A Simple Act of Violence

  She seemed taken aback by the sudden interest of two Washington police detectives, was curious as to how they found her.

  ‘We spoke to someone at the ice rink,’ Miller told her. ‘They gave us your trainer’s phone number. He said you’d either be home, the library or here. We tried the library, then here. He said he wouldn’t give us your home address until we’d checked out the library and the health club.’

  ‘So what’s up? Is there something the matter? Has there been an accident or something?’

  Miller smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing like that.’ He looked around at the few people who populated the canteen. They seemed to be minding their own business. ‘Can we sit down?’

  ‘Sure,’ Sarah Bishop said. ‘Make yourselves at home.’

  Roth took a chair from another table.

  ‘We wanted to ask you about someone,’ Miller said. ‘I understand that you train at the Brentwood Park Ice Rink on alternate Saturdays.’

  Sarah nodded. She unscrewed the cap on a bottle of mineral water and drank some.

  ‘Alternate Saturdays I’m over here seeing my father. He and my mom are doing the trial separation thing, you know? It’s all so much horseshit. I mean, Jesus - they’ve been together for like a hundred and fifty years, they’re not going to find anyone better than each other. They’re just being so childish about the whole thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Miller said. ‘That must be tough.’

  Sarah laughed. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I didn’t come from another planet, you know? We are so different, alright? I mean, come on . . . A trial separation for God’s sake. What the hell is that all about?’

  ‘Okay, so you train there on alternate Saturdays.’

  ‘I do, yes, and most weeks I do Monday and Tuesday evenings as well.’

  ‘And you’re on the U.S. Olympic team?’

  Sarah laughed, almost choked on a mouthful of water. ‘God no, who told you that? Did Per tell you that? God no, I’m not on the Olympic team. I want to be on the Olympic team, but do you have any idea what it takes to get to that level? Jesus, man, you’ve gotta be good like you wouldn’t believe . . . and besides that, I’m getting a little too old now.’

  ‘Too old?’ Miller asked, somewhat incredulous.

  ‘I’m twenty-two,’ she said. ‘Believe me, as far as Olympic skating is concerned that’s getting a little too old. Way it’s going right now I’ll probably end up a trainer or something, but I’m still on the ice pretty much every day. You have to want it enough to let it run your entire life.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about the 11th,’ Miller said. ‘Last Saturday.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘About who was at Brentwood while you were training.’

  ‘Last Saturday I wasn’t training.’

  Miller frowned. ‘You weren’t training?’

  ‘No, not last Saturday. Last Saturday all three of us had to go to this Veterans Day thing, you know? There was a memorial service over where my mom lives, and we had to go there. My grandfather, my mom’s dad, he was killed in Vietnam when my mom was like thirteen or fourteen or something, and every year we have to go do the church thing and spend the day with my gran, and they all sit around and look at pictures of him and stuff. It’s like really sad, you know? My grandma, she’s real old now, and she never married again, and she spends all her time talking about what her husband was like and whatever. She’s kind of a little bit crazy I s’pose. You know what I mean?’

  Miller’s nostrils had cleared. He could sense Roth beside him. Robey had lied to them. A simple straightforward lie. He had said he was somewhere when he was not. He had reported his whereabouts at the time Catherine Sheridan was being murdered and the report was untrue.

  ‘You’re sure of this?’ Miller asked.

  ‘Sure of what? That my grandma’s crazy?’

  Miller was trying to contain himself, trying not to show anything but unhurried ease. ‘No, about where you were last Saturday.’

  ‘Course I’m sure. It was Veterans Day, right? That was last Saturday. I spent the whole day with my mom and dad . . . they haven’t told my gran - you know, that they’re doing this separation thing? They haven’t said a word of it because she’d like, you know . . . she’d like probably have a heart attack or something, right? Anyway, we spent the whole day together. Church in the morning, and then over at my gran’s place in Manassas. We didn’t get back until after eight in the evening. I remember that because there was something I wanted to watch on the tube and it was like half finished by the time I got back home.’

  ‘Okay, Sarah, that’s good. Really good. We really appreciate your help with this.’

  ‘So what was the deal with where I was? Why was that so important?’

  ‘We just needed to clarify where you were, that was all.’

  Sarah frowned. ‘Hey, come on. This isn’t fair. You can’t just come over here and ask me where I was last Saturday and then walk away. That can’t be right. What’s going on here? Did someone say I was somewhere or something? Am I in some sort of trouble?’

  Miller shook his head. ‘No, you’re not in trouble. And no, no-one said you were somewhere. Someone said that they saw you at Brentwood, that was all.’

  ‘Was that John?’

  Miller stopped in his tracks.

  ‘John Robey, right? Did he say he was at the ice rink last Saturday?’

  ‘Yes . . . as a matter of fact he did.’

  ‘And now he’s in the shit, right? Did he do something? Is that what this is all about? Did he say he was over at Brentwood, and I’ve just ruined his alibi?’

  Miller tried to laugh, tried to make light of her comment. She had hit the thing square, head-on, but she couldn’t appreciate the importance of what she’d done.

  ‘You know John Robey?’ Miller asked.

  Sarah shook her head. ‘Not as such, no. My trainer, Per Amundsen, well he used to not be my trainer, right? When I was younger there was this other guy, Patrick Sweeney. He was a great guy, a real sweetheart. Tough, you know? Like a coach should be. But he was a real great guy. He died. Per was his assistant, and then Per became my coach. Anyways, John knew Patrick Sweeney. I think they were friends from way back when. They kept in touch. John used to come down to see Patrick, and that’s how I got to know him. I say know him, but I don’t really know him properly. He comes down and sits in the back of the rink. There’s seats up there, where like family people can watch their kids while they skate, that kind of thing. Anyway, John comes down on alternate Saturdays and watches me train. He likes to see the Edith Piaf routine.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘There’s a routine I do. The music we use is a song by Edith Piaf called C’est l’Amour. John says that that’s the one I should do when I go for the Olympic elimination trials in February next year.’

  ‘But not last Saturday.’

  Sarah Bishop shook her head. ‘No, not last Saturday, and if I got him in trouble because I was his alibi and it didn’t work out . . . will you tell him sorry for me?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Miller said reassuringly. ‘It’s nothing like that. You’ve been really helpful, and we really appreciate your time.’

  ‘So . . . is it like something bad that he might have done?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘I can’t say anything, Sarah, I really can’t. This is what we do. We get a question about something, we have to follow it up. Nine times out of ten it doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘You know he’s a real clever guy, right? He’s a college professor and he’s written books and everything. Per told me about it. John didn’t say anything, but then John isn’t the kind of guy who would say anything like that.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, you know . . . he’s like real quiet. He doesn’t say a great deal at the best of times, and when he does say something it’s always about you.’

  Miller frowned.

  ‘You ever met someone like that? Like no matter how important they are you
always feel like you’re the important one in the conversation. Friend of mine, she once met John Travolta. She said he was, you know, really sweet, a really nice guy, and the whole time they spoke to one another he just asked about her, and what she was doing, and how well she was getting on with her skate training and all that. Just really interested and everything. Like the whole conversation revolved around her and he was, like, nobody. Well, John Robey’s like that. I get the idea he’s a really important person, but from what he says and how he acts you’d never think it.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Jeez, I don’t know. Patrick died about five years ago . . . yes, it was November 2001, and John used to come down before that. I don’t know, maybe for a year or so. I s’pose about six years, something like that. I started training with Patrick when I was twelve so I guess I was about sixteen when I first met John.’

  ‘You didn’t mind him coming down and watching you, even after Patrick died?’

  ‘Mind? Hell no, he’s no trouble. He just sits right at the back and watches. Most of the time I don’t even notice he’s there. Sometimes he comes late, like I’ve already started my work-out, and then I stop for a moment and look up and there he’ll be, all the way in back with a bag of donuts or something. He’s harmless enough.’

  ‘You never got the impression that there was anything improper about his interest?’

  Sarah laughed. ‘What’s that? The polite way of asking me if I thought he was a kiddy-fiddler?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Miller said. ‘It’s not an easy question to ask. I didn’t want to upset you.’

  ‘It’s okay. Me, I’m bulletproof. Remember, I’m from another planet and I’ve got parents who figure they’ll do better than each other at their age. So did I think he was a pervert? No, not at all. He wasn’t like that. It’s not difficult to spot when someone looks at you that way. You sort of get a sense for what they’re thinking. John’s just a friendly guy. He knew Patrick and Patrick died, and maybe he figured he should carry on coming over to see me train so I didn’t feel like Patrick was the only reason he ever came. I like him . . .’ Sarah paused and looked up. ‘And now you’re gonna tell me that he is a kiddy-fiddler, right? Or that he’s a mass murderer or something really freaked out like that?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ Miller replied. ‘Like I said, we’re just following up on something. Thank you for your time. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Sarah said. She rose from the chair, took her bottle of water, the towel she’d been sitting on, and she turned toward the door.

  ‘If I need to get hold of you again . . . ?’ Miller asked.

  ‘You’ve got Per’s number. He can reach me.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks again.’

  ‘No problem. Say hi to John for me.’

  Miller nodded. ‘I will.’

  Miller and Roth watched her go.

  ‘Nice kid,’ Roth said.

  ‘Who just demolished Robey’s alibi for the time of Catherine Sheridan’s murder.’

  ‘You’d think he would have checked, right? If he’s so smart, as smart as she says he is, then you’d have figured he would’ve checked that she was training before he gave her as an alibi.’

  Miller smiled, shook his head. ‘That’s the point though, isn’t it? Guy like that, if he did this thing, then he’s nuts. That’s the disadvantage, however brilliant they might be. If they do this kind of shit then they’re crazy, and crazy doesn’t serve you so well when you’re trying to avoid being investigated.’

  ‘So we go see him again.’

  ‘Sure as hell we do. I wanna speak to Lassiter, just make sure we do this by the book, use every angle we can, and then we go pick him up. Want Riehl and Littman there, want to hear what they found out from the dean of the college.’

  ‘We can call ahead from the car,’ Roth said.

  They left the health club, drove west back towards the Second, something at the back of Miller’s mind, something that Robey had said during their conversation in the diner. He’d used a strange phrase, and when he’d said it Miller had barely paid attention, but now - thinking back - it seemed out of place, an anomaly.

  ‘What’s a squall?’ he asked Roth.

  ‘A squaw . . . like an Indian’s wife or something?’

  ‘A squall . . . double l at the end.’

  ‘A squall. I think that’s like a strong wind or something, like a sudden strong wind. Why d’you ask?’

  Miller shook his head. ‘Something Robey said . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing. I’ll call Lassiter, get this meeting together.’

  Roth nodded, slowed for the lights at the junction of Florida and Eckington, and then the lights were with him, the conversation forgotten. There were more important things ahead; the right way to use their one chance with John Robey and learn what he really knew.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Quarter after two. They were all present, everyone except Littman; there in the same second-floor office that overlooked the street. Lassiter, Riehl, Metz, Oliver, Miller and Roth. Littman was still down near the college. He was parked outside and across the street, keeping an eye open for Robey’s departure.

  Lassiter held court. He asked questions, repeated those questions until he felt he’d drawn everything he could out of the answers. He wanted to know about Dean Edgewood, what the Bishop girl had said, each of them corroborating the other’s view that Robey was a loner, a man of few words.

  ‘These characters,’ he said. ‘They’re always the quiet types, always on their own.’

  He wanted to know the exact and specific tone of Miller’s conversation in the diner. He paused between each answer, he made notes, he asked the same questions in a different way, and after an hour, perhaps longer, he rose from his chair and walked around the room.

  ‘You were right,’ Lassiter told Miller. ‘We don’t arrest him yet. Littman’s down at Mount Vernon and will contact us as soon as Robey shows. He took his lunch inside, right?’

  Riehl nodded. ‘Couple of times I went in there, walked the corridors. The dean was very agitated, didn’t like the fact that we were on campus. Robey took his class and, like you said, he didn’t leave at lunchtime. They have a canteen in there for the students and the teachers. We assume he ate there.’

  ‘Or doesn’t eat lunch,’ Metz interjected.

  ‘So we have an alibi for the time of the Sheridan woman’s death that is bullshit. That tells us nothing more than he didn’t want us to know where he was on Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘Over on Columbia beating the poor bitch to death,’ Oliver said. ‘He’s our guy . . . he’s our fucking guy, I tell you. There’s something about this motherfucker that I don’t like.’

  ‘Funny that,’ Roth said, ‘because he said the same thing about you.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Lassiter interjected. ‘We’re assuming nothing. We’re jumping to no conclusions here. Just because the guy doesn’t want us to know where he goes on a Saturday afternoon doesn’t mean he’s Hannibal Lecter.’

  ‘But he likes cute ice-skaters,’ Metz said.

  ‘Hey, who the fuck doesn’t like cute ice-skaters,’ Oliver retorted.

  ‘That’s enough with the wisecracks,’ Lassiter said. ‘We have one shot at this guy. He may be someone, he may be no-one, but we fuck this up and not only do we not get a second chance, we’re also up against the D.A.’s office on a harassment thing. We go after him with nothing behind us and we’re fucked.’ Lassiter paused for a moment. ‘The question is this: Miller . . . you figure you can get him to talk to you again? Could you suggest that there’s a question regarding his whereabouts that afternoon?’

  ‘I can try, sure.’

  ‘Okay, so we do it this way. Miller and Roth . . . you guys go down and pick him up after college has finished. You take him somewhere social, a coffee shop, whatever. Ask him if he doesn’t mind answering another couple of questions. Suggest there has been some difficulty ascertaining the truth
of his alibi, that Brentwood was closed on Saturday, and if he bullshits you again tell him that we have more than one picture of him with the Sheridan woman. Gauge his reaction to the alibi thing before you throw the second thing at him. I wanna do this bit by bit. I don’t want to show him the whole hand before he makes a play, you know? We arrest him on nothing and he’ll have a lawyer get him out in twelve hours, and we’ll be up in the D.A.’s office asking ourselves why we’ve got a pending lawsuit. He seemed willing to speak with you before. If something happens and we have a live one here, then I wanna make his arrest so fucking watertight it’ll take Clarence Darrow working overtime to get him out, you get me?’

  A murmur of consent from Miller and the others.

  ‘Littman can stay down there at the campus. Miller, Roth . . . go down there and wait for Robey. You guys,’ Lassiter nodded at Metz and Oliver. ‘You guys go take a look in Homicide, see if there’s anything on the Natasha Joyce thing. If there’s something you can help with then do so, but don’t get caught up in anything that’s gonna take you out of the city. I need you on call in case this thing goes anywhere.’

  The gathered ensemble rose collectively and made their way out of the room. Lassiter nodded at Miller, asked him to stay back with Roth.

  ‘So what’s your take on this guy?’ he asked.

  Miller sat down. ‘I don’t have one,’ he said. ‘And that’s the odd thing. This guy . . . he didn’t seem anything other than calm the whole time. He took the whole thing in his stride, like he wasn’t even concerned that we were after him.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘That he has nothing at all to hide, or he has everything to hide and he’s very good at hiding it.’

  ‘And which way would you go on it?’

  ‘I don’t know, I really don’t. Usually you get something, some kind of feeling for someone, whether they’re the one or not. Like that thing last year, the thing with the college girl that drowned in the pool. But this guy . . . John Robey—’