Chapter 104

McCollum ushered Harlan into one of the three brightly lit interrogation rooms located at the back of the station. He sat him in a black folding chair behind a silver aluminum table which held two ink pens, one lined writing pad, a glass ashtray, and a box-shaped reel-to-reel tape deck.

McCollum exited the room without a word, leaving Harlan alone with his thoughts. Thirty minutes later, Detective Arthur Graham entered carrying two Styrofoam cups filled with steaming coffee. There was a crisp manila folder tucked securely beneath his arm.

The detective was tall, with a gargantuan belly that sagged over the waistband of his trousers. The wide brown-and-red-striped tie he wore was speckled with lint as was his cream-colored shirt, and he stank of Hai Karate cologne and menthol cigarettes.

“Hey, how you doing?” Graham said, setting the cups and folder on the table.

Harlan looked up into the man’s unbelievably blue eyes. “Good, I guess, considering the circumstances.”

The detective brushed his hand across his trouser leg and presented it to Harlan. “I’m Arthur Graham,” he announced with the eagerness of a salesman.

“Harlan Elliott.”

Graham’s handshake was firm and confident. “Nice to meet you, Harlan Elliott.” He pointed at the Styrofoam cups as he eased his bulk into the empty chair opposite Harlan. “The coffee is black. Sorry, but we’re out of cream and sugar.”

Harlan reached for the cup, “Black is fine with me. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Graham took a few sips of coffee. “So, it seems you’ve got yourself into a bit of a mess, huh, Harlan?”

“Yes sir, it looks that way.”

Graham wagged his hand at Harlan. “My father is sir,” he laughed. “Me, I’m just Arthur or Art. You can call me Art. My friends call me Art. We’re not friends . . . well, not yet. But I feel like we could be. So call me Art, okay?”

“Okay, Art.”

“Good. Now Harlan . . . You don’t mind if I call you Harlan, do you?”

“Harlan is fine.”

“Good! Now, Harlan, murder is a problem. It’s not a problem for the dead man, of course. His problems are all over. It’s probably gonna be a problem for his family, and it’s most certainly gonna be a problem for you. That is, if you are indeed the murderer . . .” He trailed off, reached for the manila folder, flipped it open, and scanned the pages. Harlan’s rap sheet was short. Mostly moving violations and his arrest and conviction in ’67. Since then, Harlan hadn’t even received a jaywalking citation.

“You have a bit of a history. But nothing violent,” Graham muttered. He raised his head and looked Harlan directly in the eye. “It says here you were born in 1917. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir, it is.”

“Art.”

“Sorry. Yes, Art. I was born in Macon, Georgia on December 24, 1917.”

“Well lookee here,” Art clapped his hands against the table, “I was born in 1917 too!”

Harlan nodded.

“We already have something in common,” Graham grinned. “I’m fifty-six years old, and you’re, well, gonna be fifty-six come December.”

Again, Harlan nodded.

Graham closed the folder and pushed it aside. His mood turned serious. “Harlan, you understand that if you are responsible for the death of Andrew Mailer—”

“Sir . . . I mean Art,” Harlan interrupted, “there are no ifs, ands, or buts about it, I murdered the bitch.”

Graham’s eyes stretched. He couldn’t remember ever having heard a man refer to another man as a bitch. But this was 1973 and America had put a man on the moon, so it seemed everything and anything were possible these days. He removed the soft pack of Kool cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt, shook one free, and offered it to Harlan.

“No thank you.”

“Good for you.” Graham slipped the cigarette between his lips and lit it. “I’ve been trying to quit since I started.” Eyes squinting against the white smoke, he said, “I want to make sure you understand the consequences of your actions.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You got any medical problems?”

“None that I know of,” Harlan said. “Knees ache some when it rains, that’s about it.”

“Wife? Kids?”

“Nope.”

“Anybody we should call?”

“There’s only me.”

“Okay. Let’s move on, then,” Graham said in a relaxed, friendly tone. “Harlan, I’d like you tell me exactly why you killed Andrew Mailer. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, I can.”

The detective leaned back in his chair and scratched his gut.

Arthur Graham was a thirty-year veteran of the force. In fact, at the end of that particular June week, he was to be officially retired. As he sat in the precinct interrogating Harlan Elliott, his wife Maggie was at home putting the final touches on his retirement party, which was scheduled to take place that Saturday evening.

The Grahams had recently placed their beautiful split-level Corona, Queens home on the market, and sold or not, in a month Arthur and his wife of twenty-eight years were moving into a two-bedroom beachfront condo in sunny Ft. Myers, Florida.

If Arthur could’ve had his way, he’d have stayed on the job for another ten years. He loved it. Police work was the one thing he was exceptional at. But he’d promised his wife that 1973 would be it, and Arthur Graham was a man of his word.

He had seen a lot of things in his three decades in law enforcement. He wished he could say that this thing that was currently unfolding before him was the most ludicrous of all, but it wasn’t, at least not yet. Technically, he should have been spending his last week filling out paperwork, tying up loose ends, and shooting the breeze with his coworkers. But the paperwork was all done and the loose ends had been tied up weeks ago. Goodbyes had been said and would be said again at the party.

What Arthur wanted was one last hurrah before handing over his gold badge and revolver. So when Detective Ellis had dropped the file on his desk and said with a wink, “One more for the road?” Arthur figured his prayers had been answered. “Open and shut?” he had asked.

“Yep. The guy is here to confess,” Ellis assured him.

It seemed simple enough. Easy-peezy, as Arthur’s wife would have said.

“I’m ready when you are,” the detective prompted when Harlan just sat there staring into his empty Styrofoam cup.

“May I have some more coffee, please?”

Art pressed his palms together. “I think we could both use some more coffee.” He left the room and returned with two fresh cups of coffee and a small box of donuts.

“It’s cliché, I know.”

“What is?” Harlan asked.

“Donuts and cops.”

“Oh.”

“I got a sweet tooth,” Art said as he plucked a powder-covered donut from the box. “Go on,” he pressed, jutting his chin at the donuts, “have some.”

“No thanks.”

“Watching your figure, Harlan?” The detective chuckled before biting into the donut, sending a flurry of white powder onto his chin and tie. He devoured the first donut, then reached for a second and did away with it in two bites. “Okay,” he announced, brushing crumbs and powdered sugar from his face and clothing, “that should hold me for a while. Let’s get back to business, shall we?”

Harlan nodded.

Art raised a finger. “Wait a minute, I don’t want to forget to record this.” He reached over and pressed the red lever on the reel-to-reel and cleared his throat. “This is Detective First Class Arthur P. Graham interviewing Harlan Samuel Elliott of Brooklyn, New York, concerning the murder of one Andrew Mailer. Today is June 19, 1973; it is approximately one twenty p.m.” He looked at Harlan and smiled. “Do you want to start by telling me how you knew the deceased?”

Harlan stared at the recorder but said nothing.

“Harlan?”

Harlan blinked. “Um, yes. But I want to tell you the whole story so that you’ll understand why I did it; why I had no choice.”

The smile remained glued to Art’s lips. “That’s exactly what I want to hear, Harlan—the entire story, from beginning to end.”