The Devil Knows You're Dead by Lawrence Block Page B

Holtzmann sure as hell didn’t commit suicide, and if George didn’t kill him somebody else did.”
    “So you’d have to find the real killer.”
    “Not quite. You wouldn’t have to identify him or develop a case against him.”
    “You wouldn’t?”
    “Not really. Say a flying saucer descended from the skies and a Martian hopped out, put four bullets in Holtzmann, got back in his saucer, and took off for outer space. If you can substantiate that, if you can prove it happened, you don’t have to produce the saucer or subpoena the Martian.”
    “I get it.” He got out a cigarette, lit it with a Zippo. Through a cloud of smoke he said, “Well, what do you think? You want to go looking for that Martian?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You don’t know?”
    “I may be the wrong person for this,” I said. “See, I was acquainted with Glenn Holtzmann.”
    “You knew him?”
    “Not well,” I said, “but better than I knew your brother. I was up to his apartment once. I’ve met his wife. I talked to him a few times on the street and I had coffee with him once a block from here.” I frowned. “I wouldn’t say we were friends. As a matter of fact, I can’t say I liked him much. But I don’t think I’d be comfortable trying to get his killer off the hook.”
    “Neither would I.”
    “How’s that?”
    “If George did it,” he said, “I don’t want him off the hook either. If he pulled the trigger then he’s a danger to himself and others and he belongs in a locked ward somewhere. I only want him cleared if he didn’t do it, and if that’s the case where’s your conflict? You’d only be helping George if he turns out to be innocent. And you just said it yourself, if he didn’t do it then somebody else did. If George goes away for it, then the real killer’s getting away with it.”
    “I see what you mean.”
    “The fact that you knew the victim,” he said, “to my mind that makes you the perfect man for the job. You knew Holtzmann, you know George, you know the neighborhood. That gives you a head start, the way it looks to me. If anybody’s got a shot at it, I’d say you do.”
    “I’m not sure that means much,” I said. “I think the chance that your brother didn’t do it is slim, and the likelihood of establishing it is slimmer still. I’m afraid you’d be throwing your money away.”
    “It’s my money, Matt.”
    “That’s a point, and I guess you’re entitled to throw it away if you want to. The thing is, it’s my time, and I don’t much like to throw it away even if I’m getting paid for it.”
    “If there’s a chance he’s innocent—”
    “That’s another thing,” I said. “You believe he’s innocent, in part because that’s what you’d prefer to believe. Well, let’s suppose that he is, and that if you just sit back and do nothing he’s going to go away for the rest of his life for a crime he didn’t commit.”
    “That’s the thought that drives me crazy.”
    “Well, is it the worst thing in the world, Tom? You said yourself that he wouldn’t be in a conventional penitentiary, that he’d wind up in some sort of mental facility where his needs would be met and he’d get some sort of help. Even if he’s innocent, even if he got there for the wrong reason, is that so bad? They’ll feed him, they’ll see that he bathes and takes care of himself, he’ll get treatment—”
    “Thorazine’s what he’ll get. They’ll turn him into a fucking zombie.”
    “Maybe.”
    He took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. “You don’t know my brother,” he said. “You’ve seen him but you don’t know him. He’s not homeless, he’s got a room, but he might as well be homeless for all the time he spends there. He can’t take being cooped up. He’s got a bed that he hardly ever sleeps in. He doesn’t sleep like a normal person, lies down at night and gets up in the morning. He sleeps like an animal, half an hour or an hour at a time, on and off