They’d been assigned the case, they told me. What they didn’t say was that all the other cops I’d spoken to that day no longer mattered. These were the people I had to convince.
There was a woman with a name that sounded like Gartone. She was early thirties, maybe Cuban American, with shoulder-length black hair and a stylish pantsuit. It had a tailored look, expensive. Same with the makeup and jewelry. Tasteful. She could have been on her way to a country club function.
I got the clear impression that her clothing had been selected as carefully as the weapon she carried in a shoulder holster beneath her jacket. Dressing the way she did, she automatically had a psychological advantage over anyone she dealt with. The lowlifes would confide in her, eager for the approval of someone they considered a superior. The upper-class types would connect as equals and cooperate just as eagerly, hoping for unspoken perks from a peer.
As she slid into the seat beside me, I thought to myself, Watch your step with this one.
The other detective was an old guy. Retirement age. Or maybe he was one of those senior citizen volunteers you sometimes see riding with cops.
I was undecided until she introduced him as Detective Merlin T. Starkey.
He could have been in his late sixties or seventies. Moved slow and creaky, like he’d taken some hard shots in his day. Silver hair, balding. Dressed like a cattle rancher, with Red Wing boots, pearl button shirt, green suspenders, string bowtie, and a Stetson hat. The hat looked like it had spent some real time on real trails.
“Starkey” is a common name everywhere, but especially in South Florida. Early settlers named Starkey were a tough, fertile, and hearty folk.
“Call me Merlin, son,” he said in a slow nasal accent that was pure mangrove and sawgrass. He sat in the front seat, without a notebook.
Merlin, I decided, would not be sympathetic to foreigners riding around the Everglades with illegal weapons, assaulting solid citizens such as myself.
But it was Detective Gartone’s case. Starkey was just along for company. That seemed obvious.
She asked all the questions, taping the interview on a digital recorder the size of a cigarette lighter. For more than half an hour, we sat in the back of the car, sharing that small space, talking. That’s the way she made it seem: as if we were having a conversation. She had that easy kind of manner.
I felt as if we were building rapport. She seemed to believe me. Seemed to be empathetic. I had to keep reminding myself that she was also one very smart cop, and it could be an act.
When she asked me to describe again, step by step, how I’d disarmed Balserio, she gave me a concerned shake of the head, muttered, “You’re very lucky,” then asked permission to use a digital camera to photograph the scratches on my face and hands.
A question that she lingered on was the identity of the man who’d fired the shots from the car. I’d told the uniformed deputies that I was willing to swear that it was Balserio. But a little alarm went off in my head, keyed by the way she asked- a subtle change in her tone that seemed to coach me-and I modified my answer.
I said I thought it was the man I knew as Jorge.
“You think it was him,” she said.
“I was scared. Everything happened so fast, it was kind of blurry. But I’m pretty sure.”
“You’re willing to swear shots were fired, but not who the shooter was.”
“I guess that’s the most honest way to put it.”
For some reason, that seemed to raise my stock. Brought her fully on my side.
In the front seat, Merlin T. Starkey stirred and cleared his throat, as if he’d been dozing.
Now I noticed something new in Detective Gartone’s manner when she said, “You also allege that, during the knife attack, the assailant accused you of having an affair with his wife. Were there grounds for the accusation?”
What I noticed was, she added an extra curtain of professional reserve, as if to further insulate herself from the subject. To me, though, it suggested that she found the topic uncomfortable, which, in turn, suggested a sexual awareness. In that instant, I became conscious of her as a woman-her legs, the intensity of her reserve, eyes boring in, the shape of her. I wondered if, in the same abbreviated space of time, she’d become conscious of me as a man.
She was not the sort to permit even a subtle sign, despite the fact that she wore no wedding ring. Too professional. And I had more than enough going on in my life now, struggling not to lose Dewey. Still… when you meet the rare independent ones, the strong professionals with uncompromised standards, you note their existence and file the details away. On lonely nights, it’s a good thing to go through those files and remember that good women are out there.
She rephrased the question. “I’m trying to establish a motive here, Dr. Ford. You say that the man accused you of having an affair with his wife.”
I said, “That’s correct. The taller of the three, Jorge.”
“Yet, you say you don’t know Jorge’s last name.”
“I know her last name. I’m not certain they share that name, and I see no reason to risk revealing the identity of an innocent third party.”
I could see that the detective approved of that.
“Then you were having an affair with your alleged attacker’s wife.”
Her eyes continue to bore in as I replied, “The marriage was annulled long ago. It’s my understanding that, in the Catholic religion, an annulment doesn’t end a marriage. It decrees that the marriage never existed. They were never husband and wife, so there’s really no way to respond to your question.”
She said, “For the first time, I think you’re being evasive.”
“The lunatic who tried to cut me up with the knife, what did he tell you?”
Gartone started to reply, caught herself, then closed the notebook in which she’d been jotting shorthand. She held the recorder to her lips, saying, “This concludes the interview with Dr. Marion Ford on the date as stated,” and turned to face me. “All three men deny they attacked you. Not with a knife, not with a gun. They say you made up the entire story.”
“Really.”
“Does that surprise you?”
Trying to sound fretful and a little naive, I said, “No-o-o-o. I guess not. I suppose that’s what criminals do, huh? Lie about breaking the law. But you had to find their guns in the bushes. That should tell you something. People aren’t allowed to carry around guns like that, are they?”
“We found a fully automatic assault pistol and a shotgun lying in the bushes in the Everglades. Even if they acknowledged ownership-which they didn’t-it’s not a big deal. Tobacco Firearms might get around to it in a month or so.
“The man you call Jorge had no identification, no passport, and refused to give us his name. The other two, all they had were Nicaraguan driver’s licenses.”
She shrugged. “Even if all three are in the country illegally, that’s no longer a big deal, either. Our borders are so wide open, the Department of Immigration doesn’t want to hear a peep from us unless we catch a busload.” Sounding stern, she added, “I’m trying to tell you something here, Dr. Ford.”
“You’re telling me that I shouldn’t be evasive. That you’re trying to help.”
“We don’t want men with knives who try to… mutilate people running around loose. Let’s put it that way.”
I said, “So, I guess it’s my word against theirs… unless.. . well, you find some evidence that supports my story. When they shot at my car-can’t you tell if a gun’s been fired? It’d be missing bullets, right?”
Detective Gartone’s laughter was like mid-low notes on a piano. “You really are an academic. Yes, we can tell if a weapon’s been fired. That’s why you and I are having what amounts to a private conversation.”
Talking now as if the old detective in the front seat wasn’t there.
Then, opening the car door, unfolding long legs as she exited, she added, “The two places on the road you say they fired at you? We found shell casings that match a weapon that was hidden in their vehicle. Backs up your story.”