Native Son - Richard Wright [136]
Bigger heard the far-away clang of a street car.
“If he made you do it, then sign a complaint against him.”
Bigger saw the shining tip of the man’s black shoes; the sharp creases in his striped trousers; the clear, icy glinting of the eye-glasses upon his high, long nose.
“Boy,” said Buckley in a voice so loud that Bigger flinched, “where’s Bessie?”
Bigger’s eyes widened. He had not thought of Bessie but once since his capture. Her death was unimportant beside that of Mary’s; he knew that when they killed him it would be for Mary’s death; not Bessie’s.
“Well, boy, we found her. You hit her with a brick, but she didn’t die right away….”
Bigger’s muscles jerked him to his feet. Bessie alive! But the voice droned on and he sat down.
“She tried to get out of that air-shaft, but she couldn’t. She froze to death. We got the brick you hit her with. We got the blanket and the quilt and the pillows you took from her room. We got a letter from her purse she had written to you and hadn’t mailed, a letter telling you she didn’t want to go through with trying to collect the ransom money. You see, boy, we got you. Come on, now, tell me all about it.”
Bigger said nothing. He buried his face in his hands.
“You raped her, didn’t you? Well, if you won’t tell about Bessie, then tell me about that woman you raped and choked to death over on University Avenue last fall.”
Was the man trying to scare him, or did he really think he had done other killings?
“Boy, you might just as well tell me. We’ve got a line on all you ever did. And how about the girl you attacked in Jackson Park last summer? Listen, boy, when you were in your cell sleeping and wouldn’t talk, we brought women in to identify you. Two women swore complaints against you. One was the sister of the woman you killed last fall, Mrs. Clinton. The other woman, Miss Ashton, says you attacked her last summer by climbing through the window of her bedroom.”
“I ain’t bothered no woman last summer or last fall either,” Bigger said.
“Miss Ashton identified you. She swears you’re the one.”
“I don’t know nothing about it.”
“But Mrs. Clinton, the sister of the woman you killed last fall, came to your cell and pointed you out. Who’ll believe you when you say you didn’t do it? You killed and raped two women in two days; who’ll believe you when you say you didn’t rape and kill the others? Come on, boy. You haven’t a chance holding out.”
“I don’t know nothing about other women,” Bigger repeated stubbornly.
Bigger wondered how much did the man really know. Was he lying about the other women in order to get him to tell about Mary and Bessie? Or were they really trying to pin other crimes upon him?
“Boy, when the newspapers get hold of what we’ve got on you, you’re cooked. I’m not the one who’s doing this. The Police Department is digging up the dirt and bringing it to me. Why don’t you talk? Did you kill the other women? Or did somebody make you do it? Was Jan in this business? Were the Reds helping you? You’re a fool if Jan was mixed up in this and you won’t tell.”
Bigger shifted his feet and listened to the faint clang of another street car passing. The man leaned forward, caught hold of Bigger’s arm and spoke while shaking him.
“You’re hurting nobody but yourself holding out like this, boy! Tell me, were Mary, Bessie, Mrs. Clinton’s sister, and Miss Ashton the only women you raped or killed?”
The words burst out of Bigger:
“I never heard of no Miss Clinton or Miss Ashton before!”
“Didn’t you attack a girl in Jackson Park last summer?”
“Naw!”
“Didn’t you choke and rape a woman on University Avenue last fall?”
“Naw!”
“Didn’t you climb through a window out in Englewood last fall and rape a woman?”
“Naw; naw! I tell you I didn’t!”
“You’re not telling the truth, boy. Lying won’t get you anywhere.”
“I am telling the truth!”
“Whose idea was the kidnap note? Jan’s?”
“He didn’t have nothing to do with it,” said Bigger, feeling a keen desire on the man’s part to have him implicate Jan.
“What’s the use of your holding out, boy? Make it easy for yourself.”
Why not talk and get it over with? They knew he was guilty. They could prove it. If he did not talk, then they would say he had committed every crime they could think of.