the downtown office of the Tulsa Police Department Central Division and turned the corner around the gray office partition bearing the nameplate of LT. M. MORELLI, HOMICIDE . He was pleased to find the detective was in.
    “How goes it, shamus?”
    Mike looked up from his desk. A toothpick was cocked in the side of his mouth. “Surviving. Yourself?”
    “I had a morning like you wouldn’t—” Ben stopped short. “Wait a minute. Something’s different.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Something’s not right.” Ben snapped his fingers. “Your pipe! Where is it?”
    Mike shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “In my safe. Locked.”
    “And you’re sucking on a sliver of wood?” The light dawned in Ben’s eyes. “You’re trying to quit.”
    “Yeah, well, all my friends were doing it.”
    “Is it hard? I always assumed that tobacco inhalation was just part of your macho two-fisted facade.”
    “That, plus a major nicotine addiction.”
    “So you’re having trouble quitting?”
    Mike grunted. “Gained ten pounds last week. That’s when I switched to toothpicks.”
    “Well, I’m proud of you, pal.” He laughed. “One of the boys at the desk told me you were kind of grumpy today. This explains why.”
    “This