Five minutes alone a thr.., p.39
Five Minutes Alone: A Thriller, page 39
“Just before two a.m. this morning,” I say, “you entered the front yard of Lee and Nancy Charters where you were caught trying to bury the murder weapon used in—”
Ernest Grey holds up his hand. The big smile is still there. “Let me stop you a moment there, Detective, because I can see where you’re going with this.” He looks at his watch. “Two and a half hours since my client was arrested. It is the middle of the night. Can you explain to me how you were able to get the knife tested for DNA in such a quick time and at such a strange hour?”
“It hasn’t been tested,” I tell him.
His eyebrows go up. “It hasn’t? Sorry, I just thought I heard you say he was trying to bury the murder weapon. To what crime has this knife been linked?”
“Okay,” I tell him. “How about this. Chris, you want to tell us what you were doing trying to bury a knife in the yard of Lee and Nancy Charters?”
“I wasn’t trying to bury it,” he says. “I found it there.”
“You found it there?” Kent asks.
“Yes.”
“A quick question,” Ernest says, “because I think we can tidy up one of these issues right away. Can you tell me what my client said after you identified yourself as police officers?”
I don’t answer him.
“Detective?”
“I think it was pretty obvious we were police officers,” I tell him, knowing where he’s leading us. “Especially since I interviewed your client twelve hours earlier.”
“I see. So neither you nor Detective McCoy actually identified yourselves?” When I don’t answer, he carries on. “So what I hear you saying is that anybody being chased down a street at two in the morning in the dark by two men should always assume those two men are police officers, even if they don’t say anything?”
“Your client was found with a knife in his possession, which we believe we can link to the seven-year-old homicide of Hailey McDonald,” I tell him.
“Yes, so you say, and we’ll get back to that in a moment, but any charges you think you can lay against my client for assaulting a police officer I’ll have laughed out of court. You didn’t identify yourselves. Chris here was acting in self-defense. Now, I hear you’re running the shirt you found in the back of Ron McDonald’s car for DNA. That bullshit might work on people who don’t understand the law, but I do understand it, and those clothes are never coming back into evidence. Ever. Anything found from whatever DNA is found on those clothes can’t be used. This attempt to manipulate my client earlier today is nothing but the police taking advantage of somebody who can’t stand up for themselves.”
“Settle down, Mr. Grey,” Kent says. “Your client stabbed a woman to death seven years ago and tonight he tried to do the same to a cop.”
“No, seven years ago Ron McDonald stabbed his wife, and tonight my client tried to defend himself from two men he believed were a threat.”
“Can your client explain why he was at the house?” Kent asks.
Grey looks at Watkins and nods at him, then Watkins shuffles in his chair and leans forward a little and rests his hands on the table.
“I was having an affair with Hailey,” he says. “We’d been seeing each other for a few months.”
“You were seeing her before Ron started his own affair,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Did Ron know?”
He shakes his head. “No, he suspected she was having an affair, but he never knew who with, and he didn’t really care. Especially after he met Naomi. He said their marriage was over anyway, and had been for a long time.”
“Okay,” I say. “So help me connect the dots here. How does that lead you to trying to bury a knife in the front yard of where they used to live?”
He shakes his head. “That’s not how it happened,” he says.
“So how did it happen?”
“I found the knife there.”
“Explain that to us,” I say.
“Tonight. I found it there. See, I knew you were going to search the house, right? I saw the report you left on the table yesterday. I saw—”
“That was very forgetful of you, Detective,” Grey says, then wags his finger side to side. “A man more pessimistic than me would suspect you had left it there deliberately.”
“Carry on, Chris,” Kent says.
“Well, I saw the report, and I knew you guys were thinking Hailey was having an affair, and I knew that if you searched that old house you would find evidence of it. See, she used to leave a key out for me.”
“A key?” I ask.
“Yeah. She would put it into a small plastic bag and she would hide it in the garden. That way on occasion I could call in sick at work and go to her house and let myself inside. She’d be waiting for me in the bath or the bedroom, you know, all ready for me.”
“She left you a key,” I say, “hidden in a plastic bag, buried in the garden.”
“That’s right.”
“She did that rather than leaving her door unlocked,” I say.
“Of course. Who leaves their door unlocked?”
“And she did that rather than answering the door,” I say.
“Yeah. Part of the thrill was knowing I’d walk into the bedroom and we’d get started. Plus she didn’t want people to risk seeing her naked when she answered the door. She was always naked for me.”
“Why didn’t she give you a key to keep?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know and I never asked her. I just figured maybe she was seeing other people too. Maybe she wouldn’t leave it out if there were other people coming over in case we all showed up at the same time.”
“Okay, so what happened tonight?”
“Well, I knew you guys were going to find this key if it was still there, and that it would have my fingerprints on it, and I knew you guys were going to start taking all the DNA you could from people and I figured you’d probably take fingerprints too of anybody who knew her,” he says, and again Ernest Grey is shaking his head, and he is wagging his finger back and forth in a tsk tsk gesture. “I just didn’t want that key to be found, because I knew you’d think whoever she’d been sleeping with was the one who killed her. So I went to where she used to hide it, and I started digging, and then I found the knife. It scared the hell out of me, because it confirmed right there and then that Ron had killed her, you know?”
“So rather than calling the police, or leaving it there, you decided to run?” I ask.
“Yeah. Because I sensed people were watching me. So then it was worse, right? Not only would people think I had done it because of the key, but then they would be really sure I had done it because suddenly I was holding the knife. I should have left it there. I don’t know why I didn’t, but when I thought people were watching me I just ran. I took the knife with me to protect myself. Then two dudes were chasing me, so I did what I could to defend myself.”
He finishes talking and the room goes quiet. Chris is looking at Kent and he looks like he’s about to cry. “I really loved her,” he says. “I would never have done anything to hurt her.”
Nobody else talks then. I look over at Ernest Grey, and he looks composed and relaxed, but his mouth is a little tight and he knows what I’m thinking and what Kent is thinking because he just heard the same story. He’s thinking they are in a lot of trouble.
“That’s the best you can do?” I ask him.
“What?”
“Detective,” Grey says.
“That’s really the best you can come up with,” I say.
“That’s what happened,” Watkins says.
“Detective, that’s enough,” Grey says.
I start laughing. I can’t help it. I really can’t. Then Kent joins in. After the tension of the day, after McCoy losing his ear, after Hutton dying, all of that suddenly starts to disappear. I’m about to spend the rest of my life in jail, so why not get one more final laugh in if it’s there to be had? “That is the most ridiculous story I have ever heard,” I say, and I can barely get the words out. “And I’ve heard a lot of them.”
“There is no way any jury is going to buy that,” Kent says.
“He found the knife,” Grey says, “and the only thing we know that knife was used for was an act of self-defense. Even if it was used seven years ago, any DNA from my client on that knife got there when he found it tonight.”
I keep laughing.
“This interview is over,” Grey says.
“Stop laughing at me,” Chris says.
“Chris,” Grey says, and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t say anything.”
“This interview isn’t over,” I tell them, and I’m finally calming down, and so is Kent. “So far you’ve said nothing that gives us any reason not to charge you for the murder of Hailey McDonald.”
“I didn’t kill her,” Chris says, his voice rising. “I loved her.”
“You really expect us to believe the knife was buried in the exact same spot the key used to be buried in.”
“Why not?” Grey says. “If one person thought it made an ideal hiding spot, why not another? And it would explain why the key may not be there when you go back to the scene—when Ron buried the knife, he found the key. Or perhaps any one of these other men who were potentially sleeping with the victim.”
“Here’s what I think,” I say.
“No, here’s what I think,” Grey says. “You lied to my client this afternoon. You manipulated him into going to that scene because you sent that shirt out to a lab and something came back to point you in a different direction. You honed in on my client through illegal evidence, and that will get all of this thrown out in court.”
“We invited your client in for questioning in the homicide of Ron McDonald,” I tell him, “and during that questioning your client got it into his head that—”
“Because you left the folder behind!” Chris says.
“You were caught with the—” I say.
“Detectives,” Grey says, raising his voice. “The fact of the matter is you’ve apprehended my client by the use of illegal means. You have no reason to hold him.”
“We have every reason to—”
“This meeting is over,” Grey says, and he stands up. “I am instructing my client to say nothing else. I suggest we let a judge point out to you that you’re wrong. Let’s do that first thing in the morning, huh? It’d be nice to get it out of the way then that way you can do something productive with the rest of your day rather than chasing men for things they didn’t do.”
“Sit back down, Mr. Grey,” Kent says, “we’ve still got—”
“You heard my lawyer,” Watkins says. “I’ve got nothing else to say.”
“This is your last chance to help yourself,” I tell him. “You tell us what happened, and maybe you can avoid the death penalty.”
“What’s he talking about?” Watkins asks.
“He’s bullshitting you,” Grey says.
“No, we’re not,” I say. “You know it’s coming back, Chris, so what you want to ask yourself is do you want to be on our good side or on our bad side? Your lawyer can prance around and say anything he wants, but you know and I know what you did, and no jury is going to buy your story.”
“And no jury is going to have to. This is going to be dismissed,” Grey says. “All of it.”
“It’s not your lawyer getting the needle if he’s wrong,” I tell Watkins.
“The needle?”
“Or the gas, or the rope. We don’t know what it’s going to be,” Kent says. “Could be a firing squad for all we know.”
“That’s enough,” Grey says. “My client has nothing more to say.”
“Is that right?” I ask Watkins.
Watkins nods. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Well, we are charging you with the murder of Hailey McDonald, and the attempted murder of Detective Inspector Lance McCoy,” I say, and I stand up. “If you’re finished with your lawyer, then it’s time to process you and put you in a holding cell.”
“Don’t say anything else,” Grey says, “and I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
Watkins nods, the interview is over, and it’s time for me to go home.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Out in the parking lot I stand with Kent and we talk about the interview. A newspaper truck drives past the entrance gates and I wonder what today’s headline is going to be, but even more importantly I wonder about tomorrow’s.
“You guys never identified yourselves?” Kent asks.
“No. I mean, we would have, but he just started running, then before we knew what was going on he came at us with a knife. There was just no time.”
“Grey will say there is always time,” she says, which is kind of like her saying You should have found time. And she’s right. “But that story about the key and finding the knife, what do you think?”
“I think it’s insane, but sometimes a jury buys insane.”
“I’ll come get you in the morning,” she says. “About nine?”
“Sounds good.”
We part ways and I head home, and without Bridget here it reminds me of all the other times I’ve come home late at night after investigating something, the house empty, my wife in a nursing home. I actually think about calling Schroder, or even going and banging on his door. It’s five thirty and there’s something about the idea of waking him up to tell him he screwed up that I enjoy, but not enough to go and do it. If killing an innocent man isn’t enough to stop Schroder, I don’t know what is.
Yes you do.
Yes. I do.
I set my alarm for eight thirty, and when it wakes me up almost three hours later I feel like I’ve been asleep for all of five minutes and, for the briefest of moments, I wonder if I didn’t creep out to my car during the night and grab the bottle of whiskey. It sure as hell feels that way.
I jump into the shower and wake up a little, coffee wakes me some more, then I call my wife. We talk for ten minutes and I tell her things in the case are moving along quickly, and that things may wrap up today.
“When’s Wilson’s funeral?” she asks.
“Friday.”
“Okay. I’ll stay at my parents’ today. You want to swing by and get me after work?”
“I’ll see you then.”
Kent honks the horn when she pulls up outside. I’m walking down to the car when my phone rings. It’s Detective Travers.
“I got something,” he says.
“What kind of something?”
“Where are you?” he asks, and he sounds excited.
“On the way to the station.”
“So where are you right now?”
“Standing outside my house,” I tell him, looking up and down the street in case he’s here.
“Okay. You know where Tire Man Tim’s Tires is?”
I picture the building, the location, just off the edge of town. “Yeah, I do.”
“Then you should come down here,” he says.
“Why don’t you tell me over the phone?”
“Because it would ruin the surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises,” I tell him.
“You’ll like this one,” he says, but I don’t think I will. It’s going to be Schroder caught on surveillance. It’s going to be Schroder using his name and paying with a credit card. Travers hangs up. I head to my car, open the door, and slip the hip flask of whiskey into my jacket pocket. I head over to Kent.
“Good news?” Kent asks. “Has Watkins confessed?”
“It’s something else,” I tell her. “You know where Tire Man Tim’s Tires is?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“It was Travers on the phone. He said he’s got a surprise for us.”
“It must be where the bald guy bought the tires. This is exciting!” she says and she looks as excited as I feel awful. “We’re getting close!”
I think of the hip flask. Today is all mapped out. The tires with fingerprints all over them. A new witness. The list of Honda Accords. My legs feel like jelly. I feel like I’m going to throw up.
“You still don’t look so good,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure you want to do this?”
“I said I’m fine,” I tell her, a little too forcefully.
“Whatever you say.”
I take a last look at my house as we pull away. There are people on bikes and people out walking. They’re soaking up the sun and eager to get to the other end of the day, where the five o’clock world ends. I imagine by then I’ll be in an interrogation room, only this time on the opposite side of the table.
The tire shop has orange concrete block walls, the shade dulled by the passing of time and the passing of cars, exhaust dialing the orange back, same for the big black letters spelling out the name, which are now almost gray. The big bay doors have been rolled up, and inside are rows and rows of tires and tools, one car already hoisted up a few feet with the wheels missing, a couple of guys in black uniforms moving around in there, to the side of it all an attached office with a glass front wall for customers to pay and wait and to discuss finance options. Detective Travers is waiting for us out front, and by now my legs have regained strength. He’s wearing a sharp blue shirt and sharp black pants that makes my own outfit look like somebody was once buried in it.
“We were lucky,” he says, which makes my stomach drop even more, “but not lucky enough,” he says, which goes someway to putting my stomach back into its rightful place. “This place was on the list, but at this rate we wouldn’t have gotten to it for another two days. But Tom Headman, he’s the owner—”
“Not Tim?” Kent asks.
“No, and don’t ask me why,” he says, “but that stuff about the car we released on the news yesterday was in the papers this morning, and that’s where he saw it and recognized it. He phoned it in and said he serviced a car just like it on Sunday afternoon, putting on two brand new tires. So that’s the good news. The bad news is there’s no surveillance here, and the guy paid in cash. But more good news is that the tires he replaced are still here.”
