Episode 4
"Imagine that."
The questioning seemed to calm Troutman. Tate took the pipe from his pocket and tapped the bowl against the palm of his hand.
"Could you hold your hands out, please?" Tate asked.
"Sure," Troutman said holding his hands out, palms up. They were clean, soft and white with pudgy fingers.
Taft looked closely at them in turn and sniffed them.
"What's that smell? Bleach?"
"Probably bleach and vinegar. That's what we use to wipe down the bar and the tables at the end of the night."
"Hmm. Interesting. Give this officer your name, address and phone number. Once the forensic team gets here they'll take a paraffin test on your hands. Then you can go or stay as you desire. Make yourself available for questioning."
"Are you saying that I'm a suspect? That I killed the guy?"
"I'm saying that we'll want to talk to you later."
Tate moved on to the man wearing the Hawaiian shirt. The man had just lighted a cigarette and let it dangle from the corner of his mouth. He kept turning a gold band on his left ring finger with his right hand. Tate looked closely at the man's face. The man looked steadily back at him.
"John Malik," Tate said.
"Do I know you?" the man asked.
"We went to Adamson High School together. I'm Lieutenant Raymond Tate."
"I'm sorry. I don't remember you."
"It doesn't matter. It was more than thirty years ago.
"Tell me what happened."
"I was cleaning one of the restrooms and Randy came in babbling about a dead body."
"Would you say he was panicky? Upset?"
"More like confused."
"Is he in the habit of babbling?"
"Only when he gets confused. He has a hard time dealing with the unusual."
"Then what happened?"
"I came out, looked in the car and saw that the guy looked dead. Then I called 911."
"Do you recognize the man. Have any idea who he is?"
"Only enough to know that I've seen him several times before. I couldn't tell you his name or anything about him."
"He never caused any trouble?"
"No. He was just another customer."
Tate put the bit of his pipe in his mouth and looked at Malik several seconds. Finally he said, "You don't seem very upset."
" I am more than I show."
"May I see your hands?"
Malik held out his hands. They were fine soft hands with long fingers; almost pianist's or artist's hands with clean closely trimmed nails. Tate sniffed each hand in turn and released them.
"Lysol?"
"Yeah."
"Why not bleach?"
"It works a little better at cleaning up the puke in the restrooms. And it hides the smell better."
"Do you always clean the restrooms?"
"Yeah. It's the only way I can make sure that the job's done right."
"Do you have security cameras?"
"Yeah."
"Do they cover the parking lot?"
"No. Just the inside of the club. There are three cameras. Two cover where the customers sit and the third covers the bar."
"Do you have a gun on the premises?"
"Yeah. In the office."
"Show me where it is."
Malik turned and led Tate and Garza into the building.
Unlike the outside of the building, which was painted in several shades of purple with pink trim and accented by pink neon tubes, the inside was supposed to look like a combination of an Old West saloon and theater. Much of the decor was a holdover from when the place had been a country-western bar catering to Okies who had come to California to work in the now dying aerospace industry. A bad imitation of a Vargas painting showing a busty redhead wearing a small fringed bikini, gunbelt and cowboy boots decorated one wall. A six foot wide stage jutted out from the south wall. A failed attempt at a trompe d'oile curtain covered the south wall, and a foot high wrought iron rail ran along the edge of the stage. The walls, where they weren't painted, were covered with knotty pine paneling. The tables and chairs were bleached pine and most of the chairs were stacked upside down on the tables. Tate noticed two of the surveillance cameras mounted at opposite corners of the south wall. Large speakers were suspended front he ceiling along with colored lights and spotlights directed toward the stage. The floor was worn linoleum, The third door on the north side, beyond the two labeled "MEN" and "Women" was labeled "Office." Malik opened the door and allowed Tate to enter first while Garza remained outside.
The room was no more than ten by ten. A file cabinet occupied one corner; a small metal desk the other. Above the desk a small television monitor was bolted to the wall. The screen showed part of the room Malik and Tate had just come from. Wires led to a videotape recorder on a small stand next to the desk.
"Where do you keep the gun?" Tate asked while inspecting what he presumed to be a family photograph of Malik, his wife, two boys and a girl. Tate guessed that the photo was about ten years old. Malik's hair was still dead black with no grey. The woman wore a caftan type dress and was rather pretty despite her chubbiness. The boys were reed thin teenagers wearing dark suits and the girl, apparently the youngest, was wearing what looked to be a white First Communion dress. Tate thought her a beautiful child.
"The gun's in the center drawer."
The questioning seemed to calm Troutman. Tate took the pipe from his pocket and tapped the bowl against the palm of his hand.
"Could you hold your hands out, please?" Tate asked.
"Sure," Troutman said holding his hands out, palms up. They were clean, soft and white with pudgy fingers.
Taft looked closely at them in turn and sniffed them.
"What's that smell? Bleach?"
"Probably bleach and vinegar. That's what we use to wipe down the bar and the tables at the end of the night."
"Hmm. Interesting. Give this officer your name, address and phone number. Once the forensic team gets here they'll take a paraffin test on your hands. Then you can go or stay as you desire. Make yourself available for questioning."
"Are you saying that I'm a suspect? That I killed the guy?"
"I'm saying that we'll want to talk to you later."
Tate moved on to the man wearing the Hawaiian shirt. The man had just lighted a cigarette and let it dangle from the corner of his mouth. He kept turning a gold band on his left ring finger with his right hand. Tate looked closely at the man's face. The man looked steadily back at him.
"John Malik," Tate said.
"Do I know you?" the man asked.
"We went to Adamson High School together. I'm Lieutenant Raymond Tate."
"I'm sorry. I don't remember you."
"It doesn't matter. It was more than thirty years ago.
"Tell me what happened."
"I was cleaning one of the restrooms and Randy came in babbling about a dead body."
"Would you say he was panicky? Upset?"
"More like confused."
"Is he in the habit of babbling?"
"Only when he gets confused. He has a hard time dealing with the unusual."
"Then what happened?"
"I came out, looked in the car and saw that the guy looked dead. Then I called 911."
"Do you recognize the man. Have any idea who he is?"
"Only enough to know that I've seen him several times before. I couldn't tell you his name or anything about him."
"He never caused any trouble?"
"No. He was just another customer."
Tate put the bit of his pipe in his mouth and looked at Malik several seconds. Finally he said, "You don't seem very upset."
" I am more than I show."
"May I see your hands?"
Malik held out his hands. They were fine soft hands with long fingers; almost pianist's or artist's hands with clean closely trimmed nails. Tate sniffed each hand in turn and released them.
"Lysol?"
"Yeah."
"Why not bleach?"
"It works a little better at cleaning up the puke in the restrooms. And it hides the smell better."
"Do you always clean the restrooms?"
"Yeah. It's the only way I can make sure that the job's done right."
"Do you have security cameras?"
"Yeah."
"Do they cover the parking lot?"
"No. Just the inside of the club. There are three cameras. Two cover where the customers sit and the third covers the bar."
"Do you have a gun on the premises?"
"Yeah. In the office."
"Show me where it is."
Malik turned and led Tate and Garza into the building.
Unlike the outside of the building, which was painted in several shades of purple with pink trim and accented by pink neon tubes, the inside was supposed to look like a combination of an Old West saloon and theater. Much of the decor was a holdover from when the place had been a country-western bar catering to Okies who had come to California to work in the now dying aerospace industry. A bad imitation of a Vargas painting showing a busty redhead wearing a small fringed bikini, gunbelt and cowboy boots decorated one wall. A six foot wide stage jutted out from the south wall. A failed attempt at a trompe d'oile curtain covered the south wall, and a foot high wrought iron rail ran along the edge of the stage. The walls, where they weren't painted, were covered with knotty pine paneling. The tables and chairs were bleached pine and most of the chairs were stacked upside down on the tables. Tate noticed two of the surveillance cameras mounted at opposite corners of the south wall. Large speakers were suspended front he ceiling along with colored lights and spotlights directed toward the stage. The floor was worn linoleum, The third door on the north side, beyond the two labeled "MEN" and "Women" was labeled "Office." Malik opened the door and allowed Tate to enter first while Garza remained outside.
The room was no more than ten by ten. A file cabinet occupied one corner; a small metal desk the other. Above the desk a small television monitor was bolted to the wall. The screen showed part of the room Malik and Tate had just come from. Wires led to a videotape recorder on a small stand next to the desk.
"Where do you keep the gun?" Tate asked while inspecting what he presumed to be a family photograph of Malik, his wife, two boys and a girl. Tate guessed that the photo was about ten years old. Malik's hair was still dead black with no grey. The woman wore a caftan type dress and was rather pretty despite her chubbiness. The boys were reed thin teenagers wearing dark suits and the girl, apparently the youngest, was wearing what looked to be a white First Communion dress. Tate thought her a beautiful child.
"The gun's in the center drawer."
posted by Hitz at 5:23 PM
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