Five
​ My cell rang. I paused to pull it from my pocket and Dehan, battered by the wind blustering in off the East River, rested her ass on the hood of the Jaguar and watched me.
​ It was the precinct. I said, “Yeah, Stone.”
​ “Hey gorgeous, it’s your favorite sergeant.”
​ “Hello, Maria.”
​ “You got a witness who saw something last night at Claire Carter’s house. He wants to come in and talk to you. I have him on the line now. Name’s Oliver Smith.”
​ “Thanks, Maria. Get a time from him. Soon as he can. We’ll be right over.”
​ “Hold the line, handsome.” There was silence for ten seconds, then Maria came back on the line. “He’ll be here in about half an hour.”
​ “We’re on our way.”
​ I hung up. Dehan said, “Who? When? We’re on our way where?”
​ “We have a witness. Oliver Smith. Claims he saw something yesterday. He’s coming in. He’ll be at the station in half an hour.”
​ She gave me a thumbs up and climbed in the car. I took Lafayette and then Soundview and turned onto Story Avenue ten minutes later. We had time to grab some coffee and Maria buzzed me to let me know Oliver Smith had arrived. I asked her to have a uniform take him up to interrogation room three and sat a moment sipping my brew and looking at Dehan across the desk.
​ “So, we’ve seen Claire Carter’s crime scene, we’ve reviewed the old case file and we’ve spoken to the Reverend James Campbell. Tell me something before we go and talk to our witness. What’s your take so far?”
She tilted her paper cup this way and that a few times, studying the thin, black liquid inside.
​ “What do they say in England? As mad as a box of frogs? This guy is as crazy as a box of Mexican beans with big hats and mustaches dancing the Lambada while hacking at each other with giant machetes.”
​ “Unexpected but undeniably visual. You care to enlarge on that?”
​ “Yeah, they’re all wearing pink tutus, too.”
​ “Tutus too?”
​ “Mm-hm.” She sighed. “He is the obvious choice. He has mommy issues and then some, but I have a couple of problems with him. First is that, if I read him right, his big problems kicked in after he saw his mother butchered, not before.”
​ I made a “psh, maybe” face and said, “Thin,”
​ “Shut up, you asked. Also, Alvarez said he either had alibis for the other killings, or he couldn’t link him to them in any way. And I don’t want to walk into the trap of believing it’s him just because he’s the kind of man who’d do that.”
​ I nodded several times. “Very commendable. And I have to say, overall, I agree. But both the alibis and the timing are weak. Alibis can be fabricated and broken, and just because you can’t show he was connected to the other killings, it doesn’t mean he wasn’t. As to when he went over the edge, we have only his word to go on. You can be as crazy as a Mexican jumping bean and still be as smart as Albert Einstein. His mother might well have bedded one guy too many, he might have come home and found them in bed, the guy goes and he loses it with his mom. The manner of the killing expresses his deepest frustrations with her and triggers a spate of subsequent murders.”
​ “Might well and may have, Stone. It still boils down to: ‘He’s the kind of guy who could do this.’ That’s not evidence.”
​ I offered her a lopsided grin. “Did you ever get her to learn?”
​ She frowned. “What?”
​ “Your grandmother, did you ever manage to teach her to suck eggs?”
​ “That’s funny. I must remember that for the next time you lecture me.”
​ “I? Lecture thee? Never! Come on, let’s go see if this guy can bring any light to the affair.”
​ We took our coffee upstairs and collected a third cup on the way to interrogation room three. Dehan opened the door and I followed her in. Oliver Smith was in his mid-thirties, with dark hair that wasn’t brown or black and gray eyes that were frank and honest and a little feminine, without being effeminate. He stood as we entered and, as I set down his coffee in front of him, he held out his hand.
​ “Are you the detectives investigating the murder on Watson Avenue?”
​ I showed him my badge and Dehan showed him hers while I said, “I am Detective John Stone, this is my partner, Detective Carmen Dehan. How do you know about that murder, Mr. Smith?”
​ We all sat while he managed a combined smile and frown.
​ “Well, it was on the news last night, but aside from that, I have...,” he stared up at the ceiling for a moment, sucking his teeth, “How can I put this… I have certain business with the Church of the Holy Family, and I went there a couple of times yesterday. That was how I happened to see what I saw, and, later in the day, I happened to notice that there was a lot of police activity. So I made a point of watching the news last night...”
​ He spread his hands and made a “so you see” face. I made an “oh I see” face to go with his “so you see” one and glanced briefly at Dehan. She understood and got up to leave the room and check if the murder was on the news, and if so on what channels and at what time. When the door had closed behind her I smiled at Smith.
​ “It’s good of you to come in. Lots of people prefer not to get involved.”
​ He gave a small snort. “The truth is, Detective Stone, modern society does not encourage social responsibility.” He laughed and leaned forward, reaching to lay his fingers on my forearm. “I am not a Republican—or a Democrat, for that matter—but I do see a federal government that is ever more overbearing and controlling. And...,” he shrugged, “the more Big Brother takes responsibility, the less responsibility Joe Public needs to take. There was a time, not so long ago, when Americans felt responsible for each other. You still see it in rural areas, in places where the Christian ethic is still deeply rooted.”
​ I smiled, mildly, and waited. He watched me a moment, returned the smile and spread his hands.
​ “I feel I am responsible for the community in which I live, and try to do my part.”
​ “You’re not a native New Yorker, are you, Mr. Smith.”
​ He laughed out loud. “That is a sad indictment on New Yorkers, Detective Stone. I would not be so harsh. Especially in the last twenty years, New York has turned around. I think New Yorkers have found themselves. Though it is true that, as an urban sprawl, a vastly overpopulated urban sprawl, there is not the kind of cohesion you might find in rural, northern New England.”
​ “Is that where you are from, Mr. Smith?”
​ “No, I am from Alaska.” He chuckled at my expression. “You would expect me to be called Ooa, Nivikanguak, or Aglukak? The most common names in Alaska are Smith and Brown, Detective. The Inuit names are a minority.”
​ “You learn something new every day, if you’re paying attention,” I said. “So, let me get my bearings here. You were at the church. You say you have some business with them. Do I gather you are a lay brother or something of that sort?”
​ He shook his head, still smiling, with what I could only describe to myself as a humorous twinkle in his eye. I had the feeling I was talking to the maiden aunt I’d never had.
​ “No, Detective Stone, I am a journalist. I run a magazine, but that’s not important. The truth is, I am not even a Christian. Life has taught me to be an atheist. Believe me, you don’t grow up in remote Alaska, watching the seasonal workers come and go, and remain a believer! But that doesn’t mean I can’t see the worth of Christian values. Not…!” He raised his right hand. “Not the values of the Old Testament, but those put forward by Jesus in the New Testament.” He shrugged. “So I help by contributing in a fairly substantial way to their good works, and an educational project we are developing. Basic Christian values are good values, whether you are religious or not.”
​ “Forgiveness rather than retribution...”
​ He chuckled. “The thing is, Detective, and this is where Christianity falls down, the Christian values may work for the individual, as a guide through life, but they do not work for society. That poor woman who was murdered, her family and loved ones may, following Christ’s teachings, forgive the killer. But, as you suggest, society cannot do that. Society must hunt this killer and bring him to justice, and there must be retribution. If we tried to build society on Christ’s teachings, it would fall apart and chaos and anarchy would reign. That is just one reason why I am an atheist.”
​ I nodded. He watched me a moment and smiled. “Your partner has gone to check if the murder was on the news, and probably to establish at what time and what channels. It was on NBC at half-past midnight. Would you like to hear my testimony? I am happy to repeat it for your partner.”
​ I gave a small laugh. “Yes, please.”
​ He took a moment, as though gathering his thoughts, with his hands folded in his lap. “I had been at the church. As I said, I am engaged in setting up a project with Father Cohen, to help children who are the victims of violence...” He paused and hesitated. “Direct or indirect victims of violence, to come to terms with their experiences through counseling and positive education. I believe quite passionately that projects of that sort could do a lot to bring down levels of violent crime.”
​ “I agree, Mr. Smith. That is a very commendable project. At what time were you there?”
​ The door opened and Dehan came in. She pulled out the chair and sat beside me. Smith smiled at her and said, “NBC at twelve thirty?”
​ She glanced at me and I smiled. “Is that right?”
​ She nodded. “Yeah.”
​ “Please, continue, Mr. Smith.”
​ He recapped briefly for Dehan and went on.
​ “So, I arrived at the church at nine AM. We discussed the details of the project and did a few sums, then we had coffee and I left at about eleven forty-five...”
​ Dehan sighed and cut across him. “You are very precise about the time, Mr. Smith. Why were you so aware of the time?”
​ “Well, Detective Dehan, the simple answer is that I wasn’t especially aware of the time. I am a busy man and I stick to a pretty tight schedule, and I like to be punctual. So I always have one eye on my watch.” He did an exaggerated nodding thing which included his shoulders and gave a small laugh. “But it is also true that, when I realized I had to come and give evidence about what I had seen, I ran through all the details I considered would be relevant in my mind, to make sure I would be accurate.”
​ I glanced at Dehan. She seemed satisfied so I asked, “So what happened next?”
​ “I came out of the church, through those big gates, onto Castle Hill Avenue, and turned left into Watson Avenue. I had only gone a few steps when I noticed some movement over on the right, at the door of one of those redbrick houses that are set back from the road. I believe there are two of them, just after the white clapboard one...”
​ I nodded. “Yeah, at Claire Carter’s house.”
​ “What I now know to be Claire Carter’s house. The door had been flung open and a man emerged in a hurry. What struck me was that he did not close the door behind him. He left it open and ran down the steps into the front yard. There he stopped running but walked very quickly across the road and got into a car. It was one of those cars that opens automatically when he grips the handle, but it didn’t seem to open fast enough for him and he practically wrenched the door off its hinges. Then he got in and took off. It wasn’t quite burning rubber, but it certainly felt...” He paused to think and finally said, “...urgent . It felt urgent.”
​ Dehan drew breath but I spoke quickly. “Was he parked near your car?”
​ “Yes, as a matter of fact I was parked behind him—not the next car but the one after that.”
​ “What car do you drive, Mr. Smith?”
​ He grimaced. “I’m afraid it’s a little pretentious. I have a 1969 MG MGB.”
​ I smiled. “Very nice. Right-hand drive?”
​ “Yes, with the original spoke wheels.”
​ “Superb. What car did this man get into, Mr. Smith?”
​ “Ah, yes, that was an off-white Ford Kuga. I’m afraid I did not get the plate. He took off toward Castle Hill and then turned left and vanished.”
​ Dehan was making notes and asked, without looking up, “Can you describe him, Mr. Smith?”
​ “Yes, um... Well, he was sort of nondescript. Five ten, average build, neither overweight nor thin, yet not athletic either. He was wearing jeans and a padded jacket, but not a hoody. It was sage green and he had medium-length sandy hair. There was no style to his hair, no side parting or anything like that. What you might call a Julius Caesar style. His shirt...” He paused to think again. “I wouldn’t like to say what he was wearing under his jacket. I am not sure.”
​ “Is there anything else,” she went on writing without looking at him, “anything at all that you can tell us about him, what he did, what he looked like, sounded like, smelt like, anything about his car, what it was like inside, decals, badges, decoration, wheels, tires...”
​ She trailed off and he watched her while she wrote.
​ “No,” he said finally. “There really is nothing else that comes to mind, or that struck me as important at the time. I’m sorry.”
​ “Not at all.” I shook my head. “You have been very helpful.” I smiled. “Are you a car enthusiast?”
​ “Well,” he was self-deprecating, “I am interested in classic sports cars, from the 1960s.”
​ “On your way out you might have a look at mine. It’s the burgundy Jaguar, Mk II. 1965. I have the original plates framed at home.”
​ His eyebrows shot up. “Oh, now that is a lovely classic. Yes indeed.”
​ I stood. “You said you were a journalist, Mr. Smith?”
​ He stood too. “Yes, very boring, I’m afraid. Nothing exciting like investigative journalism. Just bog standard stuff.”
​ I held out my hand and we shook. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Smith. We’ll let you know if we have any more questions for you. And we may call on you to testify in court, if the man you saw is in fact Claire’s killer.”
​ “That’s absolutely fine. I am happy to help.”
​ He left and the door closed behind him. I looked down at Dehan. She finished writing, looked up at me and shrugged.
​ “It corroborates what Edna said, and gives us a slightly better description of the killer. Aside from that, it’s not dynamite.”
​ I nodded, then shrugged and gave my head a twitch. “Maybe.” I glanced at my watch. “Let’s go and see Frank, see if he and Joe have anything better for us.”