Page 84 of Sworn to Silence
A hard laugh rattles from a cigarette-rough throat. “I know how you cops think. Somethin’ bad goes down and you want to hang it on the first con you see.”
“I just want to ask you a few questions.”
He looks undecided. “You got a warrant?”
“I can have one in ten minutes if you want to do it that way. It’d be a lot faster if you just open the door and talk to me.”
“I probably shouldn’t without my lawyer.”
A familiar baritone voice comes from behind Starkey. “If you didn’t do anything wrong, you don’t need a lawyer.”
I look past Starkey and see Tomasetti standing in the mudroom. I want to ask him what the hell he’s doing in Starkey’s house, but Starkey beats me to the punch.
“Who the fuck’re you? What’re you doin’ in my house?”
“I’m the good cop, Dwayne. I suggest you stop being a shithead and cooperate with Chief Burkholder. Believe me, you don’t want to piss her off.”
Starkey looks at me. “How the fuck did he get in my house?”
I’m wondering the same thing, so I don’t even try to answer. “Dwayne,” I begin, “we just need a few minutes of your time.”
Starkey steps back. He wears grungy jeans. A shirt with old sweat stains. He looks like he wants to run. I glance down at his feet and see dirty white socks. If he breaks for the door, he won’t get far.
I push open the door and step into a mudroom that smells the way Starkey looks, an unpleasant fusion of cat shit, body odor and cigarette smoke.
Starkey looks from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “I know my rights so don’t try any shit.”
“You have the right to sit the fuck down.” Taking the man by the scruff, Tomasetti muscles him into the kitchen and shoves him into a chair.
“Hey!” Starkey complains. “You can’t do that.”
“I just want to show you how much we appreciate your cooperation.”
I step into the kitchen. The stench of rotting food and animal feces punches me like a fist. An obese cat watches me from atop a 1970s refrigerator. I watch my step when I cross to Starkey.
“You still work at the slaughterhouse, Dwayne?” I ask.
“I ain’t missed a day since I started.”
“What do you do there?”
“Look, I got a clean record there.” He points at Tomasetti. “I don’t want you cops fuckin’ things up for me.”
Tomasetti slaps his hand away. “Answer the question.”
“I’m the sticker.”
“What’s a sticker?” I ask.
“I stick the steer in the neck after he’s stunned.”
“You cut its throat?”
“I guess you could put it that way.”
“You like doing that?” Tomasetti asks.
“It pays the bills.”
