Protector - Laurel Dewey [77]
The third floor of DH was like a ghost town when Jane got off the elevator. She made her way down the hallway to the first interrogation room and knocked on the opposite observation room door. Weyler opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
“So, what’s going down?” Jane said apprehensively.
“The guy’s pretty incoherent,” Weyler said to the point.
“Are you talking about Chris or the perp ?” Jane said, taking a jab at Chris.
“You know, I’m aware that things are not working for the two of you on a personal level, but he’s still your partner.”
“We need to discuss that. When the dust settles on this case, I’m putting in for a new partner. It’s a trust issue, boss. He’s gone paranoid on me.”
“That’s a strong word, Jane.”
“You don’t know what he did last night—”
Chris’ voice exploded in anger toward the suspect in the interrogation room.
“Fill me in afterward,” Weyler said.
Weyler and Jane walked into the narrow, claustrophobic observation room with the two-way mirror. Chris stood with his back to the mirror, leaning over the table and jabbing his thick finger toward the suspect. As for the suspect, he looked as if he hadn’t seen a bath since the ’80s. His long, salt-and-pepper hair was pasted together with grease, dried chewing gum, leaves, strips of newspaper and anything else that he happened to roll into while sleeping in the alleys. He was Caucasian—at least, he appeared to be a Caucasian. Between the dense grime and his suntan, he could have passed for Mexican. His shredded clothes hung over his bony body. He wore only one shoe that was two sizes too big and secured on his foot with layers of duct tape. The chest pocket on his shirt was torn off. The only other pockets were in his pants and they, too, were full of holes. Jane noted every single detail in less than thirty seconds. “Is this a joke?” Jane said, facing the two-way mirror.
“Chris seems to think he’s worth pursuing. The guy’s had plenty of time to dry out but he’s still not making much sense,” Weyler said.
Chris moved away from the table and Jane caught a glimpse of the silver cigarette holder on the table—the supposed link to the Lawrence murder.
“Was the cigarette case stuck up his ass?” Jane asked Weyler.
“How’s that?”
“I’m just curious since there isn’t a pocket on this guy that would hold a Kleenex, let along a heavy, silver cigarette container.”
Weyler opened a small manila file folder and searched the pages. “The PD report shows that the container was found ‘near his person.’ ”
“So he found it in a dumpster or on the side of the road. It doesn’t tie him to anything. The person or persons who did this murder are smart, clever and cunning. Tell me how this guy fits that description?”
“You’re holding back from me!” Chris yelled, angling his body over the suspect.
“Hey, dude, I don’t know what you want me to say,” the suspect replied, his bloodshot eyes widening in fear.
“How about the fucking truth!” Chris screamed back. Jane noticed that Chris’ shirt wasn’t tucked in on one side and his tie was askew. He looked unkempt—a result she surmised from being abruptly pulled away from his vacation at Lake Dillon and having to throw on the same attire he was wearing the night before.
The suspect looked at Chris as if he was trying to make an association. “Hey, dude, you look familiar. You were in my high school, right?”
“Stop fucking around!” Chris yelled, slamming his fist on the table. He grabbed the cigarette holder and held it up. “Where did you get this cigarette case?”
“I’m not sure—”
“Don’t lie to me! A little girl saw you. She was hiding in the shadows watching you take a knife and rip her parents to death!”
The suspect’s face fell in sorrow. “A little girl saw that? God, that’s awful.”
“You were so out of it. It’s obvious. You forgot the coke, but like an idiot, you took this little trinket instead. But their fucking names