“You’re here because we found physical evidence linking you to the murder of Kevin Whittle,” Goran says to Christopher, who looks as though he might cry.
Hedges folds her hands on the table. “Do you have a question?”
Becker turns the volume down on the audio monitor and turns to me. “Did he do it?” She seems semi-concerned. Her eyebrows are raised in a way I haven’t seen more than a handful of times. “If he did it,” she says, “we need to charge him now, today. The media isn’t going to let this go. We have to tell the press—”
“No.” Simple. “There is no way in hell he’d cut off a kid’s hand. Just no way.”
“Then explain the DNA.” She taps on a file folder in front of her. “If this susp—man was not your brother, what would you think?”
I think about that for a few seconds. “I would think that we need more evidence. A murder weapon, a motive. And I’d grill the hell out of him until you let me search his apartment.” I’m lying, and I know it. I would think that he was the killer, and I’d nail his ass to the wall until he confessed. I’d play bad cop to Goran’s good cop. I’d scare the crap out of someone like Christopher. “If we found anything there, I’d arrest him for murder.” I don’t mention that I already looked through his apartment and didn’t find any green sheets, branch cutters, garden shovels, or evidence of blood.
“We can’t risk our careers for this.”
“Julia, if you knew my brother, you’d get it.”
She turns the volume back up on the audio feed.
“I didn’t kill anyone. I swear to God,” Christopher says, tears in his eyes.
“How do you think your DNA got onto the sheet at the crime scene?” Goran asks.
“Look,” Christopher says. “I know what this looks like, okay? But I swear I didn’t do anything. I would never do anything like this. Ask Liz. She’ll tell you.” He swipes at his tears. “The only thing I can think is that one of my, um, hairs got onto the sheet when I was, um, well…” He rubs his hands on his pants legs. “There are a couple of possibilities, I guess,” he mumbles.
I wonder what’s coming. Jessie Hedges leans over and whispers something to him.
Christopher nods. “See, a friend of mine—okay, not a friend. A guy I know talked me into doing something I didn’t want to do.”
“Go on,” Fishner says.
He winces and looks down at the table. “Okay, I know the kid, that poor dead kid, was wrapped in a green sheet. I saw that on the news.” The goons on Channel 3 released the detail about the sheet, but at least they didn’t say anything about the missing hand. “Green sheets. Shit.” He cradles his head in his hands.
“Mr. Boyle?” Fishner says. Mr. Boyle. Really.
“Call me Chris. Please.” He takes in a deep breath. “Look, okay. There’s this guy, Ricky—”
“Ricky Harris?” Goran asks.
My throat tightens. Christopher nods and looks back and forth between them.
“Chris, just tell us what you know,” Goran says. “We’ll do our best to help you. If it’s not related to this case, we’ll let it go. Okay?” This is something Goran would say to get anyone to talk. I hope he means it this time.
“Does Ricky know I’m here?”
“Why would he?” Goran asks.
Christopher narrows his eyes. “Is my sister watching?”
“No, she’s working on something else,” Fishner replies.
He nods. “Okay. Well, Ricky hangs out a lot at the Emerald, you know. And I’ve done him a couple of favors, and he said he wanted to repay me.”
“What kind of favors?” Fishner asks.
Becker shifts behind me, and I force myself to breathe.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Hedges says.
Christopher shakes his head. “It’s okay. I might as well be honest. It was just a couple of deliveries. I told him I was done, though. I’m not doing that anymore.”
“Drugs?” Fishner asks.
“I don’t know. He never said, and I didn’t ask. He’d shoot me a text, and I’d swing by, grab whatever he gave me, and take it to wherever he said it had to go. I think it was just weed, but I don’t know. I borrowed a really nice car a couple of times, and a van, too.”
You poor, sad, stupid fuck.
“And what did he usually give you in exchange for doing these deliveries?”
“Oxycontin. Well, Percocet, usually.” Christopher takes a sip of his drink. “Anyway, he texted me to meet him at the Emerald Thursday night. He said he had something for me. I figured it was to… um… pay me for my last delivery. Ricky was supposed to come outside and give me the stuff like usual, but instead he told me to come inside. He said he was working the door, and he’d get me in free ’cause there was a party, some guy’s birthday or something.”
Damn it. Christopher was in the Flats on Thursday night. Kevin’s body was found early on Friday morning. That puts my brother way too close to the scene.
“Go on,” Goran says.
“I didn’t want to go in. I hate places like that, but I needed the pills.” He lowers his head and talks to the table. “See, I kind of hate my life sometimes, and a little oxy is one way to get through the day.”
His words are like an uppercut to my solar plexus. This was why my brother kept calling and texting me, and I ignored him just when he needed me most. If I’d called him back that day, we might not even be sitting here.
“What time did you get there?” Goran asks.
“It was about six o’clock. I went in, and Ricky gave me a drink then offered me a lap dance from a stripper. I turned that down. I have a girlfriend, and I don’t really get into that kind of thing, anyway. But Ricky said I had to stay for the party, that he had a surprise for me. I was thinking maybe the surprise was some blow or something, you know, that kind of thing. So I went to the bar and sat down. Some woman brought me a beer, said it was from Ricky.”
“Who?” Goran asks. “Do you remember her name?”
“Yeah, ’cause it was funny. Her name was Cleopatra. I’m guessing that’s not her real name.” Christopher lets out a nervous laugh. “I drank the beer while I texted with my girlfriend. I really just wanted to get my stuff and leave, but I needed to wait for Ricky.”
“Was Ricky Harris with you that whole time?”
I know what Goran’s asking. Kevin Whittle’s time of death was between seven and eight that night. If Ricky Harris was with Christopher that whole time, that will cement Harris’s alibi and maybe give Christopher one.
Christopher nods. “Yeah. I mean, not sitting next to me or anything, but he was in the same room the whole time.”
“How long were you at the bar?”
“Well, I ended up drinking two beers, so I guess about an hour.”
“And what happened then?”
“I went to the bathroom because I didn’t feel well. That’s where it gets fuzzy. I can’t really remember. I think somebody put something in one of the beers.” He stares at the wall for a second. “I remember trying to get back down the hallway from the bathroom and feeling really sick. I decided I was just going to leave. I thought maybe I was getting the flu or something. I fell down, and I think I hit my head. Someone, maybe Ricky, told somebody to put me ‘in there.’ I didn’t know where ‘in there’ was. I tried to ask, but I think that’s when I passed out.”
Yes! An alibi. If Christopher was out cold in the Emerald Club, he couldn’t have been dropping a body off in an alley. All we have to do is verify that he was there when he says he was. Becker could calculate some kind of preemptive strike in case the defense uses the DNA as reasonable doubt. She could put me on the stand and ask the right questions.
“What happened next?” Goran asks.
“I woke up in some closet, like where they keep the tablecloths and napkins and stuff. I checked my phone, and
it was Friday. I had a horrible headache. It was weird—that’s never happened to me before.”
“What time was it?”
“I dunno. All I remember is seeing the day of the week. I was still pretty confused and having a little trouble seeing, so I couldn’t make out the smaller numbers for the time. I got up and headed for the front door. On my way out, I saw Ricky sitting at the bar with Johnny.”
“Who is Johnny?”
“I’d only seen him once before. Ricky just said the guy’s name was Johnny. He never told me his last name, and I never talked to the guy. He’s older and kinda skeevy.” He shakes his head. “They asked me what the fuck happened then laughed. I just kept walking and got out of there.”
“And this was Thursday night and into Friday morning, is that right?” Fishner asks.
He nods. “There’s something else,” he says. “They use green sheets at the Emerald, back in their private rooms. But other places use ’em, too. See, Ricky uses the laundry bags for the deliveries. Sometimes that’s what I deliver, you know, in the van.”
“So the… clients, they just take the stuff out of the laundry bag?”
Christopher gives a little half-hearted chuckle. “No, they take the whole bag. I don’t even get out of the van. They just take the bag out of the side door.”
“So these sheets get around.” Fishner frowns. “Chris, do you remember the addresses you’ve delivered to? Any regulars?”
“Well, there’s this one dude on the East Side. He’s Ricky’s best customer. He has a lot of parties. He invited me to the last one.”
“You know his name?”
“Um… Sean… um… Miles, Monroe, Miller, something like that. Nice enough guy, I guess. I’ve hung out with him a few times.”
I back away from the glass and bump into Julia Becker.
Fishner asks my brother what Miller looks like, and Christopher describes him perfectly.
“That should be enough for a warrant,” Julia Becker says. She starts to say something else, but I’m already halfway out the door.
Chapter Fourteen
Beating everyone to Sean Miller’s house isn’t exactly “doing paperwork,” but if this lead breaks open the case, Fishner won’t be too upset. Then again, it might give her serious ideas about chaining me to the desk. That’s a risk I’ll have to take, though, because there’s no way she’ll let me go get him, not with my brother involved in this.
I pluck my jacket from the back of my chair. “I’m gonna go grab a bite to eat,” I tell Roberts. He just nods without looking up from his screen.
In the car, all I can think about is Christopher. Someone—Sean Miller?—murdered a little kid then cut off his fucking hand. That’s brutal. Christopher may even be connected to the person who did it. Could Christopher have killed that boy? No. There’s no way. I mean, anyone could be pushed into violence with the right motivation. But not many people could be pushed into murdering a kid, and even fewer into cutting off the child’s hand. My brother is not one of those people.
As I’m turning onto Chester, Fishner calls. I don’t answer, and she doesn’t leave a message.
It takes me about half an hour to get to Sean Miller’s house, one of those nondescript one-story jobbies that’s mixed in with bigger houses in a modest neighborhood. I roll past it slowly but keep going up the block in case he’s home and paranoid. At the stop sign, I turn the Charger around and park across the street, about a hundred feet from his front sidewalk. The white paint is peeling, and the front flower beds have become weed patches. Everything is dead, still waiting for spring. The white Chevy pickup that was there before is parked in front of his garage. The boarded-up house on the left looks abandoned. Fishner calls again, and I ignore it again, but she still doesn’t leave a message.
I have to wait for the warrant. But I’ll already be here, so I might as well help with the search. As long as I don’t answer my phone when Fishner calls, I won’t have to lie to her. I’m not being completely disobedient.
I don’t know how quickly Becker can get a warrant for Miller’s place. It depends on the judge and could take anywhere from a couple of hours to all day. Fishner most likely has Goran finishing up with Christopher and doing the warrant paperwork. Our signed affidavit will state that we have evidence that might lead to other evidence, and Becker will take it before a judge and ask for the warrant. She’ll need to convince the judge that we have enough for the warrant. Judges are serious about that pesky Constitution and its irksome Fourth Amendment.
After about forty-five minutes, I start to get antsy, so I take a risk and get out of the car. It’s stupid, but I don’t care because my brother’s ass is on the line here. I stroll toward the house, pretending to be out for a walk. The blinds are drawn on the front windows, so I climb the four rickety wooden steps and take a look around the small porch. Budweiser and Coors Light cans litter a square of tattered AstroTurf. An old lawn chair sits in the corner, behind a piece of broken plywood and some wet cardboard boxes. I spot the board for that yard game, Cornhole. A couple of cans of paint sit to my right.
A dog starts barking inside the house. It sounds big and mean. I back down the steps and sidestep into the neighbor’s yard. I move down their gravel driveway to get a look at the back of Sean’s house. From their backyard, I should be able to see most of his. This is another risk. If someone is home, they could come outside and ask me what I’m doing. I concoct a story: an elderly woman saw my unmarked car and flagged me down up the street. She lost her dog. And because I’m here to protect and serve, I’m helping her look. It’s a Jack Russell named Salsa. Lies are always more believable with details.
I slip beside the house and head to the far back corner of the neighbor’s yard. All the blinds are drawn on Miller’s windows on this side, too, and the window on the side garage door is covered with newspaper. The back door of the house looks as though it hasn’t been opened in a long time, given that ivy is growing up and across it. An old wooden privacy fence runs across three backyards, including Miller’s. There’s really nothing more I can think to do that won’t get me in more trouble. With a sigh, I walk back to the car to wait for the warrant.
At one o’clock, Fishner calls and leaves a message telling me to call her when I’m done eating lunch because she has a lot for me to do. I don’t obey, and an hour and a half later, I catch sight of a big man lumbering up the block, carrying what looks to be a case of beer.
Miller meanders up the front steps, fumbles with the lock, then goes inside.
My phone beeps once with a text message from Goran: Where are you? I’m on my way to Miller’s with the warrant. Boss is sending backup. Get back to work before she blows a gasket.
Adrenaline hits me, and I bark out a laugh. I’m getting giddy because we’re so close to getting him. He’s in there with his stupid case of beer, with all of his blinds drawn and no clue that he’s a sitting duck.
I don’t take my eyes off Miller’s house until an unmarked Taurus from the motor pool turns onto the street. I ease the Charger back up the block and park it right in front of Miller’s house.
Goran climbs out of the Taurus. He shakes his head when he spots me getting out of my car. “What, your phone is dead all of a sudden?” He knows what I’m doing. He knows me.
I cross my arms. “Is Christopher all right?”
“Boyle, you can’t be here. You’ve lost your mind. Fishner is gonna—”
“Is Christopher all right?”
“He’s fine. We’ll cut him loose later today, assuming we can verify his alibi. At least, that’s my guess.” Goran tilts his head toward the Charger and wedges a toothpick between two bottom teeth. “Way to take the car and risk your shield.”
I shrug. “Until she tells me I’m off the case, I’m on the case.”
“Don’t handle evidence or talk to Miller, or we’ll both be up shit creek. Okay? At least gi
ve me that much.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure thing, boss.”
“Liz, I mean it. Please.”
I nod because I know he’s right.
A patrol car rounds the corner and pulls up behind the Taurus. Two uniforms get out and join us by the Charger. The taller, older one introduces himself as Crouse, then he waves at his partner and says, “Dietz.”
“How do you want to run this?” Crouse asks. “Do we know if the guy is at home?”
“He’s here,” I reply.
Goran gives me the please-don’t-screw-this-up look.
I treat his look pretty much the way I treated Fishner’s calls. “I’ve been surveilling the property since eleven twenty. The suspect arrived here, on foot and carrying a case of beer, at approximately two fifteen. He went into the house and hasn’t come back out. I took a look around, and the back door appears to be sealed or otherwise unusable. All of the blinds are drawn.”
“The warrant allows us to search this property,” Goran says, “including the house, garage, and vehicle, for evidence of stolen property and drugs. We’re also looking for a large laundry bag, a pair of branch cutters, a garden shovel, and any evidence of violence.” He points at Dietz. “Go around back and secure that door.”
“Ten-four,” Dietz says. He jogs over to the house and rounds the corner.
The three of us traverse the crumbling walkway to the porch and go up the steps. The dog is going bonkers. Goran knocks on the door, and for some reason, the dog stops barking, but Miller doesn’t answer.
Goran pounds harder. “Sean Miller, this is the Cleveland Department of Police. We have a search warrant for your property. Open up.”
Miller opens the door a couple of inches. “What do you want?” He seems blurry, somehow, as if he’s somewhere else. The dog growls behind him.
Goran badges him. “Remember me? I’m Detective Goran, and this is Detective Boyle. We have a search warrant. You need to let us in. Let’s do this the easy way, okay?”
“What do you want?” He points at me. “I just talked to you.”
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