IN THE BACKROOM OFFICE of Lieutenant Maurice Roberts, a young, respected boss at the VCB, Ramone and Green sat on a couch, leaning over a phone on a plastic table. The speaker had been activated. Through it, Assistant U.S. Attorney Ira Littleton made redundant points about the arrest and interrogation. Ramone and Green had been practicing Littleton’s theories back when Littleton was watching Saturday-morning cartoons in his pajamas. Most homicide detectives had good relationships with the prosecutors in the U.S. Attorney’s office. It was a necessity that they interact cordially, of course, but beyond the required spirit of cooperation, genuine friendships were often forged. Littleton, young, relatively inexperienced, and insecure, was not one of the attorneys the detectives respected or considered a friend.
“I’d prefer an explicit, full confession,” said Littleton, “rather than a simple admission that he was wearing bloody clothes yesterday.”
“Right,” said Ramone and Green, nearly in unison.
“We don’t have enough to hold him for the murder charge,” said Littleton.
“We can charge him for the theft of the automobile right now,” said Ramone. “Also, possession of stolen property on the wallet and its contents. That’s enough to hold him.”
“But I want the murder charge,” said Littleton.
“Copy,” said Bo Green, looking at Ramone, making a stroking motion with his fist in front of his crotch. Ramone put his thumb an inch away from his forefinger, indicating the probable length of Littleton’s prick.
“Get the confession,” said Littleton. “And swab him for DNA.”
“Not a problem,” said Ramone.
“Will he consent to a blood sample?”
“He did,” said Green. “And we took it.”
“Was he high when you arrested him?”
“He appeared to be.”
“That’ll show up in his blood.”
“Right.”
“Any marks on him, anything like that?”
“A scratch on his face,” said Ramone. “He says he doesn’t remember how he got it.”
“His DNA will be under her fingernails,” said Littleton. “How much you wanna bet?”
“I’m not a gambling man,” said Ramone.
“It’s almost a slam dunk. Let’s take it to the finish line.”
“Well, he’s cooperated with every aspect of the investigation so far. Waived his right to an attorney as well. Only thing he hasn’t done is come right out and say he killed her. But he will.”
“Okay. We recover that Safeway bag yet?”
“Gene Hornsby’s on it,” said Ramone.
“Hornsby’s a good man,” said Littleton.
Ramone rolled his eyes.
“God, I hope the garbagemen haven’t picked up the trash yet,” said Littleton.
“Me, too,” said Ramone before he stuck his tongue out at the phone. Bo Green was still lazily jacking his fist.
“We want a win, fellas,” said Littleton.
“Yes!” said Green, idly wondering but not really caring if he was being too emphatic in his response. “Anything else?”
“Call me when you get that confession.”
“We will,” said Ramone, and he killed the button to the speakerphone.
“You hear that?” said Green. “Littleton said Gene Hornsby was a good man. Said it kinda tender, like. Almost sounded like he was sweet on Gene.”
“Gene ain’t gonna appreciate that,” said Ramone.
“Yeah, Gene got a problem with that homosexuality thing.”
“You sayin Littleton’s an ass ranger?”
“I don’t know, Gus. You got a better sense of that than I do. Some might say a sixth sense.”
“I’m tryin to work over here,” said Lieutenant Roberts, staring at the paperwork on his desk. “Y’all mind?”
Ramone and Green got up off the couch.
“Ready?” said Ramone.
Green nodded. “Soon as I get my man a Mountain Dew.”