A Fountain Filled With Blood

“But when we come to pick you up to ask you about these assaults, you take off. Then you try to kill me by dropping that chain on me. And when we finally get you in to talk, first thing you do is call a lawyer.”

“Chris said to! Chris said if anything happened, I should call a lawyer and let him handle it.”

Even Noble shifted at that. Russ carefully replaced his glasses, not looking at McKinley. “Yeah? Well, Chris’s not here, is he? You are. And you’re the one sitting in the hot seat. So to speak.” He glanced at Noble.

“Actually, it’s a gurney now, Chief,” Noble said. “Lethal injection.”

“That’s right.” Russ turned to McKinley, who had collapsed back onto his chair. “You’re a good friend, Elliott. I knew that when you wouldn’t give up any information on the Chhouk case. But it takes one hell of a friend to be willing to go to the death house in Clinton.”

“It’s called the UCP now, Chief. The Unit for Condemned Prisoners.”

“Thanks, Officer Entwhistle. I guess my head’s still stuck in the sixties, when they used to send ’em to Sing Sing to fry.”

McKinley made a sound deep in his throat.

“Hmm? I’m sorry, did you say something, Elliott?”

“You guys,” he whispered, then coughed and spoke more loudly. “You guys are just messing with my head. To get me to talk.”

“You’ve already expressed to Officer Entwhistle and Deputy Chief MacAuley that you decline to make a statement without representation. Isn’t that right? I don’t want you to talk with us. That might be violating your rights, Elliott. I’m sure Geoff Burns will be able to give you real good advice. I think he got the pharmacy burglar off.”

“Two years, plus two probation,” Noble said.

“Thank you, Officer Entwhistle.”

McKinley leaned forward. “Chris Dessaint,” he said hoarsely.

Russ leaned forward as well, opening his hands over the papers on the table. “Elliott,” he said, his voice very quiet, “if you want to tell us your side of the story, it’s got to be on the record. ’Cause I’m not going to waste my time chasing down another suspect if your statement is useless when it comes time to go to court. Now, if you’re willing to put it on tape after being readvised of your right to have attorney’s counsel, I sure would like to hear what you have to say.”

Elliott peered into his face. “I still get to talk with my lawyer?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Okay, then.”

Russ rose, unlocked the door, and strode down the hall to grab a tape recorder from the squad room. He spotted Lyle. “Run the name Chris Dessaint. Anything we’ve got.”

“What’s up?”

“Elliott’s giving us a statement.”

Lyle’s response was lost as Russ reentered the interrogation room. He turned on the machine, read McKinley his rights again, and had him state he understood and was voluntarily making his statement without the presence of his lawyer.

“Okay, Elliott, I don’t want to put any words in your mouth. Why don’t you tell me how you and Chris got into whomping on gay guys. Start at the beginning.”

Russ expected to hear about Emil Dvorak, so he was surprised when McKinley said, “We went up to Lake George to party. Me and Chris and our friend Nathan. Then we decided to go barhopping. Anyway, we were outside some place—I think maybe it was the Blue Lagoon, or the Blue Parrot, something like that—and we went out back to smoke a joint. This guy comes out. You know, perfect teeth, nice clothes. He starts talking, and right away I know he’s a fag.” He frowned. “The guy starts hitting on us, wanting to know if we want to party with some of his buddies, bragging that they got some good stuff. Man, it was like, you know, all day long I gotta take orders from some rich fag, and now here I am on my own time, having to listen to the same bullshit. And Chris, he’s a real good-looking dude, always has girls falling all over him, and I’m thinking, This queer’s hitting on Chris! Anyway, I can see Chris is thinking just the same as I am. So we tell this guy off and punch him around.”

“Nathan, too?”

“Naw, he just kept bleating about getting out of there. Like the fag’s buddies were going to come out and take us on. Anyway, it felt good. You know, like we were standing up for our right not to have all that fag stuff shoved in our faces. We didn’t really talk about it until almost a week later, when Chris asked me if I’d like to do it again.”

“Find someone to rumble with?”

“Yeah. ‘Go on a queer-hunt’ was how he said it. Then he said there might even be a few bucks in it for us.”

Russ blinked. “How so? You were going to find someone loaded and roll him first?”

“No, Chris had a friend. Someone who felt like we did, about the fags getting way too pushy and out of control. His friend couldn’t get out and do anything about it, but he wanted to bankroll us. To make a statement.”

Russ felt as if he had gotten on the Northway to Albany and had suddenly looked around and seen Kansas instead. He inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Chris’s friend—you ever meet him?”

“Nope. Just Chris did. He lived up to his word, though. We got the money, and some bonuses, too.”