by Mark Pryor
Detective Ledsome stood and said, “I don't think we need the camera for this bit.” She left the room, letting the door sweep shut again. I didn't know if it was intentional, but for the first time she had truly thrown me, because I had no idea what she was about to say. She was back in under a minute. She sat, put her pen down on top of her pad, and looked me in the eye. “We don't think you're in any danger. It just seems like he might be laying a few crumbs to turn suspicion on you.”
I shook my head. “On me?”
“Yes. He's smart, very smart—and if he really killed those men, then he's also ruthless.”
“I can't believe this,” I said. “I mean, that he would be involved in something like this, and then that he'd try and frame me.”
“I know, it's hard to grasp. But we have a good motive for the crime. He has a gambling addiction, and he's even used his work computer to place bets, which tells you how bad it is.”
“So the murders, they were about robbery?”
“Right. Like I told you, Ambrosio Silva was a landlord who carried a lot of cash at the end of the month. Somehow Bell found out and robbed him.”
“How would he know about that?”
“We aren't sure, but probably through Otto Bland.”
“So three people are dead over money.”
“The oldest motive in the book. And, by the way, another reason we can exclude you. As far as we know, you've no gambling problems, debts, or drug addictions. In fact, I'm told you don't even drink.”
“Wow, you really are thorough.”
“Although…” She cocked her head. “You told me you went to Otto's and had a beer with him.”
“Sorry, I was speaking figuratively. He had the beer, I had a Diet Coke.” I cursed myself for being so loose with language, and suddenly wondered if they'd checked for empty soda cans. “Hang on, I don't think he had any. Now that I think about it, I just had water. Sorry to be so imprecise, I know little things like that matter.”
“That's okay, we did check for cans and bottles to see if anyone else had been with him. Didn't see anything like that.”
“As I said, impressively thorough.”
“This is capital murder. We get real thorough for those.”
“What else do you know about me?”
“Not much. You're good at your job, you're fair, and people like you. Oh, and I'm told you play guitar a little.”
“A little?”
“Never heard you play, so I can't really judge, can I?”
“You could take my word for it.” I gave her a little smile. “Or you could come watch me play.”
“Maybe, after the case is closed, and if your girlfriend doesn't mind.”
My mind went immediately to the Norman Pub and my permanent ban. I'd been so distracted, so consumed with getting away with double murder, that I'd not tried to get gigs elsewhere. As a result, I had no clue whether my name was mud in the Austin music scene. I had gotten as far as finding out who screwed me over, but I didn't know how bad the damage was. If it stopped me from sleeping with Detective Ledsome, it was very bad indeed.
“Yeah, that'd be nice. I don't think she'd mind at all—it's not like we're steady or anything.” I looked up. “Don't you have a husband?”
She shrugged. “We don't do everything together.”
“Then come hear me play; it'll be fun.”
“It'll have to wait until the case is closed, now that you're a witness.”
“Right, sure. About that, are you going to arrest him?”
“We're watching him right now. I want to get a few more things in place, then we'll draft the arrest affidavit. A couple of days, no more. We don't think he's a danger to anyone else, and since we're watching him, we'll know if he tries to run.”
“This is crazy,” I said. “You really think he's trying to frame me for this?” The idea that Tristan was smart enough to pin the crime on me was patently ridiculous, not something I'd ever consider or accept. But I wasn't averse to the police buying the theory.
“We do. I know it's bizarre but it's a fine way to get away with a crime.”
“Yeah, sure, but the guy's a dork, not a double-murderer.”
“People get desperate when they run out of money. Remember, he's not stealing just to pay off his debts, but also so he can keep gambling. It's an addiction and he'll do anything to support it.”
“Even kill?”
“It's quite likely it was a stickup that went wrong.”
“Maybe. And I guess he knew Otto through work.”
“Right.”
I shook my head slowly. “You think you know people.”
“I know. I'm sorry.” She reached over and put a hand on mine. “But please don't feel bad or beat yourself up. There are a lot of bad people out there, and they disguise themselves well. And I guess there are good people out there, people we know and like, who end up doing bad things. We see that all the time.”
“True.”
“If it makes you feel any better, like I said, they probably didn't go out there intending to hurt anyone, certainly not kill anyone. They were amateurs at this, and when things went wrong, they panicked and started shooting. It's not like they're evil geniuses who planned it all, fooling you, me, and everyone else they know into thinking they're sweet, little angels.”
“I suppose not.”
She let go of my hand and sat back. “Are you able to stay out of your apartment for a couple of days?”
“And go where?”
“We just don't want you to give anything away while we wrap things up.” She gave me a sheepish grin. “We even thought about pretend-arresting you, to keep you out of harm's way and so that he'd think his plan was working.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. But you can thank your boss that didn't happen. She said you'd crap your pants.”
“Probably would have. I'm guessing the other inmates wouldn't be too happy sharing a cell with a prosecutor.”
“We'd have kept you in solitary, don't worry.”
“Splendid, much better.”
“So can you? Stay somewhere else?” She smirked. “Your girlfriend's place, maybe?”
“Maybe. Of course, thanks to you I'll have to explain that I didn't actually commit a double murder for a few hundred bucks.”
Her cell phone buzzed on her hip and she unclipped it. “Ledsome. Yeah, we're done. We'll be right there.” She hung up and smiled at me. “One more favor to ask.”
“Cavity search?”
“You wish. No, just a formality. The guys at the top of the food chain, they like to be sure we're satisfied internally when we rule out a potential suspect.”
“‘Satisfied internally.’ What does that mean?”
“Like I said, it's another favor. So we can cross you off the list once and for all.”
“My fingerprints?”
“I guess technically it's two favors, now that you mention it.”
“You're welcome to my prints. What else?”
“We need you to take a polygraph exam.”
“A lie detector? Are you serious?”
“Very.”
“I don't know; those things aren't reliable. I mean, I want to help, of course, but you're kind of catching me by surprise here.”
“Up to you, but that was the examiner who called. He's here now, set up and waiting for you. As I tell people, if you've nothing to hide, you've nothing to fear. Am I right?”
Lie detectors weren't admissible in any courtroom in Texas, but that wasn't the point. The Austin Police Department used them for their own reasons—two of them. One was so detectives could satisfy themselves they were correctly ruling out a potential suspect. Peace of mind, you might say. The second reason was that even though the results weren't admissible, people had cracked under the stress of taking the test. Knowing their lies were found out, they simply confessed.
I myself had handled a case in which the defense lawyer insisted his client was innocent of a burglary.
He believed his client so much that he offered to have him take a lie-detector test. Not agreed to, but offered to. Not only did his client fail the test, but the guy broke down and spilled his guts halfway through the exam. The defense lawyer, a nice-enough fellow, was highly embarrassed and, I suspect, didn't suggest polygraphs to his clients after that.
The science is questionable, but in theory it's pretty simple. It's supposed to measure bodily responses to stress, things like skin conductivity and heart rate, stuff people can't control and that will give them away.
Only, I don't suffer from stress, which means that I'll flatline a polygraph in all the right places.
The examiner used by Detective Ledsome was named Tony Bentley, and I don't know if it was on purpose, but they picked an Englishman. He looked like a small-town GP, red-cheeked, soft-bodied, and full of smiles. He pumped my hand and chattered merrily to himself as he wired me up. Ledsome wasn't allowed in the room to watch, but I was pretty sure there was a camera on somewhere.
Bentley began by asking my name, date of birth, and job title; then he moved on to current events. He asked these as his preliminary questions, simple ones with answers that were obviously true or false, to establish a baseline against which he could compare the important answers.
“Is Barack Obama the president of the United States?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who won the Super Bowl last year?”
“No.”
“Is the Pope a Roman Catholic?”
“Yes. And a bear shits in the woods.”
“Sir, please just answer my questions.”
“Sorry, I was anticipating. Go on.”
“Were you born in England?”
“Yes.”
“Were you involved in a murder-robbery two weeks ago?”
“No.”
“Do you know Tristan Bell?”
“Yes.”
“Was he involved in the murder-robbery two weeks ago?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you currently work in the juvenile division of the district attorney's office?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever shot anyone?”
“No.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“No.”
“Are you in any way familiar with a man by the name of Ambrosio Silva?”
“No.”
“Are you in any way familiar with a man by the name of Dave Gass?”
The security guard? “No.”
Bentley picked up a list of questions written by, I assumed, Detective Ledsome and worked them in. The whole thing took twenty-five minutes, and when we were done, he left me there, hooked up, while he consulted with Ledsome.
They both appeared about five minutes later and Bentley, wordlessly, unhooked me. When he was done, he stuck out a hand.
“Jolly good show. Thanks for the cooperation.”
“Most welcome,” I said.
“You need a ride to your girlfriend's house?” Ledsome asked. “You know where she lives?”
“Yeah, I know where she lives.” I stood and stretched my back. “Cute little cottage on the wrong side of the tracks.”
“You want a ride there, or to your car?”
“My car, but I need to go home to get some stuff first.”
She shook her head. “That's not a good idea.”
I moved out into the hallway and Ledsome stepped out with me. I leaned against the wall, as close to her as I dared. “Why not? Cos the big, bad Tristan is there?”
“He killed two people.”
“Probably just one, if we're getting technical.”
“That makes a difference to you?”
“Been living with him for a couple of months now. He's not killed me yet.”
“No, he's got your best interests at heart. He's merely setting you up to take the fall for his ‘just one’ murder.”
“If he is, then all the more reason he won't kill me. A dead patsy isn't much of a patsy.”
“Maybe. And then his patsy shows up acting weird and gathering his belongings, looking nervously out the window for the cops.”
“None of which I'll do,” I said. “Look, it'll take me five minutes. I'll shove some stuff in a bag and be out of there before you know it.”
“And tell him what?”
“That I'm spending a few nights with my girlfriend. You know, the truth.”
She thought about it for a moment. “I don't know, letting you go back into a closed environment with—”
“Look, if he's that dangerous, why don't you just arrest him?”
“We're not there yet. We have enough for a search warrant, but I'm not ready to arrest him.”
“So execute the search warrant. While you guys are in there, I'll pack and go.”
She looked at her watch. “It's being prepared as we speak. Funnily enough, we're having trouble getting hold of a prosecutor to review it before we show it to a judge. And no, Dominic, you're a witness for this case, not a prosecutor, so you can't review it.”
“So what, a couple more hours?”
“Yep, no more than that.”
“We could go hang out at your place.”
“Jesus, you don't quit, do you?”
“Then take me back. I'm not in danger and I'm not hanging around here until you've finished your bloody paperwork.”
She acquiesced with a tilt of her head, and I followed her down the hallway and out of the building.
As we got into her car, she said, “But I'm waiting until you come out. And I'll give you my number, just text ‘911’ to me, or call me, if he so much as looks at you funny.”
“If he's not there, can I call you in for a cup of tea?”
I walked into the apartment to find Tristan locked in his room, as usual. I heard him moving about, the sound of music seeping into the living room, and I stood there for a moment, watching his door. He had no idea I was there, no clue that the police were lining up all the right paperwork so they could kick their way in and help themselves to his stuff. He had no idea, either, that the cops had concluded that he was trying to frame me.
I went into my room and looked through my things. One final check before the cops nosed through them, just to make sure everything was where it should be. I looked at my gun, my lovely Smith & Wesson that I'd tucked at the back of my bottom dresser drawer. I wanted to take it out, touch it, because I missed carrying. I knew I couldn't, not yet, anyway. I tidied a little and took out a piece of paper I didn't want anymore, crumpling it into my pocket for later disposal. I packed a couple of days’ clothing, work and home stuff, then slung the bag over my shoulder.
I knocked on Tristan's door and called his name. He opened the door.
“Oh, hey,” he said.
“Hey. Going to head out in a few, just checking in. All okay?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
I saw the trashcan just inside his door and pulled out the scrunched-up ball of paper. “You mind? Mine's full.”
He shrugged. “Go ahead.”
I tossed it in and then headed down the hall to the living room. He must have noticed my bag because he followed me and asked, “Going somewhere?”
“Yep. Gonna spend a few days with my special lady.”
“Ah.” I could tell he wasn't sure whether to believe me. For my part, I was deciding whether to give him one last chance to make it. He was so clueless and in so much danger, like a blind man standing near the edge of a cliff, enjoying the air. Maybe a baby antelope wandering under a leopard's tree. Looking at him, I remembered another lesson from my childhood, one about giving our targets a sporting chance, and I resisted a smile as I mentally transposed his head onto the body of a low-flying pheasant. Giving him an option seemed like the decent thing to do.
“You should pack a bag, too,” I said.
“Why?”
“I just spent the afternoon with the police. They know you're involved in the murders.”
His eyes widene
d. “What? You're joking. Fuck, Dom, that's not fun—”
“I'm not joking. They're preparing a search warrant right now. You probably have an hour or two.”
“What? How's that possible?”
“They're the police. It's what they do. And they know you're responsible.”
“Me? You, too.”
“No. Just you, actually. So you might want to pack that bag pretty quickly, assuming you can avoid the cops in the parking lot who're watching this place.”
He stared at me for a moment. “You cut a deal?”
“No, not at all. I just had nothing to do with it, and the cops know that. They also know, by the way, that you're trying to frame me.”
“What?” he gasped. His face was a kaleidoscope of confusion, his head shaking, eyes wide one minute, narrowed the next, and his cheeks coloring and then blanching by the second. He felt his way to the sofa and perched on the arm.
“Yeah, I'm afraid so. They got a call, someone saw you and your car at the scene and called it in. ‘Anonymous tipster,’ I think they call them.”
“But…but…you were there, too. It was your car.”
“Nope, they saw one person and even gave the license plate.”
“How's that possible?” He shook his head, still trying to figure it out. “Who? Who called?”
“Like I said, an anonymous tipster.”
“That doesn't make any sense.”
“I'm just saying.” I cleared my throat and hoped he was catching up. I wanted him to get there while I was explaining why he was going to prison, why he deserved to go to prison. And not for the murder. “Your secret little drawer in there. The one you keep locked.”
His head snapped up, but he said nothing.
“Things aren't looking good, and maybe it won't make any difference, but you might want to do a better job of hiding that shit. I'm told pedophiles don't do well in prison, though it's possible things are different on death row. And by different, I mean there are more murderers around.”
“I'm not a pedophile.”
“Yes, you are. I saw your stash of pictures, and I may not have any kids, but I recognize children when I see them. Especially when some of them are in diapers.”
“That's not…I'm not…”