by BJ Bourg
Curious, I retrieved some latex gloves from my truck and then returned to the Porsche. I eased my hand very carefully into the crack, just in case it was a syringe, and whistled when I pulled out a black Beretta semi-automatic pistol. It was an expensive piece and that didn’t surprise me—considering Zach’s dad was a billionaire—but the obliterated serial number immediately caught my attention. Why on earth is a rich kid carrying around a stolen gun? I thought.
While Rachael and Melvin secured Zach in the back seat of Rachael’s cruiser, I recovered the pistol and checked to see if it was loaded. There was a live round in the chamber and twelve in the fifteen-round magazine, and they were all full-metal-jacket rounds. I didn’t even have to work hard to do the math on that one. This pistol would’ve contained sixteen rounds if it were fully loaded, which meant it could be missing three rounds—and I might know exactly where those rounds are. My pulse pounded a little harder as I realized I could be holding the murder weapon that killed Denny.
I placed the pistol in an evidence box and was just sealing it shut when Jerry and Andrew drove up.
“Where’s Ray?” I asked.
“He’s still watching the house in case something happens out there,” Jerry said. “I figured you’d need Andrew here to drive this race car.”
I tossed Andrew the keys. “Lock it in the back of the substation and place evidence tape across both doors and the trunk.”
Andrew nodded and slipped inside the sports car, a big grin spreading across his face. As he pulled away from the scene of the stop, Jerry followed him.
They were still within sight when I walked to where Zach was sitting handcuffed in the back of Rachael’s car. Even before I reached for the car door I could hear him cursing and hollering, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying until I opened it.
“Tell that asshole to get out of my ride!” he yelled. “Nobody drives my car but me!”
“We can’t leave it on the side of the road,” I said.
“Then have a tow truck come get it, but nobody had better drive it.”
I ignored his protests and read him his rights, told him he was under arrest for possession of marijuana.
“Those charges were dropped.” He sneered. “It’s double jeopardize. My dad said his lawyer’s going to sue your asses off. You just wait. You’re going to lose your badge over this harassment shit.”
“Double jeopardize, eh?” I said, stifling a chuckle at his misuse of the term, double jeopardy. “If you say so, but we don’t need to talk about the marijuana. We need to talk about something else.”
Zach’s eyebrows arched upward. “And what might that be?”
“We need to talk about the dead guy you stuffed under the bridge”—I held up the box that contained the handgun from his car—“right after you shot him with this pistol.”
“Hey, I didn’t shoot nobody and I’ve never seen that pistol!”
“Really? Then why was it stuffed in the crack of the driver’s seat?”
“This is a setup, man. You planted that gun.”
“Sure I did.” I slammed the door and nodded toward Rachael. “Take him to the substation and sit him in Dawn’s office. It’s going to be a long night.”
CHAPTER 24
It was almost nine o’clock in the evening when I was finally seated across from Zach Bailey. He was a tallish fellow, maybe five-eleven, and stocky, but not overly heavy. He looked like someone who had started weight lifting and then gave up on it, allowing a little cushion to grow over his muscles like weeds over a flowerbed.
“Care to tell me what you did Friday night?” I asked, sliding a bottle of water in his direction.
He mumbled his thanks and took a long drink. When he put the bottle down, he shook his head. “Nothing much. I was home all night. You can ask my dad. He’ll verify my statement.” Suddenly remembering something, he scowled and cocked his head to the side. “Why you trying to mess with me about that gun? I don’t carry no gun.”
“It was tucked so far in the crack of your seat it could’ve only come out of your ass and no one else’s,” I said. “As we speak, it’s being prepped to go to the lab. It’ll be examined first thing in the morning, and if it matches the bullets we recovered from the murder scene, you’ll be spending the rest of your life in prison.”
“Man, this ain’t funny!” Zach pounded his fists against the desk. “I’ve never seen that damn gun before in my life and I didn’t kill nobody!”
“Well, let’s talk about something else,” I said, pulling out a school picture of Denny Menard. I’d snagged it from Uma, because I didn’t want to show the pictures of Denny’s corpse unless I wanted to test a reaction from someone. I slid the school picture across the desk. “Do you recognize this kid?”
Zach lifted the picture and stared at it for a few seconds, then shrugged and tossed it on the desk. “I don’t know him.”
“Take another look.” I handed the picture back to him.
He raised his hands in the air. “I don’t need to look at it again—I don’t know the damn kid.”
Nodding my head slowly, I studied his face and tried to imagine him firing two shots at Denny and then finishing him off with one to the eye. I could see him doing it, but I’d seen so many crazy things that I could imagine just about anything. I pulled out a picture of the marijuana bag that was recovered from Denny’s shorts. I held it so it was turned away from Zach and said, “I bet you’ll recognize this one…”
When I flipped the picture around, Zach’s face lost a shade of color. “I don’t know what that is,” he said quickly. “Never seen it before in my life.”
“Take a better look,” I pressed, leaning it closer to him. “Don’t you recognize the bag?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never seen the bag or the green stuff inside. What is it, anyway? Oregano? Our maid cooks with that shit all the time. That’s what it looks like to me.”
“Nope, it’s not oregano and you don’t cook with this stuff.” I stared at the picture for a minute and then glanced back at Zach. “So, is it your statement that you’ve never seen this bag or its contents before in your life?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He folded his arms across his chest and nodded defiantly. “Just like the gun.”
“Well, then,” I asked slowly, “how do you explain your fingerprints being inside the bag?” More color drained from his face and he paused, considering the possibility that I was telling the truth. If I would’ve been bluffing about his prints, I would’ve known I had him. But since I wasn’t bluffing, I wasn’t surprised by his reaction.
I kept silent, knowing it would compel him to start talking—that he would feel the need to fill the void with explanations to try and convince me he was innocent—and I didn’t have to wait long.
“Man, I’m telling you…I never saw that bag and I definitely never saw that gun before.”
“I’d love to believe you, Zach, I really would, but I can’t get around your prints being on the bag.” I glanced down at the baggie and scowled, noticing something I hadn’t seen before. I slowly slid the picture in Zach’s direction again. “Take a look at that knot in the bag. You see it?”
He barely glanced at the photo. “What about it?”
“There’s a thin piece of copper wire bent around the plastic baggie, just under the knot.” I tapped the area on the picture with my finger. “See it now?”
“So? What’s that got to do with me?”
“Drug dealers are creatures of habit. They’re consistent in the way they do things—the good ones, anyway.” I nodded, as though admiring the profession. “Yep, consistency is the key to success. Some of the drug dealers I’ve busted are superstitious and that’s why they package everything the same each and every time. Others like to leave their signature on each package, so customers can recognize their handy work.”
“What the hell are you getting at?” Zach asked, growing impatient. “Why don’t you just tell me what my bond is so I can
get out of here?”
“There’s no bond for murder.”
“Murder? I already told you I didn’t kill nobody.”
I leaned my forearms on the table and furrowed my brow. “You’ve been popped for possession with intent to distribute marijuana a few times, am I right?”
He only shrugged.
“When I pull those baggies out of evidence, will they have a copper wire attached to it like this one?” I stabbed at the photo with my finger.
“How would I know? I already told you I didn’t sell nothing to that kid. Never seen him before.”
I pulled out my phone and sent a text message to Rachael. She was in the next room watching the interview through the two-way mirror, and I asked her to access our complaint database and research all of Zach’s prior drug arrests. If the method of packaging the baggies in his known arrest files matched this one, I could prove he touched the bag and he packaged the drugs. While that would solidify the drug arrest, it still wouldn’t prove murder, but it was better than simply having his print on a bag.
When I looked back up at Zach, I could see his leg was shaking uncontrollably. Although it was cool in the interview room, sweat had formed on his forehead. I knew I was on to something.
“Zach, your drugs were found in the front pocket of a dead kid’s shorts.” I nodded solemnly. “You know how bad that looks.”
He started to nod, but caught himself and stuck his chin out defiantly. “It ain’t my bag.”
I sighed audibly and leaned back in my chair. “Well, we know it’s your bag but you’re lying about it, so that just means one thing…you’re the killer.”
“Damn it, I’m not!”
“Once we get the ballistics back on the pistol and they match the bullets that killed the kid, you’re adios.”
“That’s not my gun!”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Tell me the truth about the drugs and I might believe you about the pistol.”
“I already told you I don’t—”
“Damn it, Zach,” I said, raising my voice and slamming my fist on the desk for emphasis. He jumped in his chair and I knew I had him shaken. “How in the hell did that kid get your drugs?”
“I don’t know, man! I already told you I’ve never seen him before.” He stared blankly at me for a moment and then groaned when he realized he had acknowledged the drugs were his.
“Well, you need to start thinking fast, because every second we waste here takes you one step closer to your prison cell.”
Before Zach could say anything, my cell phone dinged in my pocket. It was a text message from Rachael saying the evidence photos in our database were identical to the bag we’d recovered from Denny’s pocket. She sent a follow-up text with a picture of the baggie from Zach’s last arrest. There was a copper wire twisted around the baggie just below the knot.
I turned my phone so Zach could see. “Is this your signature knot?”
He frowned and nodded. When he spoke again, his voice was low and somber. “But I swear…I don’t know how that kid ended up with one of my bags. I sure didn’t sell it to him.”
“Look, sometimes we do things we deeply regret later—something we can never take back,” I said softly. “If something went wrong and you shot that kid—”
“I’m telling you, man,” he said, raising his voice again. “I didn’t shoot nobody!” His bottom lip trembled and it looked like he was about to cry. “That’s it—I want a lawyer. I’m not saying another word until my dad’s lawyer gets here.”
“Suit yourself, but if the bullets match that gun I found in your car, your dad’s lawyer will only serve as a speed bump on the way to your conviction for murder.”
CHAPTER 25
After cutting Rachael loose for the night, I drove Zach to the detention center in Chateau. I stopped by the gate to the prisoner entrance and pressed the buzzer.
“Who is it?” asked a familiar voice.
“It’s London, Buster,” I said. “I’m here with a prisoner you might know.”
The large garage door groaned loudly and rattled along its track as it began to open. As it rose higher and higher, two pairs of legs began to emerge from under the door, slowly giving way to the corrections officers standing on the other side. When the door was fully open and all was clear, they waved me inside and I shut off my engine before they lowered the door.
I slipped out of the driver’s seat and handed one of the guards the arrest report and warrant. “Zach Bailey, possession of marijuana.”
The guard glanced in the front passenger’s seat of my truck. “Welcome back, Zach. We kept your cot warm for you.”
Zach grunted and stepped out of the truck, the chains from my handcuffs clanking as he brushed up against the door frame. He hadn’t said much on the drive to the jail, and I hadn’t asked any questions, but he suddenly became very talkative when he saw the familiar guards. He asked who would be in the cell with him and if he could possibly have a private cell. When they said he couldn’t, he started asking about his phone call and if he’d be able to immediately bond out before going in a cell with other prisoners.
I followed without saying a word, stopped when we reached the booking room. The interior of the jail was bright and smelled of bleach. I pulled one of the guards aside while the other one began processing Zach.
“Where’s Buster?” I asked. “I need to have a word with him.”
The guard shot a thumb down a long corridor. “He’s in the control room.”
I nodded and made my way down the corridor, stopping often when barred doors blocked my path at each access point. I’d have to ring the buzzer attached to the bars and wait for it to be opened before I could continue on my way. When I finally slipped through the last door, I took a right into the control room and saw Buster sitting at a desk, his arms crossed and his face sour. It had been years since I’d seen him in a uniform, and I doubted it was one of his original issues.
“Are you here to gloat?” He sneered. “Don’t get used to seeing me like this. I won’t be in this place for long. I’ll get cleared of this bullshit and be back out there before you can—”
“Calm your ass down,” I said, raising a hand in a gesture of peace. “I need to talk about my prisoner.”
“You said it was someone I might know. Who is it?”
“Zach Bailey. You busted him not long ago for possession of marijuana and a host of other crimes. It was a referral from patrol.” When he didn’t say anything, I asked if he remembered.
“Of course I remember.” He glanced around the room at the four guards milling about. Waving for me to get away from the others, he stood and walked out a side door and led me to a small office. He pushed the door shut and took a seat opposite me at a metal desk. “Patrol got in a chase with him and they found some drugs in his pockets and under the seat. I arrived at the scene before they transported him away and found a pound of grass under the spare tire. I got him talking before his dad could get involved. He agreed to work for me, so I got the DA to continue his case to see what he could produce. That’s it.”
“Well, what did he produce?”
Buster hesitated, glowered. “You know we don’t share the details of our undercover operations with anyone.”
“Look, my murder case trumps whatever drug case you had going on.” I leaned forward. “Rest assured, I can get immediate access to everything you were working on before you got transferred here, so just save us both some time and spill it.”
“You’ll just have to go get your access, then, but don’t start asking questions around here.” He lowered his voice, as though the walls had ears. “If anyone finds out Zach’s a snitch, he’ll get his ass beat for sure.”
“Buster, Uma’s son was killed. She’s one of us, so forgive me if I’m a bit rude, but I’ve got no problem locking this door and staying here until you cough up the information.”
He wanted to say something, to resist in some way, but he knew better.
“Okay, but I’m only doing this for Uma.” He leaned back and tilted his hands upward. “What do you want to know?”
“You can start by telling me if he made any busts for you.”
Buster fidgeted in his chair, finally nodded. “He gave me the Jarrie brothers.”
I nodded my understanding. “So, in a roundabout way, Zach’s the reason you’re here.”
“I guess you could say that.” He snickered. “Cooper’s in here.”
“Cooper Jarrie?” I asked. “Does he know you’re the one who killed his brother?”
“Of course he knows.”
“Watch yourself in the shower.” I tried not to smile. “He might stick a shiv in your back when you’re bent over washing your feet.”
“Go to hell, London.”
“Stop crying and tell me more about Zach.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Is he capable of killing someone?”
Buster shrugged. “He fights the cops nearly every chance he gets, but it’s mostly when he’s drunk or high. I don’t know that he could actually murder anyone.”
“Does Cooper Jarrie know that Zach was your informant?”
Buster shook his head. “No one knows—well, now you do, so you’d better not say anything.”
I was thoughtful, wondering how much information I should share with Buster. For all I knew, he would be wearing one of our jumpsuits someday soon. “Was Zach ever armed when you arrested him?”
“I took a handgun off of him once or twice, as I recall, but he’s not into guns much.”
“I found a pistol in the crack of the driver’s seat in his car,” I explained. “It might be the murder weapon.”
“Wait a minute—are you saying Zach killed Denny Menard?” Buster’s fists turned to hammers and I thought I heard his knuckles crack.
“I’m not sure, but there’s a good possibility.” I cocked my head sideways, eyed him suspiciously. “Why are you so worried about this case?”