He tells them about how he went to Denise’s house on Amity Street to tell Frazier, to admit that he’d fucked up, to reveal that his father had stolen their dope. Frazier listened angrily, then asked for bullets, and Vincent, afraid to refuse, gave him six wadcutters that he had taken from the tobacco can on top of the bureau in his father’s apartment. Frazier went alone to Lafayette Avenue, Vincent tells them.
He expected his father would be threatened, he tells them, just as he expected that Frazier would get back the drugs. He did not expect a murder, he says, and he does not know what happened at his father’s apartment.
Shit on that, Garvey thinks as he listens to the story. We know damned well what happened. I know it, you know it, Kincaid here knows it. Robert Frazier showed up at your daddy’s house wired tight on cocaine from Denise’s party, armed with a loaded.38 and a short blade and desirous of some missing drugs. Your daddy must have told Frazier to go to hell.
That scenario explained the ransacking of Purnell Booker’s apartment as well as the repeated superficial stab wounds to the old man’s face. The torture was inflicted to make Purnell Booker talk; the ransacking suggested he didn’t.
But why kill Lena that same night? And in the same way? Vincent claims no knowledge of that murder, and from everything he’s learned, Garvey has no idea either. Maybe Frazier was led to believe that Lena was somehow involved in the missing drugs. Maybe she was dipping into some of the dope Frazier kept on Gilmor Street. Maybe she answered the door saying something Frazier didn’t particularly like. Maybe the cocaine rush got good to Frazier and he just kept on killing. Maybe A and B, or B and C, or all of the above. Does it matter? Not to me, thinks Garvey. Not anymore.
“You were there, weren’t you, Vincent? You went with Frazier to your father’s.”
Vincent shakes his head and looks away.
“I’m not saying you were involved in the murder, but you went there, didn’t you?”
“No,” the boy says, “I just gave him those bullets.”
Bullshit, thinks Garvey. You were there when Robert Frazier killed your father. Why else would this be so hard? It’s one thing to live in fear of a man like Frazier, another to be afraid of telling the truth to your own family. Garvey pushes the boy for a half hour or more, but it’s no use; Vincent Booker has come as close to the cliff as he dares. It is, Garvey reasons, close enough.
“If you’re holding out on us, Vincent…”
“No, I ain’t.”
“ ’Cause you will go before a grand jury, and if you lie to them, it’ll be the worst mistake you ever make.”
“No, sir.”
“All right. Now I’m gonna write this up and have you sign it as a statement,” says Garvey. “We’re gonna start at the beginning and go slow so I can write this down.”
“Yes sir.”
“What is your name?”
“Vincent Booker.”
“Your date of birth…”
The official version, short and sweet. Garvey exhales softly and puts pen to paper.
With his right hand, Garvey pulls the.38 from his waist holster and drops it down against his trouser leg, shielding it from view.
“Frazier, open up.”
The uniform closest to the detective motions toward the front door of the Amity Street rowhouse.
“Kick it?” he asks.
Garvey shakes his head. No need. “Frazier, open the door.”
“Who is it?”
“Detective Garvey. I got to ask you a couple questions.”
“Now?” says a voice behind the door. “I got to-”
“Yeah, now. Open the damn door.”
The door opens halfway and Garvey slips through, the gun still tight against his thigh.
“What’s up,” says Frazier, stepping back.
Suddenly, Garvey brings the snubnose up to the left side of the man’s face. Frazier looks at the black hole of the barrel, then back at Garvey strangely, squinting through a cocaine haze.
“Get the fuck up against that wall.”
“Wha…”
“MOVE, MOTHERFUCKER. AGAINST THAT FUCKING WALL BEFORE I BLOW YOUR FUCKIN’ HEAD OFF.”
Kincaid and two uniforms follow Garvey through the opening as Frazier is shoved roughly against a living room wall. Kincaid and the younger uniform check the back rooms as the older patrolman, a veteran of the Western, cocks his own weapon against Frazier’s right ear.
“Move,” says the uniform, “and your brains are on the floor.”
Christ, thinks Garvey, staring at the cocked weapon, if that bad boy goes off we’ll all be writing reports for the rest of our careers. But the threat works: Frazier stops bucking and leans into the plasterboard. The uniform uncocks and reholsters his.38 and Garvey once again begins to breathe air.
“What’s this about?” says Frazier, working hard to approximate a picture of innocent confusion.
“What do you think it’s about?”
Frazier says nothing.
“What do you think, Frazier?”
“I don’t know.”
“Murder. You’re charged with murder.”
“Who’d I murder?”
Garvey smiles. “You killed Lena. And the old man, Booker.”
Frazier shakes his head violently as Howe opens one ring of his handcuffs and pulls Frazier’s right arm off the wall. Suddenly, at the first touch of the metal bracelet, Frazier begins to buck again, pushing away from the wall and pulling his arm away from Howe. With surprising speed, Garvey moves a step and a half across the living room and lands a punch hard against Frazier’s face.
The suspect looks up, stunned.
“What was that for?” he asks Garvey.
For a second or two, Garvey lets himself think about the question. The official answer, the one required for the reports, is that this detective was required to subdue a homicide suspect who attempted to resist arrest. The righteous answer, the one that is soon lost to any detective with time on the street, is that the suspect was struck because he is a cold-blooded piece of shit, a murderous bastard who in a single evening took the lives of an old man and a mother of two. But Garvey’s own answer falls somewhere in between.
“That,” he tells Frazier, “is for lying to me, motherfucker.” Lying. To a detective. In the first degree.
Frazier says nothing more, offering no resistance as Howe and Kincaid guide him to the sofa, where he sits with his hands cuffed behind him. On the off chance that Frazier’s.38 might be lying around, the detectives do a quick, plain-view search of the apartment. The murder weapon remains unaccounted for, but on the kitchen table is a night’s work for Robert Frazier: a small amount of rock cocaine, quinine cut, a couple dozen glassine bags, three syringes.
The detectives look at the uniforms and the uniforms look at each other.
“You guys want to take it?” asks the younger uniform.
“Nah,” says Garvey. “We’re charging him with two murders. Besides, we don’t have a warrant for this place.”
“Hey,” says the patrolman, “fine by me.”
They leave it on the kitchen table, a West Baltimore still life waiting for the successor to Frazier’s squalid, street-corner business. Garvey walks back into the living room and asks the younger uniform to radio for a wagon. Frazier finds his voice again.
“Officer Garvey, I didn’t lie to you.”
Garvey smiles.
“You ain’t never told the truth,” says Kincaid. “You ain’t got the truth in you.”
“I ain’t lyin’.”
“Sheeeet,” says Kincaid, pushing the word to two and a half syllables. “You ain’t got the truth in you, son.”
“Hey, Frazier,” says Garvey, smiling, “remember how you promised to bring me that thirty-eight? What ever happened to that gun anyway?”
“That’s right,” says Kincaid, picking up on it. “If you’re so fuckin’ honest, how come you never brought that gun in for us?”
Frazier says nothing.
“You ain’t got the truth in you, son,” says Kincaid again. “No sir. It ain’t in you.”