Midnight Rambler_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [6]
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“That's some dog you've got,” the cop said.
I didn't know if he meant this as a compliment, and grunted under my breath.
“You thinking of breeding him?” the cop asked.
“Actually, I was going to neuter him.”
“Get puppies first,” he said.
“You want one?”
“Yeah. I'll give you a hundred bucks for one of the males.”
“He's a purebred Australian shepherd,” I said.
“Two hundred,” he countered.
I was desperate enough for cash to take the guy's name and number. As I climbed into my car, Buster stuck his head into my lap.
“You just might get laid,” I told him.
CHAPTER FOUR
“State your name,” the bailiff declared.
“Jack Harold Carpenter,” I replied.
“Place your left hand on the Bible, your right hand in the air.
Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
My fingertips rested lightly on the Bible's cracked leather cover. I hadn't given testimony at a trial in six months, and I felt out of place standing in a courtroom. My navy Ralph Lauren suit was too large for my thinned-down, six-foot frame, and the skinny necktie I'd purchased at a thrift shop that morning didn't adequately hide the monstrous coffee stain on my white cotton shirt. Although my life had changed drastically since my departure from the police force, its purpose had not, and I straightened my shoulders.
“I do,” I replied.
“Please be seated,” the bailiff said.
I took the hard wooden chair in the witness stand and felt the previous witness's warmth. Wilson Battles, the silver-haired judge presiding over the case, acknowledged me with a nod. I'd testified in his courtroom before, and I nodded back.
Then I looked at the jury of eight women and four men. Their faces were hard, filled with skepticism and doubt. I was not a popular person. Back when I was a detective, I put a murder suspect named Simon Skell into the hospital for an extended stay.
The case was still discussed in the newspapers and on TV. One editorial had called me a stain on the conscience of the community. But that wasn't why I was here. Before my fall from grace, I had been a damn good cop and had pulled plenty of monsters off the streets. One of those monsters was sitting in this courtroom.
By the time my testimony was over, I wanted there to be no doubt in this jury's minds as to who that monster was, and what he'd done.
Lars Johannsen sat at the defense table flanked by two high-priced defense attorneys. Lars was a big Swede with a face shaped like a milk bottle and a shock of blond hair. He stared coldly at me. His petite wife sat behind him in the spectator gallery, tearfully shredding a Kleenex.
The prosecutor stepped forward to begin her questioning. Her name was Veronica Cabrero, and she wore heavy makeup and an emerald-green dress that clung to her body like Saran wrap. Around the courthouse she was called the Cuban firecracker, and she had been fined for contempt by several judges for outbursts in their courtrooms. I would do just about anything for her.
“Mr. Carpenter, you were formerly chief investigator of the Broward County Missing Persons unit, correct?” she began.
“Yes,” I answered into the microphone perched by my chair.
“How long did you hold this position?”
“Sixteen years.”
“Would you say you're an expert at locating missing people?”
I'd heard it said that an expert was someone who lived a hundred miles away. The truth was, I enjoyed finding missing people and had never wanted to do anything else. When people went missing, there was always the hope of finding them alive. And even the tiniest ray of hope looked bright compared to the blackness of most police work.
“Yes,” I said.
“The afternoon of Abby Fox's disappearance, you were the first policeman to arrive at Lars Johannsen's house,” she went on. “As chief investigator, did you normally handle cases like this?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“Usually one of my people.”
“Why did you take this case?”
All good testimony is rehearsed, and mine was no