“I’m down at the Market Bar,” he will tell five other detectives, all of whom are fighting back laughter. “But if she calls back, I’m on the street.”detective understands that another world is out there, another universe in which discretion and privacy still have meaning. Somewhere far from Baltimore, he knows, there are taxpayers who hold dear the idea of a good and secret death-a well-lived life, becalmed at its end, extinguished in some private, comfortable place with equal measures of grace and solitude. They’ve heard a lot about that kind of death, but they rarely see it. To them, death is violence and miscalculation, mindlessness and cruelty. And what, a detective can ask, does privacy matter amid that kind of carnage?months ago, Danny Shea from Stanton’s shift drove to a high-rise apartment house near the Hopkins campus for an unattended death. She was an elderly music teacher, fully rigored on her daybed, with the score of a Mozart concerto still open on the piano. The FM radio was playing quietly in the living room, tuned to a classical station at the end of the dial. Shea recognized the piece.
“You know what that is?” he asked a uniform, a young man writing his report at the kitchen table.
“What’s what?”
“The piece on the radio.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Ravel,” said Shea. “‘Pavane to a Dead Princess.’”was a beautiful, natural death, quite startling in its perfection. Shea suddenly felt himself an intruder in the old woman’s apartment, a violator of a genuinely private act.similar feeling now comes over Donald Waltemeyer when he looks at a dead addict and listens to her husband walking up the stairs. There is nothing beautiful or poignant in the death of Lisa Turner: Waltemeyer knows that she was twenty-eight years old, that she was from North Carolina and that she was married. And for reasons beyond his comprehension, she came up to this second-floor shithole to fire heroin until it killed her. End of story.still, something clicks for just a moment, some long-lost switch in Waltemeyer’s brain is suddenly thrown to overload. Perhaps it’s because she was young, perhaps because she looks pretty in the light blue sweater. Perhaps it’s because a price must be paid for all this privacy, because you can only be a bystander for so long without paying some of the cost yourself.looks down at the girl, listens to the husband struggle up the stairs, and suddenly, almost without thinking, reaches for the falling shoulder of a dead woman’s sweater.the husband appears at the door, Waltemeyer asks the question immediately: “Is that her?”
“Oh God,” the man says. “Oh my God.”
“Okay, that’s it,” says Waltemeyer, motioning to the uniform. “Thank you, sir.”
“Who the hell is he?” says the husband, glaring at Milton. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“Get him out of here,” says Waltemeyer, blocking the husband’s view. “Take him downstairs now.”
“Just tell me who he is, goddammit.”uniforms grab the husband and begin pushing him out of the apartment. Easy, they tell him. Take it easy.
“I’m okay. I’m all right,” he tells them in the hallway. “I’m okay.”guide him to the other end of the hall, standing with him as he leans into the plasterboard and catches his breath.
“I just want to know what that guy was doing in there with her.”
“It’s his apartment,” says one of the uniforms.husband shows his pain, and the uniform volunteers the obvious information: “She just went in there to fire up. She wasn’t fucking the guy or anything like that.”small act of charity, but the husband shakes it off.
“I know that,” says the husband quickly. “I just wanted to know if he was the guy that got her the drugs, that’s all.”
“No. She brought hers with her.”husband nods. “I couldn’t get her to stop,” he tells the cop. “I loved her, but I couldn’t get her to stop it. She wouldn’t listen. She told me where she was going tonight because she knew I couldn’t stop her…”
“Yeah,” says the cop, uncomfortable.
“She was such a beautiful girl.”cop says nothing.
“I loved her.”
“Uh-huh,” says the cop.finishes the scene and drives back to the office in silence, the entire event now confined to a page and a half of his notebook. He catches every light on St. Paul Street.
“What did you get?” asks McLarney.
“Nothing much. An OD.”
“Junkie?”
“It was a young girl.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Pretty.”pretty, thinks Waltemeyer. You could see how, if she had cleaned herself up, she would have been special. Long dark hair. Big traffic-light eyes.
“How old?” asks McLarney.
“Twenty-eight. She was married. I thought she was a lot younger at first.”walks to a typewriter. In five minutes, it will all be just another 24-hour report. In five minutes, you can ask him about that loose sweater and he won’t know what you’re talking about. But now, right now, it’s real.
“You know,” he tells his sergeant. “The other day my boy comes home from school, and he’s sitting there in the living room with me and he says, ‘Hey, Dad, someone offered me coke in school today…’”nods.
“And I’m thinking, aw shit, here it comes. And then he just smiles and tells me, ‘But I asked for Pepsi instead.’”laughs softly.
“Some nights you go out and see shit that’s no good for you,” says Waltemeyer suddenly. “You know what I mean? No fucking good at all.”Nolan picks up the phone and begins shuffling through the admin office card file for Joe Kopera’s home number. The department’s best ballistics man will be working late tonight.the hallway comes the sound of loud banging on the large interrogation room door.
“Hey, Rog,” says one of Stanton’s detectives, “is that your man making all that noise?”
“Yeah. I’ll be there in a second.”finds the number and reaches Kopera, explaining the situation quickly. He finishes the call to even louder banging.
“Hey, Rog, shut this motherfucker up, will you?”walks through the fishbowl and out into the hallway. The devil himself has his face pressed against the window in the door, hands cupped around his eyes, trying to peer through the one-way glass.
“What’s your problem?”
“I gotta go to the bathroom.”
“The bathroom, huh? I bet you want a drink of water too.”devil needs to take a leak. Evil incarnate wants a drink of water. Nolan shakes his head and opens the metal door. “I’ll be damned,” he tells the suspect. “Every time you put one of these motherfuckers in the box, they lose control of their bladder and start getting dizzy from thirst… Okay, c’mon, let’s get it over with…”suspect steps slowly from the room, a thirty-one-year-old black man, thinly built, with receding, close-cropped hair and deep brown eyes. His face is rounded, his wide mouth marked by gap teeth and a long overbite. His sweatsuit is a size too big, his high-top tennis shoes well worn. Nothing in his appearance gives truth to his abominable deed: There is nothing in the face to inspire fear, nothing in the eyes to call extraordinary. He is altogether ordinary, and for that reason, too, he inspires contempt.name is Eugene Dale, and the computer sheet on Harry Edgerton’s desk provides enough history for two murderers. Most of the arrests involve rape, attempted rape and handgun violations; in fact, Dale is now on parole, having just been released by the state corrections department after serving nine years for sexual assault.
“If you’re not out here in three minutes,” Nolan tells him at the men’s room door, “I gotta come in there after you. Understand?”Dale walks out of the men’s room two minutes later, looking sheepish. Nolan points him back down the hallway.
“My drink,” says the suspect.
“So?” says Nolan. “Drink.”stops at the water cooler, then wipes the wetness from his face with his sleeve. The suspect is returned to his cubicle, where he waits for Edgerton, who is at this moment in another interview room, talking with the people who know Dale best, absorbing all of the available background for the coming interrogation.would have been a better piece of drama if an act of rare investigative genius had produced Eugene Dale. For the detectives who suffered through Latonya Wallace, it would have been a perfectly righteous moment if some subtle connection in the Andrea Perry case file had caused this man to materialize in an interrogation room. And for Harry Edgerton, it would have been pure vindication if some brilliant discovery during his lonely and methodical pursuit had given them the name., as usual, poetic justice has no place here. Edgerton did everything possible to find his suspect, but in the end, the suspect found him. Wanted for the cold-blooded murder of one child, the man fidgeting in the large interrogation room waited all of two weeks before he went out and raped another., when the second rape report came in, everyone in the unit knew immediately what it meant. Edgerton had laid the groundwork for that, meeting with the operations people in three districts and warning them to be looking for anything sexual or anything involving a.32-caliber firearm. So when the second rape report was copied to the Southern District’s operations unit, a female officer there, Rita Cohen, knew exactly what was what. The second victim was a thirteen-year-old who had been lured by Dale to a vacant rowhouse on South Mount Street, then threatened with a “silver-looking” handgun and raped. Dale let this girl live, though he warned her that if she told anyone about the attack he would find her again and shoot her in the back of the head. The young victim promised not to tell, but did precisely the opposite when she returned home to her mother. As it happened, she knew her attacker by name and address both-her best friend was the young daughter of Dale’s girlfriend.crime was as stupid as it was evil. The girlfriend’s daughter had even seen Dale walking the victim home just before the assault, which may have been why he did not murder the thirteen-year-old after raping her. He knew there was a witness, yet he abandoned all caution to satisfy his compulsion with another child.calling homicide and taking the rape victim’s statement, the Southern plainclothes officers wrote a warrant for Dale’s address on Gilmor Street, no more than a few blocks from the alley in which Andrea Perry had been murdered. The raid had been set for today, and though Edgerton was scheduled to be off, Nolan accompanied the Southern officers to the house and assured Edgerton that if the warrant produced any evidence or a viable suspect, he was back on the clock.than half an hour after arriving at the Gilmor Street address, Nolan was on the phone to his detective, telling him, as he would tell Kopera later, to come back downtown. Eugene Dale wasn’t home when the raiding party came through his front door, but in an upstairs closet the Southern officer found a.32-caliber revolver loaded with automatic shells. That was all Nolan needed to know: Not only was Andrea Perry murdered with a.32, but the ballistics report showed light rifling marks on the bullet, suggesting automatic ammo fired through a revolver. And when Nolan spoke with the other occupants of the Gilmor Street home, they, too, matched with the case file.’s girlfriend, Rosalind, was strangely cooperative when questioned by Nolan, as was her girlfriend, Michelle, who happened to be dating Rosalind’s ex-boyfriend. Both expressed some initial surprise at the possibility of Eugene being connected to either the rape or the murder; eventually, however, in a later interview with Edgerton, they would agree that Dale just might be the kind of guy who would do something like that. And once the detective learned a little more about Rosalind, they were convinced they were on the right track. Recalling the anonymous call that came into the homicide office right after Andrea Perry’s murder-the call in which a male voice had claimed to see a woman run from the murder scene at the sound of gunshots-Edgerton mentioned the mystery woman’s name to Michelle and Rosalind.
“Loretta?” said Rosalind. “She’s my ex-boyfriend’s sister. We’re good friends.”Loretta Langley was not good friends with Eugene Dale; they had disliked each other from the very start, Rosalind explained. At that moment, Edgerton had little doubt that the unidentified caller was none other than Eugene Dale, attempting in the clumsiest fashion to blame his girl’s best friend for a rapemurder.later, to satisfy himself that he had been right not to pick up Loretta Langley for questioning on the strength of the anonymous call, Edgerton will interview Langley and tell her, for the first time, of the allegation that they had received in the earliest hours of the investigation. Asked if she would have thought of her best friend’s boyfriend if told about the male caller, she will say no. If he’d talked to her three weeks ago, Loretta Langley would have been nothing more than another dead end; now she is yet another link between Eugene Dale and a child’s murder.arrived at the homicide unit well before Nolan and began to go through the Southern district’s paperwork on the rape report. Later that afternoon, well after Nolan had returned to the office from the raid, Eugene Dale sauntered up to the Gilmor Street address. Before he was grabbed by a waiting district operations unit, he had time to learn of the search-and-seizure warrant and to ask his girlfriend one very telling question: “Did they find the gun?”came to rest in the large interrogation room and remained there, ignored for hours, as Edgerton proceeded to interview Michelle and Rosalind. He stayed there long after Kopera arrived and took the revolver-an H &R.32, serial number AB 18407, a weapon now caked in fingerprint dust-downstairs to his lab.after Roger Nolan escorts him to the bathroom, Eugene Dale is still sitting in the box, bored and irritated. Enough time passes so that when Edgerton finally enters the room, his suspect-true to the rule-is on the verge of sleep. As the interrogation begins just after 10:00 P.M., there is no banter and salesmanship; indeed, Edgerton treats his suspect with undisguised contempt.
“You want to talk to me, I’ll listen,” the detective says, pushing the rights form toward Dale. “You don’t want to say anything, I just charge you with the murder and go home. I don’t really care.”
“What do you mean?” says Dale.blows cigarette smoke across the table. With any other murder, all this stupidity might be amusing. With Andrea Perry, it sticks in his throat.
“Look at me,” says Edgerton, raising his voice. “You know that gun in your linen closet, right?”nods slowly.
“Where do you think that gun is right now?”says nothing.
“Where is it? Think hard, Eugene.”
“You all got it.”
“We got it,” says Edgerton. “That’s right. And right now, even as I’m talking to you, there are experts downstairs who are matching up that gun to the bullet we took out of that girl’s head.”Dale shakes his head at the logic. Suddenly, both men feel a loud thump. A floor below, almost immediately beneath them, Joe Kopera is firing the.32 into a deep canister of water to produce the necessary slugs for comparison.
“That’s your gun right there,” says Edgerton. “Hear it? They’re testing it right now.”
“It’s not my gun.”
“It’s in your fucking closet. Whose gun is it? Rosalind’s? If we show that gun to the other little girl you messed with, she’s going to say it was your gun, isn’t she?”
“It’s not my gun.”stands up, his patience entirely leveled by five minutes in a room with this man. Dale looks up at the detective, his face a mixture of fright and sincerity.
“You’re wasting my fucking time, Eugene.”
“I didn’t-”
“Who do you think you’re fucking dealing with here?” asks Edgerton, his voice rising. “I don’t have the time to listen to your stupid bullshit.”
“Why are you yelling at me?”am I yelling at you? Edgerton is tempted to tell the man the truth, to explain a little of the civilized world to a man living off its fringe. But that would be wasted breath.
“You don’t like people yelling at you?”says nothing.walks out of the interrogation room with a small kernel of rage growing inside him, a heat that few murderers ever manage to spark inside a detective. Part of it is the stupidity of Dale’s first attempt at a statement, part of it his childlike denial, but in the end what angers Harry Edgerton most is simply the magnitude of the crime. He sees Andrea Perry’s school picture inside the binder and it stokes the rage; how could such a life be destroyed by the likes of Eugene Dale?’s usual response toward a guilty man was a mild contempt bordering on indifference. In most instances, he didn’t go out of his way to hassle his suspects; hell, they had enough problems. Like most detectives, Edgerton believed that you can talk to a murderer. You can share your cigarettes with him and walk him to the bathroom and laugh at his jokes when they’re funny. You can even buy him a can of Pepsi if he’s willing to initial each page of the statement.this is different. This time Edgerton didn’t want to breathe the same air as his suspect. In truth, his anger ran deep enough to be called hate, a feeling that on this case could only come from a black detective. Edgerton was black, and Eugene Dale was black, and Andrea Perry, too: the usual barriers of race had been removed. Given that truth, it made sense that Edgerton could talk to people on the street and learn things, that he could go into the West Baltimore projects and come out knowing things that a white detective might never know. Even the best white cop feels the distance when he works with black victims and black suspects; to him they are otherworldly, as if their tragedy is the result of a ghetto pathology against which he is fully immunized. Working in a city where nearly 90 percent of all murder is black-on-black, a white detective might understand the nature of a black victim’s tragedy, he might carefully differentiate between good people to be avenged and bad people to be pursued. But, ultimately, he never responds with the same intensity; his most innocent victims bring empathy, not anguish; his most ruthless suspects bring contempt, not rage. Edgerton, however, was not encumbered by such distinctions. Eugene Dale could be utterly real for him, just as Andrea Perry could be real; his rage at the crime could be personal.’s response to Dale set him apart from the rest of his squad, but this time there was nothing unique about it: to be a black detective in homicide required a special sense of balance, a willingness to tolerate the excesses of many white colleagues, to ignore the cynical assessments and barbed humor of men for whom black-on-black violence represented a natural order. To them, the black middle class was simply a myth. They had heard about it, they had read about it, but damned if they could find it in the city of Baltimore. Edgerton, Requer, Eddie Brown-they were black, they were essentially middle class-but they proved nothing. They were cops and therefore, whether they knew it or not, they were all honorary Irishmen. That logic allowed the same detective who could comfortably partner with Eddie Brown to watch a black family move into the house next door, then go to the police computer the next day and run his new neighbors.prejudice ran deep. A man had only to stand in the coffee room and listen to a veteran white detective’s scientific analysis of homeboy head shapes: “… Now your bullet head, he’s a stone killer, he’s dangerous. But your peanut heads, they’re just dope dealers and sneak thieves. Now your swayback, he’s generally a…”detectives lived and worked around those limitations, tacitly offering themselves as contradictions to the ghetto scenes that greeted their white colleagues every night. If a white guy still insisted on missing the point, then fuck him. What was a black police going to do? Call the NAACP? For Edgerton and the other black detectives, there was no way to win the argument, and consequently, no argument.Edgerton does have an argument with Eugene Dale, one that he knows he can win. And when he walks out of the interrogation room the first time, he is as eager to give himself a break as to let Dale stew before going after a second, full statement.in the ballistics lab, Joe “No Compare ’em” Kopera, the dean of Baltimore’s firearms examiners, has both bullets under the microscope and is slowly turning each slug in the positioning clay, lining up the rifling marks and striations in the split screen viewer. From the most obvious gouges on each bullet, Kopera determines almost immediately that they are both from.32-caliber projectiles from the same class of weapon, in this case a six with a left twist. This means that the rifling grooves on the inside of the barrel-which differ for each mode of firearm-carve a total of six deep channels around the back end of the projectile, each channel twisting to the left.that much, Kopera can say that the bullet that killed Andrea Perry was fired from the same or similar make of.32 revolver seized in that afternoon’s raid on Dale’s house. But to say that the bullet was fired from that gun requires more; the striation marks-thin scrapings caused by imperfections and debris inside the gun barrel-also have to be matched. Leaving the microscope on, Kopera walks upstairs for coffee and a conference with the detectives.
“What’s the verdict?” asks Nolan.
“Same type of weapon, same ammo. But it’s going to take me a little while to be sure.”
“Would it help if we tell you he’s guilty?”smiles and wanders into the coffee room. Edgerton is already back inside the large box, suffering through Dale’s second statement. This time Edgerton mentions the possibility of fingerprints on the weapon, though in fact the lab tech couldn’t lift any latents before the gun went downstairs to Kopera.
“If it’s not your gun, then what will you say when we find your fingerprints all over it?”
“It is my gun,” says Dale.
“It is your gun.”
“Uh-huh.”can almost hear the sound of Dale’s brain lurching around in the dark. The Out. The Out. Where’s my Out? Edgerton already knows which window his suspect will reach for.
“I mean it’s my gun. But I didn’t kill anyone.”
“It’s your gun but you didn’t kill anyone.”
“No. I let a couple guys borrow it that night. They said they needed it to scare someone.”
“You let a couple guys borrow it. I had a feeling you were going to say that.”
“I didn’t know what they needed it for…”
“And these guys went out and raped this little girl,” says Edgerton, glaring at the suspect, “and then they took her down the alley and shot her in the head, right?”shrugs. “I don’t know what they did with it.”looks at him coldly. “What’s your friends’ names?”
“Names?”
“Yeah. They’ve got names, right? You lent them your gun, so you had to at least know who they were.”
“If I tell you that, then they’re in trouble.”
“Fuck yeah, they’re in trouble. They’re going to be charged with the murder, aren’t they? But it’s either them or you, Eugene, so what’s the names?”
“I can’t tell you.”’s had enough. “You’re about to be charged in a death penalty murder case,” he says in a voice rising with anger, “but you’re not going to tell me the names of the mysterious friends who borrowed your gun ’cause it might get them in trouble. That’s your story?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Because they don’t exist.”
“No.”
“You don’t have any friends. You don’t have a friend in the fucking world.”
“If I tell you, he’ll kill me.”
“If you don’t tell me,” shouts Edgerton, “I’m going to put you on Death Row. Your choice…”Dale looks down at the table, then back at the detective. He shakes his head and raises his arms, a gesture of surrender, a plaintive appeal.
“Fuck it,” says Edgerton, getting up again. “I don’t even know why I’m bothering with you.”slams the door to the large interrogation room, then greets his sergeant with a half-smile. “He’s innocent.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Some friends borrowed the gun and then forgot to tell him they’d raped and killed a girl.”laughs. “Don’t you just hate when that happens?”
“I swear I’m ready to hit this guy.”
“That bad, huh?”wanders into the coffee room for a fresh cup, but after five minutes, Eugene Dale has something more to say. He bangs loudly on the door, but Edgerton ignores him. Eventually, Jay Landsman comes out of his office to check on the racket.
“Detective, sir, can I have a word with you?”
“With me?”
“Yes, sir. That other officer won’t listen to me and I…”shakes his head. “You don’t want to talk to me,” he says. “The only thing I want to do is kick the living shit out of you for what you did to that girl. You don’t-”
“But I didn’t-”
“Hey,” says Landsman. “If you want to talk to me you’re gonna do it without teeth, you understand that? You’re better off with the other detective.”retreats into the interrogation room as Landsman slams the door and walks back to his office, his day now considerably brighter than it had been.minutes later, Edgerton returns to the hallway outside the interrogation room, now cool enough for one more sortie. As he opens the metal door, Kopera brushes past him on his way from the stairwell.
“It’s a winner, Harry.”
“Way to be, Dr. K.”
“The striation is a little light, but I don’t have any real problem.”
“Okay. Thanks.”slams the door behind him and lays it down for Eugene Dale one last time: A living rape victim who will identify him as well as the gun. A ballistics match to the murder weapon. And, oh yeah, those fingerprints all over the gun…
“I’d like to tell you my friend’s name.”
“Okay,” says Edgerton. “Tell me.”
“But I don’t know his name.”
“You don’t know his name.”
“No. He told me but I forgot. But his nickname is Lips. He lives in West Baltimore.”
“You don’t know his name, but you let him borrow your gun.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Lips, from West Baltimore.”
“That’s what they call him.”
“What’s the other guy’s name.”shrugs.
“Eugene, do you know what I think?”looks at him, the picture of earnest cooperation.
“I think you’re going back to prison.”, Edgerton works through the nonsensical story, emerging in the early morning hours with an eleven-page statement in which Dale, in a near-final version of events, lends the murder weapon to Lips and another east side man whom Dale actually names. Presumably, the second man is someone who has done wrong by Eugene Dale somewhere in his past. Dale admits to seeing Andrea Perry playing with his cousin, and he admits to being out on the street and hearing the gunshot from the alley. He even goes so far as to suggest that although his friends returned the gun with one shell spent, and although he believed that they had raped and killed the girl, he didn’t go to the police because he couldn’t get involved.
“I’m on parole,” he reminds Edgerton.dawn arrives in the homicide office, Edgerton is at an admin office typewriter, working up the two-page charging documents for his suspect. But when he takes the papers into the interrogation room to show Dale, the suspect reads them quickly and then tears them to pieces, further endearing himself to Edgerton, whose typing skills are less than stellar.
“You don’t need this,” Dale says, “because I’m going to tell you the truth. I didn’t kill that girl. In fact, I don’t know who it was that killed her.”listens to version number three.
“I don’t know who really killed her. The reason I told you the other things was to protect my girlfriend and her family. I work every day while her relatives are always in and out of the apartment all hours. All of her sisters and brothers use the apartment while I’m sleeping in the bedroom.”says nothing. At this point, why bother to say anything at all?
“One of them must have kept the gun in the linen closet. One of them must have killed that girl.”
“Did you know the gun was kept in your linen closet?” asks Edgerton, almost bored.
“No I didn’t. I know you can get five years for having a gun. I don’t know who had that gun in the house. I really don’t.”nods, then walks out of the interrogation room and back to the admin office typewriter.
“Hey, Roger, look at what this asshole did,” he says, holding up the shreds of the charging papers. “This took me forty minutes.”
“He did that?”
“Yeah,” says Edgerton, laughing. “He said I didn’t need them ’cause he was going to tell me the truth.”shakes his head. “That’s what you get for letting him hold on to the paperwork.”
“Maybe I can tape it together,” says Edgerton, more tired than hopeful.last statement by Eugene Dale concludes as the dayshift detectives are taking roll call in the main office, and many of those men are out on the street before Edgerton can retype the arrest sheets.Southern District wagon arrives an hour or so later, and Dale is cuffed for the ride back to the district bail hearing. Walking down the corridor, he asks again for Edgerton and the chance to make another statement. This time he is ignored.there will be one last encounter. A week or so after the arrest, Edgerton checks his gun at the Eager Street entrance of the Baltimore City Jail and follows a guard to the second-floor hellhole that prison administrators call an infirmary. It is a long walk up a set of metal stairs and down a hall cluttered with human failure. The inmates fall silent, staring as Edgerton passes through to the medical unit’s administrative area.heavyset nurse waves him down. “He’s on the way up from the tier.”shows her the warrant, but she barely bothers to look at it. “Head hairs, chest hairs, pubic hairs and blood,” he says. “I guess you’ve done this before.”
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