Free Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split by Kathy Hogan Trocheck Page A

quavering, threatening to start crying again.
    “Mrs. Wisnewski,” Rivers began, apologetic, “your husband seems pretty incoherent. Has he been drinking tonight?”
    Pearl gasped. “No! He has Alzheimer’s. But I thought it would be good for him to get out tonight. He’d talked about the track for weeks.”
    “Has he ever been violent before?” Rivers asked.
    “Mel’s never been violent,” Truman said, interrupting. “He’d cross the street to avoid an argument.”
    “My husband would never hurt someone,” Pearl agreed.
    Rivers shrugged. “The Figueroa girl’s throat was slashed. Mr. Wisnewski was holding a knife when that kid found him. Blood all over him, kept apologizing, calling the girl Pearl.”
    Pearl gasped. “That’s me. He thought it was me. He gets confused, that’s all.”
    “Mel didn’t do it,” Truman insisted. “He’s seventy-six years old, for Christ’s sake, Detective. He’s no killer.”
    The door to the homicide office opened then and an older black man stepped out. His eyes sagged at the corners, and he was thin to the point of emaciation. The man nodded at Pearl and Truman, handed a piece of paper to Rivers. “A fax from the Allegheny County Police Department.”
    The two men stepped away from Truman and Pearl and held a brief, whispered conversation.
    “Thanks,” Rivers said, scanning the paper. The man went back inside the homicide office.
    Rivers looked up, frowning. “Mrs. Wisnewski, at the end of the hallway down there, there’s a break room. There’s a fresh pot of coffee in there. It’s not the worst coffee in the world. Why don’t you go get yourself a cup, try to calm down a little? In a few minutes we may be able to let you talk to your husband.”
    Pearl nodded mutely and walked away.
    Now it was just Truman and Rivers. Truman looked down at the younger man’s shoes. Cowboy boots, hand- tooled, it looked like.
    “Detective Rivers,” he said. “What don’t you want to talk about in front of Pearl?”
    Rivers handed Truman the fax. “Your pal Mel has a record back up in Pittsburgh.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” Truman snapped. “You must have the wrong Wisnewski, that’s all.”
    “No mistake,” Rivers said. “We used his Social Security number. He was charged with aggravated assault back in 1951.”
    “Does it say he was convicted? Huh?” Truman demanded.
    “No,” Rivers said slowly. “Captain Boykin there talked with somebody up in Pittsburgh. The old case report says Mr. Wisnewski was picketing outside a steel mill. Some nonunion laborers tried to cross the picket line. Your buddy and three other men beat him nearly to death. When the guy got out of the hospital, he was too scared to testify.”
    “So Mel was a hothead back a long time ago,” Truman said. “Lots of people were. It was a mill town. Things got out of hand. This is different. Besides, Mel isn’t himself. He wouldn’t kill anybody.”
    Rivers’s gaze found Pearl, walking slowly toward them, sipping from a Styrofoam cup. “How’d Mrs. Wisnewski get that shiner? The old man give her a belt?”
    Truman’s lips tightened. “She walked into a door. That’s all.”
     
    While Rivers took Pearl inside to talk to Mel, Truman went to get a cup of coffee. There was a little carton of cream sitting in a bowl of half-melted ice on the tray by the coffeepot and real sugar. “Look at this,” Truman said to himself. It was a far cry from the inky sludge he’d guzzled back in the days when he’d covered the cop shop.
    When he got back to the homicide office, Howie Seabold was sitting on a folding chair somebody had brought. He stood up when he saw Truman.
    The two shook hands. “Pearl’s inside with Mel,” he told Howie Jr. Then he told him everything he knew about the night’s events.
    “Alzheimer’s disease,” Howie said, making notes on a yellow legal pad. “We should be able to get them to cut Mel loose tonight, if he’s really as bad off as you say. I’ve