Eleventh Hour
Page 45
The man tilted his head back, as if he were trying to look down his nose at Delion. He sniffed, swallowed, and wiped his hand across his running nose. “You already know my name. You took my wallet hours ago and then you just left me alone to rot.”
“Your name, sir?”
“My name’s Milton—Milt McGuffey. I don’t need no lawyer, I didn’t do nuthing. I want to leave.”
Delion reached over and took the guy’s forearm in his hand, shook it just a little bit. “Listen to me, Mr. McGuffey, that guy who hit you is a cop. He just wanted to keep you from running away from the scene of a crime. He was being efficient, just doing what he was supposed to do, you know? Trust me on this: You really don’t want to sue him or his ass. Now, why don’t you tell me why you tried to kill Nick Jones at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral mass.”
“I didn’t try to kill no Nick Jones! Is that the broad who was bleeding all over the place? Hey, I was just standing there listening and then everything went wild and I heard her yelling. I just wanted to get out of there and so I pushed open that side door and ran. Then that big guy tried to kill me.”
“I see,” Delion said. “So then, tell me, Milton, why you were at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral. You a former priest or something?”
He wiped his nose again, rubbed his hand on his sweatshirt sleeve, and finally mumbled something under his breath.
“I didn’t hear you, Milton,” Delion said.
“I don’t like Milton. That’s what my ma called me just before she’d whack me aside the head. I said that I like funerals. So many people sitting there trying to act like they give a shit about the deceased.”
Savich touched Dane’s arm to keep him from going into the room. “Easy,” he said in his slow, deep voice, right against Dane’s ear. “Easy.”
“I see,” Delion said. “So you just wandered into Saint Bartholomew’s like you’d walk into a movie, any movie, didn’t matter what was playing?”
“That’s right. Only a funeral’s free. Wish there was some popcorn or something.”
“So you didn’t know the star of this particular show?”
Milt shook his head. His eyes were drying up fast now.
“Where do you live, Mr. McGuffey?”
“On Fell Street, right on the Panhandle.”
“Real close to Haight Ashbury?”
“That’s right.”
“How long have you lived there, Mr. McGuffey?”
“Ten years. I’m from Saint Paul, that’s where my family still is, the fools freeze every winter.”
“Hey, my ex-wife is from Saint Paul,” Delion said. “It’s a nice place. What do you do for a living?”
Milton McGuffey looked down at his hands, mumbled something. It was getting to be a habit.
“Didn’t hear you, Milt.”
“I’m disabled. I can’t work. I collect benefits, you know?”
“What part of you is disabled, Mr. McGuffey? I saw you run, saw you turn around, ready to fight. You were fast.”
“I was scared. That guy was really big. He was trying to kill me, I had no choice. It’s my heart. It’s weak. Yeah, I’ve decided I’m going to perform a public service—I’m gonna sue that cop; he’s dangerous to everybody.”
“Where did you get the silencer for the gun?”
Very slight pause, then, “I didn’t have no gun. I don’t even know what a silencer looks like.”
“We’ll find that gun, Milt, don’t ever doubt that. Was it the same gun and silencer you used to kill Father Michael Joseph?”
He nearly rose right out of his chair, then slowly sank down again, shook his head back and forth. “I didn’t kill no priest! I’m nonviolent. All we gotta do is respect and love each other.”
“Do you prefer a gun to taking a poker and striking an old woman dead?”
“Hey, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What old woman?”
“You remember that piece of doubled-over wire? Do you like that the best, Milt? Pulling that wire tighter and tighter until it’s so tight it cuts right through to bone?”
“Stop it, man. I’m nonviolent, I told you. I wouldn’t hurt nobody, even a parole officer. Hey, you think I shot that broad in the head? Not me, man, not me.”
Delion rolled his eyes, mouthed toward the open door, Prime asshole.
“What were you in jail for, Milt?”
“It was just one mistake, a long time ago, a little robbery, that’s it.”
“Your name, sir?”
“My name’s Milton—Milt McGuffey. I don’t need no lawyer, I didn’t do nuthing. I want to leave.”
Delion reached over and took the guy’s forearm in his hand, shook it just a little bit. “Listen to me, Mr. McGuffey, that guy who hit you is a cop. He just wanted to keep you from running away from the scene of a crime. He was being efficient, just doing what he was supposed to do, you know? Trust me on this: You really don’t want to sue him or his ass. Now, why don’t you tell me why you tried to kill Nick Jones at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral mass.”
“I didn’t try to kill no Nick Jones! Is that the broad who was bleeding all over the place? Hey, I was just standing there listening and then everything went wild and I heard her yelling. I just wanted to get out of there and so I pushed open that side door and ran. Then that big guy tried to kill me.”
“I see,” Delion said. “So then, tell me, Milton, why you were at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral. You a former priest or something?”
He wiped his nose again, rubbed his hand on his sweatshirt sleeve, and finally mumbled something under his breath.
“I didn’t hear you, Milton,” Delion said.
“I don’t like Milton. That’s what my ma called me just before she’d whack me aside the head. I said that I like funerals. So many people sitting there trying to act like they give a shit about the deceased.”
Savich touched Dane’s arm to keep him from going into the room. “Easy,” he said in his slow, deep voice, right against Dane’s ear. “Easy.”
“I see,” Delion said. “So you just wandered into Saint Bartholomew’s like you’d walk into a movie, any movie, didn’t matter what was playing?”
“That’s right. Only a funeral’s free. Wish there was some popcorn or something.”
“So you didn’t know the star of this particular show?”
Milt shook his head. His eyes were drying up fast now.
“Where do you live, Mr. McGuffey?”
“On Fell Street, right on the Panhandle.”
“Real close to Haight Ashbury?”
“That’s right.”
“How long have you lived there, Mr. McGuffey?”
“Ten years. I’m from Saint Paul, that’s where my family still is, the fools freeze every winter.”
“Hey, my ex-wife is from Saint Paul,” Delion said. “It’s a nice place. What do you do for a living?”
Milton McGuffey looked down at his hands, mumbled something. It was getting to be a habit.
“Didn’t hear you, Milt.”
“I’m disabled. I can’t work. I collect benefits, you know?”
“What part of you is disabled, Mr. McGuffey? I saw you run, saw you turn around, ready to fight. You were fast.”
“I was scared. That guy was really big. He was trying to kill me, I had no choice. It’s my heart. It’s weak. Yeah, I’ve decided I’m going to perform a public service—I’m gonna sue that cop; he’s dangerous to everybody.”
“Where did you get the silencer for the gun?”
Very slight pause, then, “I didn’t have no gun. I don’t even know what a silencer looks like.”
“We’ll find that gun, Milt, don’t ever doubt that. Was it the same gun and silencer you used to kill Father Michael Joseph?”
He nearly rose right out of his chair, then slowly sank down again, shook his head back and forth. “I didn’t kill no priest! I’m nonviolent. All we gotta do is respect and love each other.”
“Do you prefer a gun to taking a poker and striking an old woman dead?”
“Hey, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What old woman?”
“You remember that piece of doubled-over wire? Do you like that the best, Milt? Pulling that wire tighter and tighter until it’s so tight it cuts right through to bone?”
“Stop it, man. I’m nonviolent, I told you. I wouldn’t hurt nobody, even a parole officer. Hey, you think I shot that broad in the head? Not me, man, not me.”
Delion rolled his eyes, mouthed toward the open door, Prime asshole.
“What were you in jail for, Milt?”
“It was just one mistake, a long time ago, a little robbery, that’s it.”
