He looked at me, his eyes wide. Now that we were off Jardine in particular, Woll seemed more at ease and more willing to talk. “It was strange. I thought I saw a light-something flickering just out of sight. So I got out to take a look. There was a road flare… You know that flat sort of path between the dirt slope and the unfinished retaining wall, the space they’re filling in? That’s where it was lying, kind of tucked under the wall like it had been thrown there. I went down to investigate, but that’s all there was. I looked around with my flashlight, but I didn’t find anything. I finally figured someone must’ve lit it and chucked it over the side-like a prank, you know? Teenagers.”
“What did you do with the flare?”
“Stubbed it out and left it there. I couldn’t see anybody. No point putting it in the car-it would’ve just smelled it up.”
“Did you radio it in?”
“Oh, sure.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Billy nod slightly, confirming the claim. Obviously, he’d checked the night-dispatcher’s log but hadn’t gotten around to telling me yet.
Woll was watching us both. “Was Jardine found right there where the flare was?”
“We didn’t find a flare.”
There was a long, drawn-out silence. “I left it there,” Woll finally said in a near whisper.
“You said you patrolled that part of Canal a couple of times last night. Was it about three o’clock when you checked out the flare?”
Woll looked at me in surprise. “Yeah, how did you?… Oh, the log.”
“No, you were seen by a witness.”
I was watching for a reaction-some show of fear or doubt, some flicker of culpability. The lack of one made me berate myself. I too liked John Woll and had put in a good word when Brandt considered putting him on the payroll. He’d previously worked for us for several summers as a part-time “special officer” and I’d been impressed by his conscientiousness. During this questioning, however, I hadn’t looked at him in that light. The coincidence of his knowing Jardine had loomed too large. Now, as I watched his open expression, the guilt was mine.
“John, when you were on that ledge looking around, did you notice what the ground looked like? The guy who found the body said there were fewer footprints where Jardine was buried.”
He thought a moment and then shook his head. “I wasn’t looking for prints, you know? I thought there might be someone hiding down there, or maybe some dead flares, or something. I didn’t think to check for tracks. Like I said, I finally just figured somebody had tossed the thing there.”
“How long a flare was it?” I asked.
“Twenty minutes.”
“Was it set up, or just lying there?”
“Lying, like I said. If it’d been set up, I might have checked for footprints. That would’ve looked suspicious, as if it’d been carefully placed there.”
“Could you tell how long it had been burning?”
“Not really. It wasn’t petering out, though.”
I stood up and wandered over to the window. It had finally turned dark outside, and the officers’ room was shrouded in gloom. It promised to be a real obstacle course on the way out of here, since the overhead lights hadn’t been hooked up yet.
My view of the room was suddenly pierced by a small burst of light-the glassy reflection of Woll’s lighter behind me being put to the end of a cigarette. I turned to look at him as the flame died and he inhaled.
He misread my interest and quickly blew out a cloud of smoke. “I’m sorry. Is it okay to smoke?”
“I don’t mind. Billy?”
Manierre nodded. As Woll tucked the pack of cigarettes back into his breast pocket, I noticed they were Camels, the same brand Tyler had found in the dirt.
“John, did you ever get the feeling the flare had been put there to lure you to the ledge?”
“To get at my car, you mean? I didn’t see anything wrong when I got back to it.”
“No. I meant the opposite-that someone had wanted you on that ledge specifically.”
“No. Why would they?”
Why indeed? I scratched my head. I was making too much out of this. Hell, I’d been around this town for so many years it was amazing I didn’t know Charlie Jardine, too. I couldn’t walk down a single block without saying hi to half a dozen people most of the time. Was it any big deal, therefore, that John Woll had gone to school with the murder victim almost ten years ago? And he was probably right about the flare-it would have been the perfect prank to throw a lit flare over an embankment just as a police car was coming up the street.
But if that were true, then why had the flare been removed later? And why was Woll so reticent about Charlie Jardine? And why had a butt of his brand of cigarette been found in the grave?
I turned to face both men, Billy Manierre still looking like a silent Buddha in his chair. “Okay, John, thanks for coming in early. If you think of anything more about Jardine that might be helpful, let me know.”
Woll stood up and crossed over to the door. “Sure will, Lieutenant. See you later.”
I stood watching the door after he’d closed it behind him. Manierre’s low, soothing voice hung in the air. “What’re you thinking, Joe?”
I looked over my shoulder at him. “That maybe I’ve been in this business too long.”
“I doubt that.”
I sat in the chair Woll had occupied. “What did you think of that little chat-the first part?”
“He didn’t look too comfortable. That might have been you.”
“Me? Why?”
“John’s not a tough guy-he might have felt you were putting him under the hot lights.”
“I was a bit. I think he’s holding back on Jardine.”
Billy tilted his head to one side. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means he holds back in general-that’s partly why everyone likes him. The rest of us wander around gossiping about whoever’s not in the room. Willy Kunkle was always a prime target for that, remember? But John’s not that way. He minds his own business. I think you’ll find out that maybe Jardine and John had it out over a girl in high school or something, and that John still feels bad about it. That would fit him like a glove, by the way. John’s a bit of a brooder.”
“He had a drinking problem once, didn’t he?”
“That’s what I mean. He’s a good worker, though.”
“Yeah. I was just remembering I recommended him to Tony.”
“We all did, Joe. He’s a good man.”
I let out a sigh. “I guess that’s the problem with a case like this. You think if you get the pin back into the grenade fast enough, maybe the damn thing won’t go off.”
“Well, I seriously doubt John Woll is your pin. Besides, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to transport and dump a body while he was on patrol.”
“I know, I know. It was just a coincidence I wanted to check out.”
Billy stood up and stretched. “Well, I think I’ll cross the hall and check on the troops.”
I stayed in my chair. “Sure. And thanks.”
Billy disappeared into the gloom beyond his door with the confidence of a man who knew his way through a minefield by heart.
5
At nine o’clock that evening, Klesczewski, Patrolman Jerry Mayhew, and I met up with Patrol Sergeant Al Santos at 55 Marlboro Avenue, the residence of Charles J. Jardine. Santos had been on guard at Jardine’s house ever since I’d sent him to find out whether the dead man whose photo we had was the Jardine listed in the phone book. Forty-five minutes after Santos had radioed in that a neighbor had confirmed the identity, we’d secured a signed search warrant.
It was a modest house, very neat and tidy, one-and-a-half stories tall with two peaked dormers and a similarly designed small roof over the front door. The trim and clapboards were painted different shades of gray-blue, offsetting one another nicely. The small square lawn had been mowed and edged. The houses up and down the wide street were comparable in size and appearance-a symmetry Levittown had made famous forty years before-although Jardine’s was remarkably immaculate.