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Lysander Stokes
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Chapter 1:- Interrogation
The man across the table glared at me as if I was the cause of all his troubles. He hadn't touched the thin, closed folder in front of him. He hadn't even looked at it. His hands lay motionless on either side of the folder, his gray suit almost invisible against the gray, metal table. The matching chairs were gray, the walls were gray. The one-way glass behind him reflected all gray. Even I looked gray in that mirror.
He had shown me his badge when I was brought in. It looked OK, though what would I know? I've only seen a police badge once before.
It seemed simple enough when we came in, but here it was an hour and a half later and we were not making progress.
“Tell me again about the woman,” he said, leaning back slightly, tossing his head from slightly left to slightly right, as if the angle would make the telling more believable.
“Like I said, I was at home in my loft, alone, having a drink after dinner.”
“You always drink alone?”
“It was a glass of wine. It's not like I was working up a full-on drunk.”
“So you were home alone, drinking,” he sneered, slowly changing the angle of his head left again.
“Yeah, home alone – drinking a glass of wine – and there was a knock on the door. I wasn't expecting anyone. I wondered who would be visiting so late without calling first.”
“So it was late,” said the cop.
“It was after 9:00, that's late enough to wonder who's knocking on the door.”
I paused, wondering if he had another inane question. He didn't. I took in a long breath and went on.
“It was the woman, the one from the coffee shop. We'd talked a few times, but weren't close, not like dropping in at 9:00 o'clock close.”
“And why'd she come over?”
“She said she was depressed, she needed a friend. I guess I was the best she could do at that hour of night. You want to hear this or what?”
“Yes. Go on.”
“OK. So she told me she had no where else to go, no friendly face, no strong shoulder. That's what she said she needed, a friendly face and a strong shoulder. I let her in.”
“Because she was in trouble,” interjected the cop.
“Because she asked, and she's pretty. I could be attracted to her and was willing to offer a friendly face and a strong shoulder. Besides, I wasn't seeing anyone.”
“Having dinner alone on a Friday night.”
“Yeah, So,” I tried to continue.
“And drinking alone late in the evening.”
“Yeah, light wine after dinner, like we already established.” This was getting tiresome. I wanted to get to the crux and get out. He seemed intent on making it seem that I was a drunk.
“Then what?” the cop asked, his eyes half shut, as if bored by the pace I was taking. I looked at him. After all, he was the one being tedious, not me. I wanted this to be done as quickly as possible.
“Then she told me that she was a police officer; she even showed me a badge. She took her gun off and put it on the side table.”
“So you believed she was a cop.”
“Yeah, I had never seen a badge before, but it looked like yours. Can I see yours again?”
The cop sighed heavily and made a chore of reaching into his pocket to bring out the badge. He laid it on the table, his hand at rest next to it, ready to snatch it up if I reached for it. I leaned forward, my hands in my lap, looking at the badge.
“Yup! That's what it looked like.”
“What did she say her name was?” the cop asked, returning his badge slowly and deliberately to his inside coat pocket.
“Gwen Girardi. She said she went by G. A. Girardi, but that I should call her Gwen.”
“Yeah, Detective G. A. Girardi, recently assigned to desk duty but took some time off instead.”
“Why desk duty? Did she do something wrong?” I knew the answer.
“Police business. I'll ask the questions.”
There was a stiff silence while the cop thought of a question to ask. It occurred to me that he never told me his name or exactly why I was here at all. I might be able to just get up and walk out. We went from me being helpful to me being suspicious so quickly that certain formalities were overlooked.
“What did you say your name was?”
He looked at me without raising his head, through his eyebrows.
“Marsh. Detective Marsh. What happened next?”
“Oh, well, after she said she was looking for a strong shoulder, she slumped into a chair and noticed my glass of wine, half finished. You see, I had only consumed half of my wine, and I only fill the glass half way when I drink in the evening.”
I stopped, looking pointedly at the man who claimed to be Detective Marsh, making a point of my own – half a glass that started half full to begin, so it was actually a miniscule amount. Before Marsh could barge in again, I continued.
“She asked if she could have a glass.”
It became a game now, letting the action hang in the air, full of innuendo but nothing definitive.
“Did you give it to her?” he asked without looking at me.
“I already told you that I did. I gave her a glass of wine. She...”
“What kind of wine?”
“Merlot, not expensive.”
“So, red.”
“Yes, red.”
“Go on.”
“Thank you.”
I didn't go on. I looked at him with a glare of my own. He glanced up, then away, sat back and pushed on the table, as if to stretch his arms.
“Look, we can do this in custody, handcuffed to the table if you want.”
“Now we're getting somewhere. Just what would the charge be?”
“Hindering a police investigation. Now, what happened after you poured her the wine?”
“She drank the wine.”
I sat motionless. He looked at me, then leaned forward.
“If I have to ask 'Then what?' after each statement, this is going to take all night. Move it along, Mr. Danning.”
“I refilled her glass and sat down in the chair next to hers. I asked what was troubling her. She said she had been taken off of a case because she was a woman.”
“So, she discussed on ongoing investigation with you?”
“No, she just said that they took her off the case because she was a woman.”
“The police don't take someone off a case for that reason, it would be sexual discrimination.”
“I'm telling you what she told me. You want to hear this or defend police policy?”
Again the glaring contest resumed silently, but briefly. He lowered his eyes and said, “Go on.”
“That's all she said. She finished the second glass of wine and muttered that she was just tired. Then she went to the bedroom, slipped off her shoes and climbed under the cover. She was asleep in less than a minute.”
“What did you do?”
“I closed the door and went to the kitchen to wash the glasses. You don't take advantage of a lady, especially one with a gun, especially a cop. At least, that's my policy.”
“Sounds like a good policy. Then what?”
“I slept on the couch. When I got up, she was still asleep, so I started coffee. When she smelled coffee and bacon, she came out, looking like she had slept in her clothes.”
“You said she had slept in her clothes.”
“Yes, she had. That's why she looked like it.”
“Coffee and bacon – go on.”
“That's it,” I lied. “That's all there was. She ate breakfast, asked me about myself and thanked me. Then she left.”
“Took her badge and gun?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Didn't say anything about a fella named Stokes?”
“Who?” I lied again.
“Never mind. So she just left. Did she say she would be back, that you would see her again?”
“No, she just left, said 'Thanks' and left.”
“And how'd you meet her?”
“Oh, please. Are we going to go through this again? Coffee shop, couple of times, then late – door, wine, sleep, coffee – left. That's all. How many times do you want to go over it?”
Detective Marsh looked at me, then down at the folder, still unopened. I suspected that it was the football pool and not connected to the case at all, just there for effect.
“Tell me about the art gallery.”
Now we're getting somewhere, I thought to myself.
The man across the table glared at me as if I was the cause of all his troubles. He hadn't touched the thin, closed folder in front of him. He hadn't even looked at it. His hands lay motionless on either side of the folder, his gray suit almost invisible against the gray, metal table. The matching chairs were gray, the walls were gray. The one-way glass behind him reflected all gray. Even I looked gray in that mirror.
He had shown me his badge when I was brought in. It looked OK, though what would I know? I've only seen a police badge once before.
It seemed simple enough when we came in, but here it was an hour and a half later and we were not making progress.
“Tell me again about the woman,” he said, leaning back slightly, tossing his head from slightly left to slightly right, as if the angle would make the telling more believable.
“Like I said, I was at home in my loft, alone, having a drink after dinner.”
“You always drink alone?”
“It was a glass of wine. It's not like I was working up a full-on drunk.”
“So you were home alone, drinking,” he sneered, slowly changing the angle of his head left again.
“Yeah, home alone – drinking a glass of wine – and there was a knock on the door. I wasn't expecting anyone. I wondered who would be visiting so late without calling first.”
“So it was late,” said the cop.
“It was after 9:00, that's late enough to wonder who's knocking on the door.”
I paused, wondering if he had another inane question. He didn't. I took in a long breath and went on.
“It was the woman, the one from the coffee shop. We'd talked a few times, but weren't close, not like dropping in at 9:00 o'clock close.”
“And why'd she come over?”
“She said she was depressed, she needed a friend. I guess I was the best she could do at that hour of night. You want to hear this or what?”
“Yes. Go on.”
“OK. So she told me she had no where else to go, no friendly face, no strong shoulder. That's what she said she needed, a friendly face and a strong shoulder. I let her in.”
“Because she was in trouble,” interjected the cop.
“Because she asked, and she's pretty. I could be attracted to her and was willing to offer a friendly face and a strong shoulder. Besides, I wasn't seeing anyone.”
“Having dinner alone on a Friday night.”
“Yeah, So,” I tried to continue.
“And drinking alone late in the evening.”
“Yeah, light wine after dinner, like we already established.” This was getting tiresome. I wanted to get to the crux and get out. He seemed intent on making it seem that I was a drunk.
“Then what?” the cop asked, his eyes half shut, as if bored by the pace I was taking. I looked at him. After all, he was the one being tedious, not me. I wanted this to be done as quickly as possible.
“Then she told me that she was a police officer; she even showed me a badge. She took her gun off and put it on the side table.”
“So you believed she was a cop.”
“Yeah, I had never seen a badge before, but it looked like yours. Can I see yours again?”
The cop sighed heavily and made a chore of reaching into his pocket to bring out the badge. He laid it on the table, his hand at rest next to it, ready to snatch it up if I reached for it. I leaned forward, my hands in my lap, looking at the badge.
“Yup! That's what it looked like.”
“What did she say her name was?” the cop asked, returning his badge slowly and deliberately to his inside coat pocket.
“Gwen Girardi. She said she went by G. A. Girardi, but that I should call her Gwen.”
“Yeah, Detective G. A. Girardi, recently assigned to desk duty but took some time off instead.”
“Why desk duty? Did she do something wrong?” I knew the answer.
“Police business. I'll ask the questions.”
There was a stiff silence while the cop thought of a question to ask. It occurred to me that he never told me his name or exactly why I was here at all. I might be able to just get up and walk out. We went from me being helpful to me being suspicious so quickly that certain formalities were overlooked.
“What did you say your name was?”
He looked at me without raising his head, through his eyebrows.
“Marsh. Detective Marsh. What happened next?”
“Oh, well, after she said she was looking for a strong shoulder, she slumped into a chair and noticed my glass of wine, half finished. You see, I had only consumed half of my wine, and I only fill the glass half way when I drink in the evening.”
I stopped, looking pointedly at the man who claimed to be Detective Marsh, making a point of my own – half a glass that started half full to begin, so it was actually a miniscule amount. Before Marsh could barge in again, I continued.
“She asked if she could have a glass.”
It became a game now, letting the action hang in the air, full of innuendo but nothing definitive.
“Did you give it to her?” he asked without looking at me.
“I already told you that I did. I gave her a glass of wine. She...”
“What kind of wine?”
“Merlot, not expensive.”
“So, red.”
“Yes, red.”
“Go on.”
“Thank you.”
I didn't go on. I looked at him with a glare of my own. He glanced up, then away, sat back and pushed on the table, as if to stretch his arms.
“Look, we can do this in custody, handcuffed to the table if you want.”
“Now we're getting somewhere. Just what would the charge be?”
“Hindering a police investigation. Now, what happened after you poured her the wine?”
“She drank the wine.”
I sat motionless. He looked at me, then leaned forward.
“If I have to ask 'Then what?' after each statement, this is going to take all night. Move it along, Mr. Danning.”
“I refilled her glass and sat down in the chair next to hers. I asked what was troubling her. She said she had been taken off of a case because she was a woman.”
“So, she discussed on ongoing investigation with you?”
“No, she just said that they took her off the case because she was a woman.”
“The police don't take someone off a case for that reason, it would be sexual discrimination.”
“I'm telling you what she told me. You want to hear this or defend police policy?”
Again the glaring contest resumed silently, but briefly. He lowered his eyes and said, “Go on.”
“That's all she said. She finished the second glass of wine and muttered that she was just tired. Then she went to the bedroom, slipped off her shoes and climbed under the cover. She was asleep in less than a minute.”
“What did you do?”
“I closed the door and went to the kitchen to wash the glasses. You don't take advantage of a lady, especially one with a gun, especially a cop. At least, that's my policy.”
“Sounds like a good policy. Then what?”
“I slept on the couch. When I got up, she was still asleep, so I started coffee. When she smelled coffee and bacon, she came out, looking like she had slept in her clothes.”
“You said she had slept in her clothes.”
“Yes, she had. That's why she looked like it.”
“Coffee and bacon – go on.”
“That's it,” I lied. “That's all there was. She ate breakfast, asked me about myself and thanked me. Then she left.”
“Took her badge and gun?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Didn't say anything about a fella named Stokes?”
“Who?” I lied again.
“Never mind. So she just left. Did she say she would be back, that you would see her again?”
“No, she just left, said 'Thanks' and left.”
“And how'd you meet her?”
“Oh, please. Are we going to go through this again? Coffee shop, couple of times, then late – door, wine, sleep, coffee – left. That's all. How many times do you want to go over it?”
Detective Marsh looked at me, then down at the folder, still unopened. I suspected that it was the football pool and not connected to the case at all, just there for effect.
“Tell me about the art gallery.”
Now we're getting somewhere, I thought to myself.
