Suspects by Thomas Berger Page A

no longer angry. “God Almighty,” he pleaded, “show me a little decency. What’s happened to my family?”
    LeBeau spoke, with a harder voice than Moody’s. “We’ve got some serious business here, and therefore I’m going to give you your rights at this point. You have the right to remain silent…” He went through the litany, pretending to read from the card he took from the leather folder that also contained his ID and shield.
    But before he had finished, Howland cried, “Do I have to get my lawyer to force you to answer a simple question?”
    Moody decided it was time to hit him with it. “Mr. Howland, your wife and your daughter are deceased.”
    Howland nodded his head for a moment, looking at nothing. At length he lowered his fleshy chin and closed his eyes. The two detectives stood flanking him, in front of the couch he refused to take a seat on when they asked him to. There were all sorts of possible reactions to such news as he had now received—if in fact it was news to him—and in Moody’s experience none was likely to be indicative of either guilt or innocence, though you might pretend otherwise. The most ruthless of murderers was quite capable of a display of shock and grief that was at face value much more credible than the sometimes mild reaction of the clean-souled.
    â€œNow maybe you want to sit down,” Moody told him, gesturing. “Mr. Howland?” The man seemed in a stupor.
    â€œExcuse me,” Howland said finally, turning as if in appeal to LeBeau, who previously had been the less friendly; but it was not LeBeau who had brought the worst news. “I want to get this straight.” His eyes seemed to have shrunk in diameter as his chin receded and his nose grew more pointed, but his color stayed the same.
    Moody repeated the curt statement, this time replacing “deceased” with “dead.” When the substance of what you said was of this character, there was no means of not being brutal, at least so he believed. But he still might try when addressing someone who could not possibly be a perpetrator, such as Donna’s mother. Which is why he was relieved that Dennis had taken that job off his hands.
    Howland nodded as he had earlier.
    â€œSit down,” LeBeau said sternly. He touched Howland’s shoulder.
    Howland flinched. He cried defiantly, “This is my house. Don’t tell me what to do! You’re on my premises here.”
    â€œMr. Howland, you listen to me,” said Moody. “Something happened here that changes a lot of things. You don’t want to work against us. You want to help us find out what happened to your wife and little girl. At least I’m hoping you do.”
    Howland all at once screamed, taking the officers by surprise, and thus was able to dash as far as the hallway before LeBeau, with his quicker reflexes, could pursue him and halt his progress, being careful, however, to avoid strong-arming the man. Luckily nothing of the sort was needed, despite his apparent burst of hysteria. Howland came to a rigid stop at the touch of his elbow.
    â€œMr. Howland,” Moody said. “Listen to me. I’m sorry there’s been a misunderstanding. We’re going to tell you everything we know. The reason why we want you to sit down is you’re going to hear some nasty stuff.”
    Howland violently shook his head, without, however, disarranging his hair. He did not focus his eyes anywhere. He came slowly back into the living room, touching the woodwork and the pieces of furniture he passed, as though seeking orientation. He still would not sit down.
    Moody told him about the murders. Howland covered his face, and his shoulders heaved, though he made no sound and no tears emerged from beneath his fingers. After a while LeBeau returned to the questioning, for one of the best times to get straight answers was when a subject was genuinely overwrought and