the yells, the slams of metal doors. “Hello Britt, this is Pete.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been busy today. I tried calling you a couple of times.”
He spoke very slowly, as though heavily medicated or deeply depressed. His sonorous voice was sad, like his long, pebbly face. I had seen Pete only once, on the Sunday he killed Patsy.
The murder scene was the shabby room they shared in a six-story hotel. The cops in the lobby refused to tell me which floor it happened on, and wouldn’t let me go upstairs. Even usually talkative officers were inexplicably surly. They ordered me not to talk to hotel employees, and sent me outside to wait I was on deadline and couldn’t understand why they were being so secretive since the case was no whodunit. The suspect was in custody; in fact, the killer had summoned police himself. The cops were pissed off, I soon realized, because it was Super Bowl Sunday. They all wanted to be holed up with a TV set back at headquarters or some other air-conditioned hideout. The cops in the lobby were all clustered around a set in the corner.
So they never noticed when I slipped in a side door and went up the fire stairs. I popped the door open on every floor and found empty hallways. When I opened the sixth-floor door, breathing hard, there was Pete, hands cuffed behind him, sitting on a bench right outside the stairwell. He was a tall, skinny sad sack with a scruffy mustache and a hangdog expression. His short-sleeve shirt hung open, his stringy hair was askew.
Cops and ID techs were assembled in and just outside of the room across the hall. The body was still there, so was a TV. Somebody had turned it on and it was tuned to the game.
“Hi,” I said, and smiled at Pete.
“Hi,” he answered, his dark eyes watery and bloodshot.
I was delighted that he spoke English. Despite my last name, my Spanish is not that good. I asked what happened. He told me, and had been telling me ever since, more than I needed or wanted to know. Pete wanted to be punished. That was why he called the police to report what he had done. That was why he called again, impatient, when they did not come. He was waiting, eager to tell all, when they finally arrived.
Cops are usually happy as hell to see a killer who waits beside the body and confesses to the first officer at the scene. But they were furious at Pete, clod that he was, mad as hell that he had strangled Patsy during the third quarter of the Super Bowl. At any other time they would have treated him like a long-lost buddy, plying him with cigarettes, coffee, and sandwiches and listening raptly as he talked all night. But not during the Super Bowl. “It’s enough to piss off the pope,” one of the cops snarled, not for attribution. “The son of a bitch could have waited ‘til the game was over.”
Pete was a loser. After nearly seven months in jail, he had lost his desire to be punished and was even more depressed. Now he wanted my critique of a poem he had enclosed with his letter. I had to confess I had not read it, and explained that I was on deadline. That didn’t stop him; he slowly began to explain his complex new legal defense. His sluggish voice was deep and dreamy. “What if…”
I stifled the desire to moan aloud, and politely feigned attention while continuing to pound out my copper wire story, and the one after that.
Three
Despite his friendly, easygoing demeanor, when Fred Douglas stops by your desk, he is never there for just a casual chat.
“You covering Hudson’s funeral tomorrow?”
“Nope, it’s my day off,” I told him.
“Never knew that to stop Britt Montero from covering a story,” he said heartily.
Uh oh, I thought. Fred is smart and creative, the best there is at the News. While some editors give you nothing but grief, Fred gives nothing but support and ideas that make you wonder, “Why didn’t I think of that?” It is impossible to say no to Fred.
But I tried.
“There must be somebody else who can
“I know.”
“You’ve been busy today. I tried calling you a couple of times.”
He spoke very slowly, as though heavily medicated or deeply depressed. His sonorous voice was sad, like his long, pebbly face. I had seen Pete only once, on the Sunday he killed Patsy.
The murder scene was the shabby room they shared in a six-story hotel. The cops in the lobby refused to tell me which floor it happened on, and wouldn’t let me go upstairs. Even usually talkative officers were inexplicably surly. They ordered me not to talk to hotel employees, and sent me outside to wait I was on deadline and couldn’t understand why they were being so secretive since the case was no whodunit. The suspect was in custody; in fact, the killer had summoned police himself. The cops were pissed off, I soon realized, because it was Super Bowl Sunday. They all wanted to be holed up with a TV set back at headquarters or some other air-conditioned hideout. The cops in the lobby were all clustered around a set in the corner.
So they never noticed when I slipped in a side door and went up the fire stairs. I popped the door open on every floor and found empty hallways. When I opened the sixth-floor door, breathing hard, there was Pete, hands cuffed behind him, sitting on a bench right outside the stairwell. He was a tall, skinny sad sack with a scruffy mustache and a hangdog expression. His short-sleeve shirt hung open, his stringy hair was askew.
Cops and ID techs were assembled in and just outside of the room across the hall. The body was still there, so was a TV. Somebody had turned it on and it was tuned to the game.
“Hi,” I said, and smiled at Pete.
“Hi,” he answered, his dark eyes watery and bloodshot.
I was delighted that he spoke English. Despite my last name, my Spanish is not that good. I asked what happened. He told me, and had been telling me ever since, more than I needed or wanted to know. Pete wanted to be punished. That was why he called the police to report what he had done. That was why he called again, impatient, when they did not come. He was waiting, eager to tell all, when they finally arrived.
Cops are usually happy as hell to see a killer who waits beside the body and confesses to the first officer at the scene. But they were furious at Pete, clod that he was, mad as hell that he had strangled Patsy during the third quarter of the Super Bowl. At any other time they would have treated him like a long-lost buddy, plying him with cigarettes, coffee, and sandwiches and listening raptly as he talked all night. But not during the Super Bowl. “It’s enough to piss off the pope,” one of the cops snarled, not for attribution. “The son of a bitch could have waited ‘til the game was over.”
Pete was a loser. After nearly seven months in jail, he had lost his desire to be punished and was even more depressed. Now he wanted my critique of a poem he had enclosed with his letter. I had to confess I had not read it, and explained that I was on deadline. That didn’t stop him; he slowly began to explain his complex new legal defense. His sluggish voice was deep and dreamy. “What if…”
I stifled the desire to moan aloud, and politely feigned attention while continuing to pound out my copper wire story, and the one after that.
Three
Despite his friendly, easygoing demeanor, when Fred Douglas stops by your desk, he is never there for just a casual chat.
“You covering Hudson’s funeral tomorrow?”
“Nope, it’s my day off,” I told him.
“Never knew that to stop Britt Montero from covering a story,” he said heartily.
Uh oh, I thought. Fred is smart and creative, the best there is at the News. While some editors give you nothing but grief, Fred gives nothing but support and ideas that make you wonder, “Why didn’t I think of that?” It is impossible to say no to Fred.
But I tried.
“There must be somebody else who can
Similar Books
