He almost pulled the trigger. He almost allowed his anger and his humiliation and his despair to rocket into his brain and connect there with whatever nerve endings might have signaled to the index finger of his right hand, cause it to tighten on the trigger, cause him to squeeze off one shot and then another and another at this stranger who was in that moment a target as helpless as any of the cardboard ones on the firing range at the Academy — do it, end it!
But then — and this was against every principle that had ever been drilled into him throughout the years he’d spent on the force, never give up your gun, hang on to your gun, your gun is your life, save the gun, keep the gun — he suddenly hurled it across the room as though it had become malevolently burning in his hand, threw it with all his might, surprised when it collided with a vase on the dresser top, smashing it, porcelain shards splintering the air like the debris of his own dead marriage.
His eyes met Augusta’s.
Their eyes said everything there was to say, and all there was to say was nothing. He turned away swiftly and rushed blindly out of the bedroom, hurling open the front door to the apartment, and rushing for the stairway without closing the door behind him, his eyes burning with unshed tears, down the steps to the entrance foyer, opening the door there, the heat of the night striking him like a closed fist — and suddenly he was seized from behind and pulled back into the foyer.
The arm around his throat was thick and powerful, his hands came up at once, groping for the arm, and a voice whispered close to his ear, “Hello, punk,” and he felt the barrel of a pistol against his temple, and he thought only I threw away my gun. And then, because he had been trained over the years to believe that a bad situation could only get worse, you made your move at once or not at all, he brought up his right foot instinctively, and smashed the heel of his shoe down hard on the man’s instep, and shot his elbow back piston-hard at the same time, into the man’s gut, and whirled into his embrace, knocking the pistol aside with his left hand and gouging at the man’s eyes with the curled fingers of his right. The gun went off with a shockingly loud explosion, plaster falling from the foyer ceiling, the man screaming as Kling tore at his eyes and then brought his knee up into his groin and struck him across the bridge of the nose with the flat edge of his hand, going for the kill, hitting him hard enough to drive bone splinters into his brain. The man reeled away, the gun still in his hand, and Kling butted him with his head, driving it fiercely against the man’s jaw, Fall, you bastard, the gun going off again, the shot reverberating like the roar of a cannon in the small hallway, the sudden stench of cordite on the sodden air. He pulled back his fist and drove it with all his might at the man’s Adam’s apple, and felt him yield at last, saw him go limp at last, and topple at his feet like a giant oak, the gun clattering to the floor beside him.
Breathing hard, Kling looked down at him.
He did not recognize the man.
He took his handcuffs from his belt, and braceleted the man’s hands behind him, and then he sat down on the hallway steps, still breathing harshly, and clasped his own hands in front of him as though in prayer, and lowered his head, and allowed the tears to come at last.
11
The formal Q and A took place in the lieutenant’s office at the 87th Precinct at seven minutes past midnight on the morning of August 15, a week after the discovery of the body of Jeremiah Newman in his apartment on Silvermine Oval. Present were Detective/Lieutenant Peter Byrnes, Detective/Second Grade Stephen Louis Carella, and an assistant district attorney named Anthony Costanza. A police stenographer took down every word that was said. Costanza asked all the questions. The answers were supplied first by Anne Newman and subsequently by Susan Newman.
Q: Mrs. Newman, you’ve told the arresting officers that you were responsible for the death—
A: Partially responsible.
Q: For the death of your husband, Jeremiah Newman.
A: Yes.
Q: By partially responsible...
A: I was the one who first suggested it.
Q: Suggested what, Mrs. Newman?
A: That we kill him.
Q: To whom did you suggest this?
A: To my mother-in-law.
Q: When did you make this suggestion?
A: On the Fourth of July.
Q: That is the exact date?
A: The exact date.
Q: How do you remember the date so well?
A: There was a party, and Jerry got drunk again.
Q: Was your mother-in-law at this party?
A: The party took place in her apartment.
Q: And you say your husband got drunk?
A: Yes. As usual. We had to take him home shortly after dinner.
Q: By we...
A: Susan and I. My mother-in-law and I. We put him in a taxi and took him home. It was after we’d got him to bed that I first explored the idea of killing him.
Q: Why did you want to kill him?
A: I wanted to get out of a relationship that was suffocating me.
Q: Why didn’t you simply ask for a divorce?
A: What makes you think I didn’t?
Q: You asked your husband for a divorce?
A: On too many occasions.
Q: And what was his response?
A: He refused to give me one.
Q: So you decided to kill him?
A: Of course not, don’t be absurd! I had grounds enough to divorce him six times over, the man was a hopeless drunk! All I had to do was walk out, or throw him out.
Q: Then what made you...?
A: Do you think I’d have been rid of him? Really? Even if he’d given me the divorce I wanted? Really rid of him? Who do you think he’d have called whenever he was vomiting all over himself? First me, to tell me what a worthless artist he was, and then Susan to ask her to come take care of him. What good would a divorce have done?
Q: Was your mother-in-law in sympathy with your desire for a divorce?
A: Entirely. But she realized as well as I did that a divorce wouldn’t solve anything. He’d plague us for the rest of our lives.
Q: How did she react to your suggestion that you kill him?
A: She was in complete sympathy with it. She’d had her share of him over the years, believe me. Every time he got sick, he’d call Susan, ask her to come over to take care of him. Wouldn’t trust me to do it, oh no, needed his nurse. She said we’d be well rid of him.
Q: Was it decided that night... the Fourth of July... that you would attempt to murder him?
A: I’d say it was explored.
Q: But no decision was made.
A: No.
Q: When did you and she decide...
A: Three weeks ago.
Q: You decided to kill him.
A: Yes.
Q: What prompted this decision?
A: He told me he was going to change his will. He told me he was going to cut me out of his will completely.
Q: Why was he doing that?
A: Because I didn’t love him anymore.
Q: Were those his exact words?
A: Yes, he said he knew I didn’t love him anymore. Because I’d asked him repeatedly for a divorce. He told me he would never give me a divorce because he didn’t want to pay alimony, but neither would he see all his money go to me when he died. He told me I was stuck. He said it was a bad situation I just happened to be stuck with. And then he laughed.