Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [44]
As she drove, she found herself hoping for one thing, that the person who killed Charise Lee wasn’t one of the young singer’s colleagues in the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program. Let it not be someone who would sully the sterling reputation of that program, and of the Washington National Opera itself. But hoping, she knew, was one thing. Reality so often turned out to be damningly different.
• • •
Chris Warren was delivered to the First Precinct, processed at the front desk, and placed in a holding cell until Detective Carl Berry was ready to question him. The young musician had become silent and sullen during the ride in the patrol car and refused to answer questions posed by the desk sergeant, including giving his name. The only thing he would say was “I’m a Canadian citizen. I want a lawyer
“Sure, son,” the dour sergeant said. “The Mounties will be here any minute to rescue you
As the processing took place, Berry was on the phone in his office talking with Sylvia Johnson, who’d called from the hospital.
“How’s Willie?” Berry asked.
“Okay, I guess. He’s in the emergency room. They’re running tests
“Looks like a heart attack?”
“That’s what I thought, but I’m no doctor. I’ll get back to you once I know more. Look, Carl, about the Warren kid. He gave us a hard time, ran off, tried to hide in an alley behind a Dumpster. He made another run for it but ran into Willie’s fist
“Ran into it?” Berry said, his tone mirroring his amusement at the description.
“Exactly. Willie stuck out his arm and the kid ran into it
“Okay,” Berry said. “Did he say anything before making contact with Willie’s arm?”
“Nothing incriminating. He just kept harping on the fact that he’s Canadian
“I know. Kowalski at the desk told me that. He’s asked for a lawyer
“He’s not dumb
“We’ll see. You read him his rights?”
“No. It was too chaotic with Willie down
“Okay, I’ll do it. Maybe he’ll want to talk without counsel. We’ve got his passport. We’ll notify his embassy, like the law says. Are you going to hang in there with Willie?”
“Yes
“Stay in touch
His next call was to have Warren brought to an interrogation room—“interview room,” as they preferred to term it. Warren had been allowed to clean up a bit, but his swollen nose and purple cheek couldn’t be washed away, any more than the rust-colored stains on Mozart’s face could be.
Berry stood outside the room with another detective and observed Warren through the one-way glass. The Canadian sat slouched in a straight-back wooden chair. He was alone in the room. His eyes darted from wall to wall, frequently coming to rest on the mirror. Berry held four pieces of paper in his hand, one the standard Miranda warning; the second a statement to be read to any foreign national being detained or arrested in the United States; the third a series of notes he’d taken during his earlier meeting with Portelain and Johnson; and a standard form, already filled out, to be faxed to the Canadian Embassy alerting it that one of its citizens was in police custody.
“He looks guilty as hell,” the other detective commented.
“He sure acted it,” said Berry. “What’d he run for if he had nothing to hide?”
“You’ll find out,” the second detective said, slapping Berry on the back. “Want me in there with you, play good cop, bad cop?”
“No. Too early for that, but hang around. Let’s see how it goes
Berry’s entrance into the room caused Warren to straighten in his chair.
“Mr. Warren, I’m Detective Carl Berry,” Berry said, taking the only other chair in the room.
“I want a lawyer, and I want to talk to somebody from my embassy. I’m a Canadian citizen