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Authors: Jeremiah Healy
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thinner, ice. “Ten?”
“About twelve and a half, actually. How about folks on death row or executed in the last twenty years?”
“No idea.”
“About forty percent black.”
“Jesus.”
Murphy rolled his shoulders into the tree, like a bear scratching an itch. “It gets worse. Nationwide, most of the homicides—eighty percent, in fact— involve victim and killer from the same race. Most of the other twenty percent is black doing white. But here, we’ve got white doing black.”
Even with the traffic, the crisp October air seemed awfully quiet.
Murphy said, “There’s not much doubt why this Gant killing landed on my desk. High profile, from a lot of different angles. Victim’s black and a lawyer, plus a former A.D.A. and the third divorce attorney to be killed in the Commonwealth over the last few years. Lots of constituencies interested in this one. And who’s our best suspect? A white opposing client, man who likes to own guns and shoot off his mouth as well. The department expects me to clear this case, get a conviction. But, if your boy walks, the brass wants to be able to sit down—with the bar association, the African-American interest groups, the media—and say, ‘Hey, we put a senior homicide detective on it, and he’s even black, too; no way Murphy’d let Spaeth walk, if the white guy was really guilty.’ “ “Sounds like lots of pressure for you.”
“Double-boiler.” Murphy clucked his tongue off the roof of his mouth. “When I came on Homicide, though, a guy named Peter O’Malley broke me in right. He had over thirty years in the unit, and he told me there’s really just one rule. You never lie anybody into jail.”
I waited Murphy out.
He pushed off the tree. “Only thing is, there’s no need to lie here, not even the temptation to do it. We got plenty enough evidence to convict. Motive, threat, means, opportunity. Shit, a third-grader with a Dick Tracy badge could submit this case to the D.A. and not look bad.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
A quick, “Experience.”
“I don’t get you.”
“Too many things that add up right but feel wrong.” Murphy raised his index finger. “One, we get a call to the local fire station saying there’s a body on the road out here.”
“The call went to the fire department, not nine-one-one?”
“Right.”
“Male or female voice?”
“Male. Woman taking the call said the man ‘sounded black.’ ”
I filed that away.
Murphy raised his middle finger. “Second thing, I was there when we arrested Spaeth the morning after. Brought an Entry Team with a fourteen-pound sledge to go through his door. But hell, your boy’s just lying in that apartment’s bedroom, still half-dressed and still half-crocked. When he asks us what the fuck is going on, I tell him flat out that Woodrow Gant’s been killed. You know what the fucking idiot said?”
I got ready to cringe. “Do I want to?”
“Spaeth says, ‘Well, you know what they say. The only good lawyer is a dead one.’ And then he goes to roll over. And I roust him some more. Ask him where he was. He says, ‘Here, drinking. Just ask the Mick.’ And Spaeth tries to roll over again. Not like he’s acting, either. I think he’s too stupid for that. It was more like he really wasn’t concerned.”
“The way an innocent man might behave.”
Murphy moved on to his ring finger. “Third thing doesn’t feel right. Every other case I know of with a husband killing his wife’s lawyer the guy grandstands. Does some obvious, hot-dog thing, like shoot in broad daylight on a city street or a courtroom plaza to have an audience, be the center of attention. But this here was set up as though the guy wanted to get away with it.”
I looked up at the hillside and nodded.
Murphy noticed me looking. “That’s the fourth thing.”
“What is?”
The pinkie now. “My way of seeing it, the killer has to be following Gant for a long time, figure out about the restaurant and
“About twelve and a half, actually. How about folks on death row or executed in the last twenty years?”
“No idea.”
“About forty percent black.”
“Jesus.”
Murphy rolled his shoulders into the tree, like a bear scratching an itch. “It gets worse. Nationwide, most of the homicides—eighty percent, in fact— involve victim and killer from the same race. Most of the other twenty percent is black doing white. But here, we’ve got white doing black.”
Even with the traffic, the crisp October air seemed awfully quiet.
Murphy said, “There’s not much doubt why this Gant killing landed on my desk. High profile, from a lot of different angles. Victim’s black and a lawyer, plus a former A.D.A. and the third divorce attorney to be killed in the Commonwealth over the last few years. Lots of constituencies interested in this one. And who’s our best suspect? A white opposing client, man who likes to own guns and shoot off his mouth as well. The department expects me to clear this case, get a conviction. But, if your boy walks, the brass wants to be able to sit down—with the bar association, the African-American interest groups, the media—and say, ‘Hey, we put a senior homicide detective on it, and he’s even black, too; no way Murphy’d let Spaeth walk, if the white guy was really guilty.’ “ “Sounds like lots of pressure for you.”
“Double-boiler.” Murphy clucked his tongue off the roof of his mouth. “When I came on Homicide, though, a guy named Peter O’Malley broke me in right. He had over thirty years in the unit, and he told me there’s really just one rule. You never lie anybody into jail.”
I waited Murphy out.
He pushed off the tree. “Only thing is, there’s no need to lie here, not even the temptation to do it. We got plenty enough evidence to convict. Motive, threat, means, opportunity. Shit, a third-grader with a Dick Tracy badge could submit this case to the D.A. and not look bad.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
A quick, “Experience.”
“I don’t get you.”
“Too many things that add up right but feel wrong.” Murphy raised his index finger. “One, we get a call to the local fire station saying there’s a body on the road out here.”
“The call went to the fire department, not nine-one-one?”
“Right.”
“Male or female voice?”
“Male. Woman taking the call said the man ‘sounded black.’ ”
I filed that away.
Murphy raised his middle finger. “Second thing, I was there when we arrested Spaeth the morning after. Brought an Entry Team with a fourteen-pound sledge to go through his door. But hell, your boy’s just lying in that apartment’s bedroom, still half-dressed and still half-crocked. When he asks us what the fuck is going on, I tell him flat out that Woodrow Gant’s been killed. You know what the fucking idiot said?”
I got ready to cringe. “Do I want to?”
“Spaeth says, ‘Well, you know what they say. The only good lawyer is a dead one.’ And then he goes to roll over. And I roust him some more. Ask him where he was. He says, ‘Here, drinking. Just ask the Mick.’ And Spaeth tries to roll over again. Not like he’s acting, either. I think he’s too stupid for that. It was more like he really wasn’t concerned.”
“The way an innocent man might behave.”
Murphy moved on to his ring finger. “Third thing doesn’t feel right. Every other case I know of with a husband killing his wife’s lawyer the guy grandstands. Does some obvious, hot-dog thing, like shoot in broad daylight on a city street or a courtroom plaza to have an audience, be the center of attention. But this here was set up as though the guy wanted to get away with it.”
I looked up at the hillside and nodded.
Murphy noticed me looking. “That’s the fourth thing.”
“What is?”
The pinkie now. “My way of seeing it, the killer has to be following Gant for a long time, figure out about the restaurant and
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