Authors: Laurie R. King
There was no doubt that Hawkin's speech had made an impression
on the man, though whether it was the threat or the appeal was not
clear. He had sat up straight, his hands grasping his knees, now his
eyes closed, he raised his face to the overhead light, and his right
hand came up to curl into the hollow of his neck, as if grasping his
nonexistent staff. For three or four long, silent minutes he stayed
like that, struggling with some unknowable dilemma. When he moved, his
hand came up to rub across his eyes and down to pinch his lower lip,
then dropped back onto his lap. He opened his eyes first on Kate, then
on Hawkin. His expression was apologetic, but without the faintest
degree of fear or uncertainty.
"Truth," he began, "is the cry of all, but the
game of the few. There is nothing to prevent you from telling the
truth, if you do it with a smile." He gave them the smile and sat
forward on the edge of his chair to gather their attention to him, as
if his next words would not have done solely themselves. "Dread
death. Dry death. Immortal death. Death on his pale horse." He
paused and held out the long, thin fingers of his right hand.
"Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from
my hand? No. Your brother's blood is crying to me from the
ground. And the Lord set a mark upon Cain. A fugitive and a vagabond
shall you be on the earth." He paused to let them think about
this, his eyes going from one face to the other. He drew back his hand
and commented in a quiet voice that made the thought parenthetical but
intensely personal: "Death is not the worst. Rather, to wish for
death in vain, and not to gain it." After a moment, he sat
forward again and held out his left hand, cupped slightly as if to
guide in another strand of thought. Putting a definite stress on the
misplaced names, he said, "Then David made a covenant with
Jonathan, because he loved him as he loved his own soul. And David
stripped himself of the robe that was upon him, and gave it to
Jonathan. And then he shall go out to the altar which is before the
Lord and make atonement for it. He shall go no more to his house. He
shall bear all their iniquities with him into a solitary land. I have
been a stranger in a strange land. And the ravens brought him bread and
flesh in the morning, and bread and flesh in the evening, and he drank
of the brook. I met a fool in the forest, a motley fool. A learned fool
is more foolish than an ignorant one. Let a fool be made serviceable
according to his folly." He stopped, saw that he had lost them,
and pursed his lips in thought. Then, with an air of returning to
kindergarten basics, he began again. "The wisdom of this world is
folly with God. If anyone among you thinks that he is wise now, let him
become a fool so he may become wise. To the present hour we hunger and
thirst, we are poorly clothed and buffeted and homeless. We have
become, and are now, as the refuse of the world, the offscouring of all
things. We are fools for Christ's sake."
"So you're saying you do this as some kind of religious
exercise?" Hawkin asked bluntly. Kate couldn't decide if he
was acting stupid to draw Sawyer out or because he was irritated.
"I count religion but a childish toy, and hold there is no sin but ignorance."
"Then I guess I must be burning in sin," snapped Hawkin,
"because I don't know what the hell you're talking
about."
Sawyer sat back again with his fingers across his stomach and eyed
Hawkin for some time, his head to one side, before making the stern
pronouncement, "A living dog is better than a dead lion."
Kate glanced at him sharply and saw a sparkle of mischief in the back
of his eyes. He looked sideways at her and lowered one eyelid a
fraction. Hawkin did not see the gesture, but he was staring at the man
with suspicion.
"What does that mean?" he demanded.
"He who blesses his neighbor in a loud voice, rising early in the morning, will be counted as cursing."
"Look, Mr. Sawyer--"
"Do not speak in the hearing of a fool, for he will despise the wisdom of your words."
"Mr. Sawyer--"
"He who walks with wise men becomes wise, but the companion of fools will come to harm."
Hawkin stood up abruptly, his face dark. "All right, take him
back to the cells--" he began, but he was drowned out by
Sawyer's sudden loud stream of words.
"A whip for the horse, a bridle for the donkey, and a rod for
the back of fools," he asserted. "Like a thorn that goes
into the hand of a drunkard, is a proverb in the mouth of fools. Like
snow in summer or rain at the harvest, honor is not fit for a fool. A
man without--"
The door closed behind Al Hawkin, and Sawyer, on his feet now, stood
tensely for a moment, then relaxed and smiled at Kate as if the two of
them had just shared a clever joke. "A man without
self-control," he said slyly, "is like a city broken into
and left with no walls." He sat down again.
Kate did not smile back at him. "Why do you antagonize people? Al Hawkins a good man. Why make an enemy of him?"
Sawyer shrugged. "The way of a fool is right in his own eyes. A fool speaks his whole mind."
"That's exactly what we're trying to get you to do, David. Your whole mind, not just the games."
"It is a happy talent to know how to play."
She leaned forward, her arms flat on the table. "Do you really take death so lightly?"
"Remember, we all must die."
"And you honestly think that justifies murder? You?" she said pointedly. "Think that?"
The ghostly presence of Kyle Roberts visited the room, and on the
other side stood his innocent victims: Kate saw in the worn face across
the table that Sawyer felt them there. He finally broke her gaze, and
his throat worked before he answered.
"What greater pain could mortals have than this: to see their children dead before their eyes?"
"You know, I'd have thought that would make you more
willing to help us, not less." He did not answer. "All we
want is for you to talk to us. No games, just talk." Still
nothing; but she had not expected a response. Time to end it.
"You're tired, David. Think about it for a while, see if
you don't change your mind. We'll continue this discussion
later."
Kate stood up, went to the door, and looked on as the guard prepared
to take Sawyer back to his cell. The prisoner paused in the doorway,
with the guard's hand on his elbow, and looked down at Kate.
"I well believe thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know.
And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate." He turned and allowed
himself to be led away. She went back into the interrogation room and
turned off the tape recorder, then took out the tape and carried it
downstairs, where she slid it into the other machine that stood on
Hawkins desk and waited while he ran the tape back a short way and
listened. Erasmus ranted, the door slammed, Kate's voice reproved
their suspect, he answered her. When the tape clicked, Hawkin switched
the machine off.
"Well done. That's just what I had in mind. We'll
let him stew today. I'll lead another session tomorrow morning,
and then you can take over. Stop by and hold his hand for a few minutes
before you go home today, okay?" If you say so.
"I want him softened up. The DA'll have him sent off for
psychiatric evaluation the first part of the week. If we keep him
longer than that and then they decide he really is nuts, we're
risking a harassment charge."
"Is it really necessary, the evaluation?"
"For Christ sake, Martinelli, the DA couldn't possibly
take it to trial without. You heard him in there. He was raving. It may
be an act, but after forty-eight hours in custody, it isn't
likely to be drugs or booze."
"I don't know, Al. He makes a weird kind of sense."
"Weird's
the word for it."
"I mean it. I think I'll make a copy of that tape, if you don't mind."
"Studying it for secret meanings?"
"I thought I might have it translated."
But after all, this man was a man.
On Sunday afternoon, Kate assembled her team of translators. They
met at the house on Russian Hill to avoid the problem of transporting
Lee's wheelchair up and down stairs. At two o'clock, Kate
left the house and drove across a rain-lashed San Francisco to fetch
Professor Whitlaw, and when they returned, they found Dean Gardner
already ensconced in front of the fire in the living room.
On her trip out, Kate had stopped to photocopy the transcripts of
the first two interviews, both the abortive one from Friday morning and
the longer but even less productive Saturday session. The one from
Sunday morning had not yet been transcribed, but she had the tapes from
all three.
Coffee and tea and the preliminary rituals were dispensed and then
Kate handed out Friday's interview. The rain on the windows
sounded loud as Lee, the dean, and the professor all dove into the
pages with the quick concentration of people who live by the written
word, all three with pencil in hand. Kate followed more slowly behind
them. She had two pages yet to go when the two academics and then Lee
began to discuss what they had read, but since she knew how the story
ended, she allowed her stapled sheaf to fall shut.
"I should make a couple of comments about what you've
read. First, Inspector Hawkin's abrasiveness was more or less
deliberate, and certainly he played it up when Sawyer responded to it.
In the first two sessions, the idea was to make me look like a paragon
of understanding,- for some reason Erasmus--Sawyer--had
already responded to me, and there was a degree of rapport before his
arrest."
"Good heavens," said the professor. "Do you mean
to tell me that isn't just an invention of the television police
dramas? There is even a name for the technique, isn't
there?"
"Good cop, bad cop," suggested the dean.
"That's right."
"We use it a lot," answered Kate, "though
it's not as simple as it sounds. Perpetrators--the
accused--are human beings, and most of them want to be told that
they're not really all that bad. Sympathy is a much more
effective tool, whether you're in an interrogation or in a street
confrontation, than swagger and threat. All we did was exaggerate an
existing situation to emphasize the contrast and make me appear,
frankly, on his side."
"And was David taken in by this little play, Inspector?"
"Professor Whitlaw, your friend David is a tired, confused
seventy-two-year-old man who has been living in a carefully constructed
dream for the last ten years. I think he is partially aware that he is
being gently manipulated, and I think he is allowing it.
"I want to be up front about this. What I'm looking for
is a way of making David Sawyer talk. I could tell you it's for
his own good, I could even tell you I want to help acquit him of the
charges because I don't think he's guilty, but I'm
not going to bullshit you. I don't know if he did it or not. I
think he would be capable of hitting out in a moment of great anger,- I
think most people are. I do not believe it was premeditated, and, in
fact, I think the charge will be reduced next week.
"So. What I'm saying is this: Yes, I'm a cop, and
yes, it is my job to compile evidence against your friend. There may be
things you don't want to tell me, and there are sure to be things
I'm not going to tell you. Are those ground rules
acceptable?"
Professor Whitlaw looked determined and nodded, Dean Gardner looked
devious and reached for the Saturday transcript, and Lee--Lee was
looking at Kate as if she'd never seen her before.
"Hey," said Kate with a shrug. "It's what I do."
Lee let out a surprised cough of laughter and shook her head. Kate handed her the transcript.
Kate did not bother to read along, as the session was clear enough
in her memory. Instead, she went into the kitchen to make another pot
of coffee and put on the kettle for Professor Whitlaw's tea, and
as she stood and waited, her eyes went out of focus and she thought
about what she had just told them.
A great deal of any police officer's time is spent on the thin
line that divides right from wrong. Representatives of Good, cops spend
most of their life in the company of Bad, if not Evil, and often find
more to talk about with the people they arrest than with their own
neighbors. In a fair world, ends do not justify means,- to a cop, they
have to.
She had gone to see Erasmus on Friday before she left, as Hawkin had
asked. She found him sitting on the bunk in his cell, his eyes closed
and his lips moving in a murmur of prayer or recitation. His head came
around at the sound of her approach and he watched her come in, his
eyes neither welcoming nor antagonistic, simply waiting. She sat down
on the bunk next to him.
"Hello, Erasmus. David. Are you comfortable?" She
laughed at the sweep of his eyes. "Yeah, I know, stupid question.
What I meant was, can I bring you anything?"
"O, thou fairest among women!" he said in wan humor.
"I don't know about that. Something to eat tomorrow? Jail food isn't the greatest."
"The bread of adversity and the water of affliction."
"I hope it's not quite that bad."
"The abundance of the rich will not suffer him to sleep," he said in a gentle refusal of her offer.
"I wasn't offering rich abundance, but I might stretch to a cheese sandwich and some fruit."
His eyes lighted up at the last word, though he did not say anything.
"Nothing else?"
He hesitated, then said, "I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of Songs and Sonnets here."
"Your books? From your backpack. Yes, I'll have them brought to you. Writing materials? Another blanket?"
He smiled a refusal, then his right hand came up and nestled into
his neck, his index finger stroking his beard. He cocked his eyebrow at
her. "Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me," he suggested.