Murder at Ford's Theatre by Margaret Truman Page B

somewhere in his body. His shoulder and facial tic intensified, then seemed to subside as he decided to answer. “He was big, a big and strong kind a’ guy. Mean-lookin’, too. Russian, I think.”
    “Russian?”
    “A mole. You can’t trust the Russkies. Commie bastards’ll stick it to you every way.”
    Johnson sighed and stood. “How big?” he asked. “As big as me?” Partridge looked up at the six-foot-three-inch Johnson.
    “Bigger.”
    “Uh-huh.” Johnson sat.
    “How old?” Klayman asked. He wished the session were over. He hated everything about the interrogation room, its institutional look, battered furniture, heavy metal grill over the only window, but most of all the harsh light from the twin fluorescent bulbs hanging over the table.
    “How would I know how old he was?” Partridge replied. “Might have been a young punk, might have been an old one. You never can tell with them.”
    “Maybe he was a young punk, huh? You know, twenty maybe, something like that?”
    The old drunk’s face fell into a pout. His head came forward, his scraggly beard resting on his chest. He crossed his arms defiantly, looked up, and announced, “I have nothing more to say about it.” The detectives were silent. “Is there a reward?”
    “Might be,” Hathaway replied. “Think you’d recognize the guy in a lineup?”
    “How much is the reward?”
    “We don’t know yet.”
    “I don’t want to stay here anymore. They’ll be wondering where I am.”
    “Need a drink, Mr. Partridge?” Johnson said.
    “I want my lawyer.”
    “You’ve got a lawyer?” Hathaway asked, chuckling. He motioned for Klayman and Johnson to follow him from the room. “You just sit tight, Mr. Partridge. We want to go out and—talk about the reward.”
    Partridge had a contented smile on his face as his questioners went to an area separated from the interrogation room by a large, one-way window through which they could observe him.
    “It’s a waste of time,” Hathaway said. “He didn’t see a damn thing. He’s an old drunk, that’s all.”
    “We let him go?”
    “Yeah.”
    “We could hold him as a material witness,” said Klayman. “Give him a bed and a few meals.”
    “Forget it,” Hathaway said. “We’re not running a flophouse for winos. Besides, it’s not like he’s going to catch a plane for Paris or something. He’s got a vagrancy and panhandling sheet going way back. We’ll find him again if we need him. Get him another candy bar and show him the door. The smell’s making me sick.”
    “Any thoughts that
he
might have killed her?” Klayman asked.
    Hathaway looked from Johnson to Klayman and back to Johnson. “Come on,” he said. “Get real.”
    Partridge was escorted to the street by uniformed patrolmen, and Klayman and Johnson followed Hathaway to his office.
    “You get hold of that Bancroft character?” Hathaway asked.
    “No. Answering machine,” Klayman said. “I thought we’d give him one more try before calling it a night.”
    Hathaway stroked the tuft of black hair on the end of his chain and gave out with a small laugh. “The night is young, pal. So’re you. You say the deceased’s landlady was no help coming up with names of boyfriends?”
    “Right,” said Johnson. “But all that jewelry says somebody took good care of her.”
    “Somebody’s got to know who she dated. She’s not out of college that long. American University. Get over there and ask around. She must have had a roommate, friends, somebody who knew about her sex life.”
    “Okay,” said Klayman. “After we try Bancroft again.”
    “And check everybody who worked with her in Lerner’s office.”
    “What about the senator?” Klayman asked.
    “I need the word from up top before we contact him. Don’t be strangers. Keep me in the loop. I don’t want any surprises.”
    Klayman’s and Johnson’s desks butted up against each other in the detectives’ room.
    Johnson said to Klayman: “Ricky, got to call Etta,