Roses Are Red

the jaw, and he finally stopped. Then I pulled off the rubber mask.
    It was Szabo.
    “You’re the Mastermind,” I gasped. “It
is
you.”
    “I didn’t do anything,” he snarled back. He started to struggle again. He cursed loudly. “You broke in to my house. You fool! You’re all goddamn fools. Listen to me, asshole. Listen!
You got the wrong man!
”

Chapter 115
    IT WAS A MADHOUSE, and that certainly seemed appropriate for the dramatic capture. A team of FBI technicians arrived at Frederic Szabo’s apartment in less than an hour. I recognized two of them, Greg Wojcik and Jack Heeney, from past jobs. They were the FBI’s best, and they began to expertly take the place apart.
    I stayed on and watched the painstaking search. The techies were looking for false walls, loose floorboards, anywhere Szabo might have concealed evidence, or possibly hidden fifteen million dollars.
    Betsey Cavalierre got to the apartment just after the technical crew. I was glad to see her. Once Szabo’s bullet wound was treated and bandaged, Betsey and I tried to question him. He wouldn’t talk to us. Not a word. He seemed crazier than ever; manic one moment, then quiet and unresponsive the next. He did what he was known for at Hazelwood — he spit at me, several times. Szabo spit until his mouth was dry, then wrapped his arms around himself and was silent.
    He shut his eyes tight. He wouldn’t look at either of us, wouldn’t respond in any way. Finally, he was taken away in a straitjacket.
    “Where’s the money?” Betsey asked as we watched Szabo leave the building.
    “He’s the only one who knows, and he sure as hell isn’t talking. I have never, ever felt more out of it on a case.”
    The next day was a rainy, miserable, godawful Friday. Betsey and I went to the Metropolitan Detention Center, where Frederic Szabo was being held.
    The press was gathered in large numbers everywhere outside the building. Neither of us said a word as we passed through them. We hid under and behind a big black umbrella and the streaking rain as we hurried inside.
    “Pitiful goddamn vultures,” Betsey whispered to me. “
Three
things are certain in this life: death, taxes, and that the press will get it wrong. They will, you know.”
    “Once somebody writes it wrong, it
stays
wrong,” I said.
    We met with Szabo in a small, anonymous-looking room attached to the cell block. He was no longer confined in a straitjacket, but he looked out of it. His court-appointed lawyer was present. Her name was Lynda Cole, and she didn’t seem to like Szabo much more than we did.
    I was surprised that Szabo hadn’t gone after a bigger-name attorney, but just about everything he did surprised me.
He didn’t think like other people.
That was his strength, wasn’t it? It was what he loved about himself, and maybe it was what had brought him down.
    Once again, Szabo wouldn’t look at us for several minutes. Betsey and I tried a steady battery of questions, but he was completely, stubbornly unresponsive. His dosage of Haldol had been increased, and I wondered if that had anything to do with his listlessness. Somehow I doubted it. I felt he might be playacting again.
    “This is hopeless,” Betsey finally said after we’d been there for over an hour. She was right. It was futile to spend any more time with Szabo that day.
    She and I got up to leave, and so did Lynda Cole, who was small like Betsey and very attractive. She hadn’t said more than a dozen words during the hour. There wasn’t any need for her to talk if her client didn’t. Szabo suddenly looked up from a spot on the table. He’d been staring at it for at least twenty minutes.
    He looked straight at me and he finally spoke. “You got the wrong man.”
    Then Frederic Szabo grinned like the craziest person I had ever met in my life. And I’ve met some very crazy people.

Chapter 116
    BETSEY CAVALIERRE and I returned to Hazelwood and the mountains of grunt work that still had to be done there. Sampson met us. By ten-thirty that night, we’d gone through everything we could find at the hospital. We had managed to identify nineteen staff members who’d spent time with Szabo. The shortlist included six therapists who’d seen him.
    Betsey and I tacked their pictures up on one wall. Then I walked back and forth staring at them, hoping for a blinding insight. Where the hell was the money? How had Szabo actually controlled the robbery-murders?
    I sat down again. Betsey was sipping her sixth