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Authors: Jonathan Valin
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pride.
In spite of myself I'd begun to wonder why the hell she'd betrayed Carnova to the cops. Her love for the kid seemed genuine enough.
So I asked her, "Why'd you turn Terry in?"
Her face went pale with fright. "It was 'cause he got so crazy after it happened. He said he was going to hell. And it didn't matter no more what he done, 'cause he kilt the only person who ever did show him any kindness. He said he was gonna kill me too. Cut me up with his huntin' knife. And then he was gonna cut himself up." She put a hand to her mouth. "I got scared. That's why I called the cops. Terry kept talking about that body out there in the sun. He and Tommy T., they'd go and look at it 'bout every day. Like they was going to a ball game or something. Terry'd laugh about it with him. But when he'd come back, he'd act even crazier. The other night, he copped some T's and B's and got real high and took out that knife and held it to my throat, 'bout half the night. I kept tellin' him it weren't really his fault. That it was Tommy T. But that just made him madder. It was like half of him wanted it to be him that done it. And the other half jus' couldn't stand what he'd done."
She stared at me confusedly, as if Carnova's state of mind went way beyond her understanding. To be frank, it went beyond mine too. The tormented boy she was describing bore no resemblance to the vicious little bastard I'd seen in the interrogation room. It was a side of Carnova I didn't want to know about.
The girl must have read the revulsion in my face, because her own face grew hard-looking. "You believe what you want," she said stiffly. "But I done it to save him from himself."
The girl stopped talking to me after that. She didn't even want to look at me. She sat stock-still, concentrating on the door to the interrogation room as if her own fate were being decided inside.
I got up and walked down the hall to the CPD mess. Bought myself a cup of weak coffee from a dispensing machine. Sat down at a battered Formica table and stared out the corner window at the gray, turbulent sky.
I didn't know what to make of what the girl had said. She was desperate, and I had the gut feeling she'd say anything to make up for betraying Carnova to the cops. Some of her story had had the ring of truth -her terror was certainly real enough. But most of it was confused and confusing. Carnova's motivation for killing Lessing, the accomplice whom Kitty claimed had actually committed the murder, Carnova's crazy behavior after the crime. It was jumbled, I thought, because it didn't really make sense to her. Not any of it. Except for the fact that Lessing had been kind to Carnova. Like a father.
She hadn't actually accused Lessing of being a homosexual; but then she'd sensed that I didn't want to hear that, and she was sensible enough to play to her strength. If she knew that the homosexual charge might help Terry, she'd probably change her story to corroborate his. And a jury might buy the accusation.
I wondered if I did.
In spite of the fact that I didn't want to believe him, Terry Carnova made it damn easy to see Ira Lessing in terms of homosexual cliches. A harsh, puritanical father. An icy, obdurate mother. A fragile, childlike wife. A loyal, obsequious friend who did the real work of holding things together. And a generous, goodhearted, compulsively complicated man. A man whose strengths and weaknesses I didn't pretend to understand.
Of course no one in the family, no one I'd spoken to on the street, had given me the slightest reason to think that Ira Lessing was gay. Only Carnova had claimed that. A kid who made his living hustling queers. A kid who was facing a death sentence and looking for a way out, looking for a way to redeem his manhood in front of the cops and in front of a jury.
As I sat there, mulling things over, Art Finch walked into the room. He bought a cup of coffee and brought it to the table.
"I'm taking a break," he said wearily.
"Has he
In spite of myself I'd begun to wonder why the hell she'd betrayed Carnova to the cops. Her love for the kid seemed genuine enough.
So I asked her, "Why'd you turn Terry in?"
Her face went pale with fright. "It was 'cause he got so crazy after it happened. He said he was going to hell. And it didn't matter no more what he done, 'cause he kilt the only person who ever did show him any kindness. He said he was gonna kill me too. Cut me up with his huntin' knife. And then he was gonna cut himself up." She put a hand to her mouth. "I got scared. That's why I called the cops. Terry kept talking about that body out there in the sun. He and Tommy T., they'd go and look at it 'bout every day. Like they was going to a ball game or something. Terry'd laugh about it with him. But when he'd come back, he'd act even crazier. The other night, he copped some T's and B's and got real high and took out that knife and held it to my throat, 'bout half the night. I kept tellin' him it weren't really his fault. That it was Tommy T. But that just made him madder. It was like half of him wanted it to be him that done it. And the other half jus' couldn't stand what he'd done."
She stared at me confusedly, as if Carnova's state of mind went way beyond her understanding. To be frank, it went beyond mine too. The tormented boy she was describing bore no resemblance to the vicious little bastard I'd seen in the interrogation room. It was a side of Carnova I didn't want to know about.
The girl must have read the revulsion in my face, because her own face grew hard-looking. "You believe what you want," she said stiffly. "But I done it to save him from himself."
The girl stopped talking to me after that. She didn't even want to look at me. She sat stock-still, concentrating on the door to the interrogation room as if her own fate were being decided inside.
I got up and walked down the hall to the CPD mess. Bought myself a cup of weak coffee from a dispensing machine. Sat down at a battered Formica table and stared out the corner window at the gray, turbulent sky.
I didn't know what to make of what the girl had said. She was desperate, and I had the gut feeling she'd say anything to make up for betraying Carnova to the cops. Some of her story had had the ring of truth -her terror was certainly real enough. But most of it was confused and confusing. Carnova's motivation for killing Lessing, the accomplice whom Kitty claimed had actually committed the murder, Carnova's crazy behavior after the crime. It was jumbled, I thought, because it didn't really make sense to her. Not any of it. Except for the fact that Lessing had been kind to Carnova. Like a father.
She hadn't actually accused Lessing of being a homosexual; but then she'd sensed that I didn't want to hear that, and she was sensible enough to play to her strength. If she knew that the homosexual charge might help Terry, she'd probably change her story to corroborate his. And a jury might buy the accusation.
I wondered if I did.
In spite of the fact that I didn't want to believe him, Terry Carnova made it damn easy to see Ira Lessing in terms of homosexual cliches. A harsh, puritanical father. An icy, obdurate mother. A fragile, childlike wife. A loyal, obsequious friend who did the real work of holding things together. And a generous, goodhearted, compulsively complicated man. A man whose strengths and weaknesses I didn't pretend to understand.
Of course no one in the family, no one I'd spoken to on the street, had given me the slightest reason to think that Ira Lessing was gay. Only Carnova had claimed that. A kid who made his living hustling queers. A kid who was facing a death sentence and looking for a way out, looking for a way to redeem his manhood in front of the cops and in front of a jury.
As I sat there, mulling things over, Art Finch walked into the room. He bought a cup of coffee and brought it to the table.
"I'm taking a break," he said wearily.
"Has he
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