The Confession of Joe Cullen by Howard Fast

fuck goes on, and I don’t know how to spell it out.”
    â€œYou spell it out pretty good,” Ramos said. “You did nothing we can arrest you for. We’ll look into it.”
    â€œMaybe we can get someone to look for that Honduran officer, Sanchez,” Freedman said.
    â€œWhere do you live?” Ramos asked. Cullen gave them the address on West Eighteenth Street.
    â€œGet some rest,” Freedman said. He opened the door of the office and Cullen shambled out.
    â€œPoor bastard,” Ramos said.
    Cullen closed the door behind him, and for a few moments the two detectives sat in silence. Then Freedman shook his head. “Fucken strange world. What the hell does he mean with that bearing-witness stuff?”
    â€œI got a notion — sort of, but I can’t explain it … I mean, I can’t make it make sense to you.”
    â€œBecause I’m not Catholic?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Freedman picked up the phone, dialed a number, and then said, “Maybe I can buy you dinner tonight?” He paused, and then, “OK, so it goes. Hell, I understand.” He put down the phone and said to Ramos, “What kind of shmuck am I?”
    Ramos shook his head.
    â€œWe’re divorced over a year, and I still try to date her. You ever date your ex-wife?”
    â€œI hate her guts, Lieutenant,” Ramos said. “I want to know what you’re thinking about Cullen.”
    Freedman took out a nail clipper and tried to smooth a ragged edge. “You believe him?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œMaybe. What the hell does maybe signify?”
    â€œI think he told it the way he sees it. Maybe it’s different the way somebody else sees it. Do you believe him?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œJust like that?”
    â€œThis Cullen,” Freedman said, “is locked into himself. I know what that’s like. I got a wife locked into herself. Cullen sees a priest killed, a fucken lousy way to die, so goddamn awful that even a priest who believes in God screams in terror as he falls through the air — and that explodes something in Cullen. Cullen really believes he murdered the priest. When we were married, I’d talk to Sheila, I’d plead with her — I couldn’t get through. O’Healey got through to Cullen. Look, Ramos, the fact that we both believe him makes a point. I’m going to send the tape downtown to the DA. Let them bust their heads over it. If anything comes of it, we’re on page one. That can’t hurt the house. We might get a new paint job out of it.”
    Freedman gave instructions to send the tape downtown to the district attorney, and then, their shift being over, he and Ramos left. Freedman was almost six feet, but Ramos loomed over him, at least four inches taller, stooped, his black mustache drooping. Freedman covered his red hair with a soft Irish hat, and both men wore raincoats. It was about six o’clock, and the bright day had given way to a cold November rain. They turned up their coat collars and hunched over as they walked toward Eighth Avenue.
    â€œLousy night,” Ramos said. “Hungry, boss?”
    â€œWhen I was a kid, I was hungry. Now I’m never hungry. I eat the goddamn junk food all day, I swear to God it’s going to kill me. You know how much cholesterol there is in a ham and cheese or a corned beef on rye? I got high blood pressure and I eat those damn pickles that are soaked with salt. I go to a doctor and I pay him forty bucks to tell me not to eat junk food.”
    â€œWhen I was a kid,” Ramos said, “you called a doctor and it was five dollars. And they came.”
    â€œDreams. We could go to a movie now and eat later. Unless you got a date?”
    â€œTell me something,” Ramos asked. “Why do you always try to date your ex-wife?”
    â€œBecause she interests me. She’s sexy. She’s smart. Other women bore me.”
    â€œSo