straight arrow."
"Well, let's go talk to the little cocksucker." Finch opened the car door and stepped out into the rain.
We went upstairs, to the fourth floor of the old Court House. The main hall was filled with cops from various jurisdictions, lounging against the walls, smoking, talking to each other. The place smelled like cops -a stink of wet serge, muddy shoes, cigarettes, nervous sweat. I couldn't tell from the talk if any of the cops had heard about the homosexual business. But from the number of them standing around, I guessed they knew something was up.
The interrogation rooms were located midway down the hall. A group of beat cops stood outside one of the paneled doors, laughing raucously. Finch walked up to them and signaled to a tall sergeant. The cop came over to him.
"He's inside?" Finch said.
The cop nodded.
"Is he talking?" Finch asked.
"Like it's a game show."
"Get us a stenographer, will you. Tell him to wait outside until I'm ready." The cop started off and Finch pulled him back by the sleeve. "Who's in there with him now?"
"Lennart and Tom Gerard."
"What about a PD?"
"He don't want one."
Finch gave the sergeant a look. "I don't want this queer to get off on some fucking Miranda shit."
"I'm telling you he refused counsel. Gerard read him his rights twice. The little bastard doesn't give a damn."
"What about the girlfriend?"
"We got her downstairs. You want her up here?"
Finch thought it over. "Yeah, bring her up with the stenographer."
The cop walked off. Finch glanced at me. "You know the routine, Stoner. Just keep out of the way. And keep your mouth shut."
Art walked over to the door of the interrogation room and opened it. Carnova was inside, sitting on one side of a rectangular table -his arms cuffed in front of him. Two sweaty shirt-sleeved cops were sitting opposite him. A pack of cigarettes and several Styrofoam cups of coffee sat on the table between them. There were cigarette butts all over the floor and clouds of stale smoke hanging loosely in the air.
Carnova looked up as Finch and I came into the room. He was short, shorter than I expected from the picture, and muscular in the arms and chest. He wore patched jeans, a studded belt, and a fur-lined leather vest open to the waist. No shirt, no shoes. Although his dirty angel's face was dry, you could tell that it had been wet with rain from the way the hair was plastered down on his forehead and cheeks. I took a good look at his darting blue eyes. I couldn't see any fear in them, certainly no remorse. Just the excitement of the moment, a kid's excitement at being the center of attention.
As he entered the room Finch took a Miranda card from his coat pocket and started to read the boy his rights. Before Art had finished Carnova was shaking his head and grinning.
"I ain't gonna get no lawyer," he said in a loud Appalachian kid's voice. "They just fuck you over, lawyers. That's something I learned from my dad."
Finch glanced at the other cops, then at the kid. "Okay." He pocketed the Miranda card. "You feel like talking about the murder, Terry?"
"I done it, and I'm ready to pay." The boy's eyes gleamed wildly. "Think I'll get the chair?"
"You might," Gerard said.
The kid lifted his chin dramatically, as if to say he could take it, and I suddenly realized that this was the biggest moment in his life -high drama. Like TV. Like Perry Mason or People's Court. It depressed me to think about the vicious, banal history that had led up to it.
"Unlock him," Finch said to Lennart.
The cop took off Carnova's handcuffs and snapped them on his own belt. Carnova rubbed his wrists.
"Thanks," he said to Finch, as if he'd done him a personal favor.
Finch grunted. "Don't mention it."
"I ain't gonna say nothing for the record, though," he said, with a cagey look on his face. "You got me fair and square. But I ain't gonna say nothing for the papers."
"Why, Terry?" Finch said.
"I got my reputation to think of." The kid reached out
"Well, let's go talk to the little cocksucker." Finch opened the car door and stepped out into the rain.
We went upstairs, to the fourth floor of the old Court House. The main hall was filled with cops from various jurisdictions, lounging against the walls, smoking, talking to each other. The place smelled like cops -a stink of wet serge, muddy shoes, cigarettes, nervous sweat. I couldn't tell from the talk if any of the cops had heard about the homosexual business. But from the number of them standing around, I guessed they knew something was up.
The interrogation rooms were located midway down the hall. A group of beat cops stood outside one of the paneled doors, laughing raucously. Finch walked up to them and signaled to a tall sergeant. The cop came over to him.
"He's inside?" Finch said.
The cop nodded.
"Is he talking?" Finch asked.
"Like it's a game show."
"Get us a stenographer, will you. Tell him to wait outside until I'm ready." The cop started off and Finch pulled him back by the sleeve. "Who's in there with him now?"
"Lennart and Tom Gerard."
"What about a PD?"
"He don't want one."
Finch gave the sergeant a look. "I don't want this queer to get off on some fucking Miranda shit."
"I'm telling you he refused counsel. Gerard read him his rights twice. The little bastard doesn't give a damn."
"What about the girlfriend?"
"We got her downstairs. You want her up here?"
Finch thought it over. "Yeah, bring her up with the stenographer."
The cop walked off. Finch glanced at me. "You know the routine, Stoner. Just keep out of the way. And keep your mouth shut."
Art walked over to the door of the interrogation room and opened it. Carnova was inside, sitting on one side of a rectangular table -his arms cuffed in front of him. Two sweaty shirt-sleeved cops were sitting opposite him. A pack of cigarettes and several Styrofoam cups of coffee sat on the table between them. There were cigarette butts all over the floor and clouds of stale smoke hanging loosely in the air.
Carnova looked up as Finch and I came into the room. He was short, shorter than I expected from the picture, and muscular in the arms and chest. He wore patched jeans, a studded belt, and a fur-lined leather vest open to the waist. No shirt, no shoes. Although his dirty angel's face was dry, you could tell that it had been wet with rain from the way the hair was plastered down on his forehead and cheeks. I took a good look at his darting blue eyes. I couldn't see any fear in them, certainly no remorse. Just the excitement of the moment, a kid's excitement at being the center of attention.
As he entered the room Finch took a Miranda card from his coat pocket and started to read the boy his rights. Before Art had finished Carnova was shaking his head and grinning.
"I ain't gonna get no lawyer," he said in a loud Appalachian kid's voice. "They just fuck you over, lawyers. That's something I learned from my dad."
Finch glanced at the other cops, then at the kid. "Okay." He pocketed the Miranda card. "You feel like talking about the murder, Terry?"
"I done it, and I'm ready to pay." The boy's eyes gleamed wildly. "Think I'll get the chair?"
"You might," Gerard said.
The kid lifted his chin dramatically, as if to say he could take it, and I suddenly realized that this was the biggest moment in his life -high drama. Like TV. Like Perry Mason or People's Court. It depressed me to think about the vicious, banal history that had led up to it.
"Unlock him," Finch said to Lennart.
The cop took off Carnova's handcuffs and snapped them on his own belt. Carnova rubbed his wrists.
"Thanks," he said to Finch, as if he'd done him a personal favor.
Finch grunted. "Don't mention it."
"I ain't gonna say nothing for the record, though," he said, with a cagey look on his face. "You got me fair and square. But I ain't gonna say nothing for the papers."
"Why, Terry?" Finch said.
"I got my reputation to think of." The kid reached out
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