Another Senseless Killing (18) We flashed our badges and he stood up as straight as he could as if he were ready to salute. “What can you tell us about Herb Rowland in 3C?” Nick took out his notebook and pen. We talked in the dim hallway since neither of us had any desire to visit the old man’s apartment. He thought for a second as he scratched his head. “The black fella?” “Yes.” I echoed. “The black fella.” He took out a wrinkled red handkerchief and blew his nose. Then he studied the contents before he put it back into his pocket. “Don’t see him too often. He pretty much stays to himself. Keeps odd hours.” Then he cracked his knuckles, and it sounded like the Fourth of July. “He’s in some kinda trouble --- ain’t he?” “What makes you think he’s in trouble?” I asked. “First of all,” Parsons sniffed. “you two guys come in here all squinty-eyed and flashing your badges. Second of all --- “ He sniffed again. “ --- he’s black ain’t he?” Nick ignored the comment. “Is there some way you could verify his whereabouts on --- “ Nick turned a page. “ --- October first or second?” “Hell, I don’t know.” He wrinkled his forehead and scratched his head again. ”Wait a minute. I was in Zanesville visiting my sister from Labor Day to October eleventh. I know it was the eleventh ‘cause that’s my niece’s birthday.” “Mr.Parsons,” Nick quickly changed direction. “who owns this building?” He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose again. “I do.” “You do?” I asked. Nick and I were both surprised. He put his handkerchief away. “Wanna buy it?” “I don’t think so.” Nick answered quickly. “Make you one helluva deal!” I’ll bet! “No, Mr. Parsons.” I added. “I don’t believe we’re interested.” “I know it’s been empty for awhile.” Parsons rambled on. “But you fix it up right smart and --- hell, you’d have no problems renting it. In fact --- “ “Mr. Parsons.” Nick interrupted. “We are not here looking at property.” “You want to know about the black fella.” He crackled his knuckles. “Right!” Nick snapped. “Herb Rowland is his name.” “Yeah.” Parsons’ eyes lit up and he nodded slowly. “That’s it. Rowland.” “What can you tell us about him?” Nick undid his tie. “Oh --- ain’t much to tell.” He sniffed. “Like I say, I hardly see him. He comes and goes at all hours.” He knotted his face up and leaned toward us, intensifying his foul breath. “What’s he done?” “Is he usually alone?” I ignored his question. “Yep.” Parsons took a step back, much to my relief. “Although there was a white guy used to come around once in a while.” Nick and I exchanged a quick glance. “Come to think of it,” Parsons continued, “I ain’t seen him around here lately.” He leaned in toward us. This time we backed away. “This black guy done something?” Foley took a picture of Curt Warner out of his pocket. “Is this the man?” He squinted through the bottom part of his glasses for a moment. “By golly --- I believe that’s him. Looks like him anyway.” “When did this guy come by?” Nick put Warner’s photo away. “Can you give us any dates or specific times?” “Nope.” He sniffed deeply, then cleared his throat. “Just what in the hell is going on here anyway?” “This man --- Warner is his name, was murdered.” Parsons’ head snapped back. “You think that black fella did it?” “We don’t know.” I said. “That’s why --- “ “Looka here!” Parsons interrupted. “I don’t want no trouble.” “Mr. Parsons.” I tried again. “The reason we’re --- “ “I ain’t never been in no trouble.” The old man plowed on. “And I sure as hell don’t plan on starting now!” “It’s okay, Mr. Parsons.” Nick spoke reassuringly. “You’re not in any trouble.” “But you think the black fella is.” “We aren’t sure.” Nick said finally. “That’s why we’re asking all these questions.” “Well, I sure wish I could help you guys out.” He took off his glasses and put them in his side pocket. “But like I say, that fella --- Rowland --- comes and goes at all hours.” “Mr. Parsons.” Nick, clearly frustrated, went on. “I believe we have established that fact.” Then he motioned to me. I took out a picture of Kate Blair and shoved it under his pointed nose. “Ever see her?” I asked. “I don’t know.” He put on his glasses and squinted. “Uh --- maybe.” “How could you forget someone who looks like that?” I asked. He looked me directly in the eye. “Cause I’m seventy-four years old. That’s why!” Nick and I looked at each other and shook our heads. “Are there any other tenants in this building?” Nick asked. Parsons thought a moment. “Only Oscar --- I forget his last name. He’s in 2B.” “When can we talk to him?” I asked innocently. “Never. He died six months ago. Damn if I don’t keep forgetting to take his name down.” We both knew the interview was over. As we were walking toward the car, Parsons yelled from the open doorway. “You fellas sure you don’t wanna buy this place? Give it to you at a real good price.” * XXVII We parked the unmarked patrol car fifty feet back and across the street from the Perkins Apartments complex, located on the corner of Oak and Main Street. A dirty red GEO was parked in front of the building and a blue Ford was parked about thirty feet behind us. Otherwise the streets were bare. Nick was behind the wheel. His tan checkered vest was open and his stomach, as usual, hung over his belt. He was definitely putting on weight. He took the cigar out of his mouth and squinted at the brownstone we were surveilling. Then he put the cigar back in his mouth. I took a final drag of my Camel and tossed the butt out the open window. We sat and waited. “Nick, look at that blonde across the street. Man, what a body!” “Manny. Did you forget why we’re here?” “Oh sure. I’d rather call on an ex-con any day than think about getting laid. Yeah. Right!” There was a long silence. Nick changed the subject. I knew he would. “Someone should come through here with a bulldozer and a blowtorch and raze this entire decrepit neighborhood.” “I agree”. I would pursue the other matter another time. The houses were a shambles. Windows were either missing or boarded. Roofs looked like they had been victimized by a tornado. The small lawns were either weed infested or dead. Tin cans, papers and all sorts of debris covered most of the cracked sidewalks. Garbage lined the gutters. Dogs were loose and crapping wherever they felt like. FOR SALE signs were on every other lawn. Fat chance! I thought. “Oh by the way.” Nick said absently, concentrating on the apartment building. “I checked with Ming Po. Margo and Kate did in fact order Chinese food when Margo said they did. The delivery boy remembered.” I nodded. Nick continued. “So apparently Margo was the last person to see her sister alive.“ Nick moved the cigar to the other side of her mouth. “It’s one of the few things she didn’t hold back or lie about. I’ll give her that much.” “You know, Nick, I just can’t believe Margo would --- “ He grabbed my arm as a black Trans Am pulled up. “Is that the car?” I consulted the small piece of paper on the seat next to me. “907YFT. That’s the plate.” Nick sat up abruptly and pointed his finger at a large black man getting out of the car. The man stopped and looked around him cautiously. His head was covered with a dark brown and orange wool hat bearing the Cincinnati Bengal’s logo. Already I didn’t like him! His torn blue jeans matched his ripped denim jacket. He had on sandals but no socks. Even from where I sat, I could see his beady eyes jump from one object to another. He stood in front of the doorway for several seconds before entering. Nick and I got out of the green Dodge and waited for a Greyhound bus to pass before we crossed the street “I can’t get over what a crummy looking building this is.” I said. “Fits in perfectly with this crummy looking neighborhood.” Nick replied blandly. We stopped and inspected the Trans Am. “Not in bad shape.” I said, trying the door. It was locked. “Looks clean --- inside and out.” “Okay,” said Nick, throwing away his cigar. “let’s go in.” “You sure we won’t need a backup?” I asked. “Nah!” Nick glanced down at his gun. “He probably lives alone. Which means he’s outnumbered two to one.” “Your confidence is overwhelming.” I quipped. “Even dickhead Arthur would be proud.” “If there’s any hint of a doubt --- “ Nick shrugged. “ --- then I will definitely call for a backup.” “By then it’ll be too late.” We finally opened the creaky door and went inside. “Sounds like Inner Sanctum.” “You’re dating yourself, Nick.” I remembered the blistered, mustard colored walls from our last visit. Rowland’s apartment was on the third floor. We put our ears to the door. It was quiet. He was probably alone. Nick and I waited a minute, then I knocked. No answer. I knocked again --- louder. Finally we heard rattling at the other end, and a raspy voice answered. “Who is it?” Nick and I both drew our weapons. “Open up!” Nick yelled. “Police!” “What the hell you want? I ain’t done nothing!” Now I was sure he was alone. Still, another backup would have been a good idea. “Open the fucking door, Rowland!” Nick bellowed. There was another silence and more rattling. Then the door opened slowly. Herb Rowland was in a torn undershirt and baggy jockey shorts. At close range I could see one or two day’s beard growth. It looked like dirty snow --- the same as his scraggly hair. He had a large flat nose, thin mustache and small goatee. He was very muscular, standing a little over six feet. I hoped I would never have to engage him in hand-to-hand combat. I was glad I was carrying a piece. “Know what this is?” Nick asked, holding an eight by ten paper in his left hand. Herbie got his nose up to it and squinted. “It’s a search warrant.” “Bingo!” I said. “Hey, man! I’m clean. I paid those fucking parking tickets!” I nodded mechanically as I looked around the slovenly apartment. Dirty wrinkled clothes were everywhere: on the floor, on the chairs, on the bed. Next to this dump, my sister’s bedroom looked like a palace. The kitchen was equally filthy. Pots and pans were piled up on the counter and in the sink. The walls and ceiling were crying for a paint job, and it was impossible to tell what was embedded in the worn out rug. “This is a fucking pigsty, Herbie.” I kept my piece aimed at his chest. “Fuck you!” he roared. I wanted to take my forty-five and smash his face in. I knew it would have been a serious mistake. Nick put his piece away only after he had inspected every room. But I kept mine pointed. Nick stuck his hands in his pockets and walked nonchalantly up to Rowland. They looked like Mutt and Jeff from the old comic strip. “Herbie.” Nick crossed to the overstuffed wastebasket. He put a fresh cigar into his mouth and turned to Rowland. “We’re here because we got this tip.” “What the hell you talking about?” Herbie took a step toward Nick. “What tip?” I moved back against the door. “Herbie.” Nick said softly. “Why don’t you sit in that chair --- over there.” He gently shoved Rowland into one of the folding chairs with the least amount of clothes on it. “And don’t do anything stupid!” Nick said. I admired his guts. “Hey, man! I’m a taxpayer. I got rights!” “You’re garbage, Rowland.” I sneered. “You got no rights!” I raised my piece and aimed it at his head. “Just sit still and shut up! This is official police business so I suggest you cooperate.” He whirled to Foley, the whites of his eyes red and blazing. “I don’t have to take his shit, man!” Nick glared at me. “Manny, cool it!” I decided to look beyond my distaste for Rowland and act like a professional. Nick walked to the far cupboard in the kitchen. “You live here alone?” He was nonchalant. Herbie didn’t answer. “I asked you a question, Herbie.” Nick said as he opened the cupboard door. I stepped on a two-inch roach, grimacing. After a few seconds Herbie responded. “Yeah man. I live here alone. Look, are you --- “ I smashed another giant roach. The loud squish stopped Rowland in mid-sentence. But Nick ignored it. “Just what the fuck you guys looking for?” Neither Nick nor I responded. Now the place was beginning to get to me. Strange rancid odors were becoming more noticeable. The stench was ten times worse than that of the morgue. Nick, seemingly impervious to it all, reached into the back of the cupboard and took out a round green plastic bowl, then glanced at me. I stayed against the door, my weapon still pointed at Rowland’s face. Rowland’s eyes remained fixed on the green bowl. “Open it.” Nick said as he handed it to Herbie. Herbie took the bowl in his large hairy hands, then stared at it as if he was seeing it for the first time. “Come on, Rowland.” Foley spoke condescendingly. “Open it.” He removed the lid and peered inside along with Foley. His bulging eyes looked like they were a yard wide. “Hey, man. What the fuck is --- “ “Herbie, you have the right to remain silent --- “ As Nick read Rowland his rights, he took out his handcuffs and cuffed him as quickly as I’ve ever seen it done. I could only marvel at my friend’s dexterity. “Shit!” Rowland’s gaze jumped from the bowl to Nick and then back to the bowl. “This ain’t mine!” “Really.” Nick snickered. “It was in your bowl in your cupboard --- in your apartment.” “This is a motherfucking frame-up!” “And,” Nick added, “you did say you live here --- alone. I thought that’s what I heard.” I could see Rowland trying to find a way out. There wasn’t any. The window was closed and we were on the third floor. “It’s a thirty-eight, Herbie.” Nick said. “Your thirty-eight.” Rowland moved his mouth but nothing came out. Nick continued. “Three people have been murdered with a thirty-eight --- three that we know about.” “I --- I swear to God, man. It ain’t mine.” Sweat dripped from every pore on his face. “I never seen that gun before.” “How do you account for it being in your possession?” Nick asked. Rowland’s eyes kept bouncing back and forth between us. But he remained silent. “If by some miracle this turns out not to be the murder weapon. Or if it turns out not to be yours,” Nick bit down hard on his cigar. “I will personally hand deliver you a letter of apology. But for now, we leave that to ballistics.” I loved watching Herbie squirm. Finally, he stood up and clenched his entire body. Muscles suddenly developed in places I didn’t know existed. I took a step back. Now I was flush against the door. “You motherfuckers have made a big mistake!” He spewed the words. Nick casually took a bag from his inside jacket pocket. Then using a clean handkerchief, he put the thirty-eight into it, careful not to touch the handle or the trigger mechanism. “Let’s go, Herbie.” I felt omnipotent with a weapon in my hand. I squeezed it harder. At first I thought he was going to put up a fight, even cuffed. But he didn’t. “Put your pants on, Herbie.” Nick said. “We’re going for a ride.” * XXVIII “Book him.” Nick said disinterestedly as he roughly led a handcuffed Herb Rowland to the front desk sergeant. I followed close behind, my hand against the handle of my forty-five. Then two policemen took over, and Nick and I went into his private office. As usual, the office was dimly lit and messy. Papers were scattered all over his desk and on the shelves behind him. Drawers were half opened and jammed full. The window shade was torn and the floor was as bad as the one in Rowland’s apartment. The office got smaller each time I came here. The precinct was unusually quiet. I lit up a Camel and Nick put a fresh cigar into his mouth. Then he sat back in his swivel chair, removed his jacket, opened his vest, loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. His underarms were soaked. He looked more like a newspaper editor than a cop. He filled two coffee mugs, putting one on the table next to him and pushing the other one towards me. Then he handed me a manila folder. I took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “How can you drink this shit?” Nick was about to respond when the phone rang. “Hello.” There was a long pause. Nick nodded several times. “Just tell me when it’s done.” There was another long pause and more nodding. “Right. And send someone up to my office. I got a thirty-eight I want you to look at. Could be the murder weapon.” He hung up. “Tell you when what’s done?” I asked. “The molds of the tire tracks and the shoe print in Martha Bowden’s home. They’re finally close. Real close.” Nick emptied the ashtray in the wastebasket. “And the trajectory of the bullet. We’re real close on that too.” I took a long drag of my cigarette and exhaled slowly. Nick pointed to the folder in my hand. “Read that.” I opened it up. There were several newspaper clippings, arrest forms, and assorted legal documents from January fifteenth of nineteen-seventy-five. The news photos showed Herb Rowland handcuffed and being pushed into a paddy wagon by a younger thinner Nick Foley. “I believe we have a deja vu here.” I said. “To tell you the truth, Manny, I had clean forgotten about that incident until I got Rowland in the patrol car. Then I remembered exactly where his old file was.” “What was he charged with?”
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Copyright © 1998 B J Bloch |