Don't Kill The Messenger (10 page)

“Yes,” I say, quite annoyed. I know the Miranda rights; it’s not the first time I’ve been arrested. What shocks me is that they actually believe I killed Casner. Clearly, they weren’t on scene for what took place just minutes ago, or they would have seen me trying to warn him. Everything is happening so quickly, and it would do me no good to try to explain it to them here and now.

I look over at the Sebring. Still no sign of Rebecca, but she must be lying low in there. At the moment, I’m grateful, lest they think she’s an accomplice and arrest us both. I only hope she sees me being led off and remembers what I told her about my attorney’s information in my bag. Then I glance across the street and see two officers talking to a man in a parking lot. Did someone see the exchange? Is that why I was arrested?

I am unceremoniously stuffed in the back of a police car, head still swimming from the effects of the explosion, and driven to a nearby station house. Events take on a surreal quality, compounded by the mental exhaustion of the past two days. I am fingerprinted, photographed, moved about, talked to, talked at, and deposited in an interrogation room. I’m not sure how much time has passed, but it feels like a lot. And the one thing missing is the phone call. I know enough to know that I’m entitled to my phone call, but they haven’t even entertained discussion of it. I can only hope, as I sit alone in an interrogation room (clearly intended to psych me out) that Rebecca has made the call and that Steven Atkinson, attorney-at-law, has the situation in hand.

If nothing else, the time to myself is allowing me to recuperate, both physically and mentally, from the explosion that killed Jeffrey Casner. I failed my assignment; he didn’t listen to me and it cost him his life. And while he wasn’t going to win any awards for congeniality or humanitarian efforts, I can’t help but feel that I’m at least partly responsible for his death. Not nearly as responsible as the son of a bitch who put a bomb in his car, but nonetheless.

Tell that to the police, Tristan old boy, because right now, they think that son of a bitch is you.

My situation is grim, but it’s not the first time. I’ve had a couple of arrests before, minor things like trespassing and disturbing the peace—both related to the assignments I was on, of course. But Steven Atkinson managed to get charges dropped both times. Whether he can do so this time, with a charge of murder looming, is another story.

I can’t believe what a crock of shit this charge is. Murder? Really? Yes, yes, to an impartial observer, I was the last person to have words with the deceased. At the crime scene. Seconds before it happened. And the words were heated and pertained to the deceased’s impending demise.

I may actually be fucked on this one, come to think of it.

The door to the interrogation room opens, and a man in his late forties enters. He’s wearing Dockers and a long-sleeve dress shirt, with a tie ugly enough to suggest that someone bought it for him and he wears it out of politeness, rather than actual fondness for it. He is dressed, it seems, just formally enough to conform to department regulations, and his posture tells of a man who would much rather be in a pair of jeans and an old, well-worn sweatshirt. I feel weariness on him, the mark of a man who had great enthusiasm for his chosen career when he entered it some twenty or more years ago, but has since been brought back to earth by day after day of mundane reality and bureaucratic oppression.

All this before he even opens his mouth to say a word to me. Once the words come, I feel my assessment is right. “You’re a complicated man, Mr. Shays,” he says.

“So I’ve been told,” I respond, trying to sound cooperative and not wiseass.

“I’m Lieutenant Fogle. I’m the detective in charge of this case, such as it is.”

So are you good cop or bad cop?
I wonder silently.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee or some water?” he asks me.

Ah, good cop. I can live with that.

“I’m fine on that front,” I tell him, “but I’d really appreciate a chance to call my attorney. I think once we all sit down together, we’ll realize that there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Your legal advisor is already here,” he answers.

This is news to me.
How could Steven already be here, coming from as far away as he did? It’s possible that he was on the road and just happened to be near Atlanta when Rebecca called him, but …

“She’s talking with the desk sergeant now,” Fogle continues. “She’ll be in here momentarily.”

“Wait …
She?
But …”

Before I can inquire further about his pronoun choice, the door to the room opens, and in walks my legal advisor. I try not to do an actual cartoon-worthy double take when I see Rebecca enter, dressed in the most formal outfit she has brought with her—which amounts to slacks and a white blouse—and carrying a briefcase …
my
briefcase from the trunk of the Sebring. Without thinking, I stand up quickly.

“Sit down,” Fogle and Rebecca say simultaneously. So I sit.

With an air of confidence I have yet to encounter from her, she strides in and owns the room. Hand outstretched, she introduces herself to my interrogator. “Rebecca Traeger, legal advisor to Mr. Shays.”

“Detective Lieutenant Eric Fogle. Good to meet you, Ms. Traeger.”

She sits next to me. I’m sure I look astonished.

“I’m a bit surprised you were able to be here so quickly,” Fogle says to her, “seeing as how Mr. Shays isn’t from Atlanta.”

“Fortunately, I was in the area. It’s a good thing, too,” she adds, looking at a single typewritten page she brought in with her. “I’d like to get Mr. Shays released this evening, as I happen to know that he has some important matters to see to.”

Fogle seems put off by her boldness. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Ms. Traeger. There’s a charge of first-degree murder …”

“Simple?” she says with an icy look at him. “I think we’re swimming in a sea of oversimplification here, Detective. I’ve read through this arrest report, and I’m shaking my head at why my client is even here. Last time I checked, habeas corpus does still apply in Georgia, does it not?”

It’s a fascinating performance, I have to admit. If I weren’t the star of the grisly state-sponsored execution to follow, I would be on my feet and applauding.

Fogle’s patience, meanwhile, is starting to wear thin. “Now, see here, Ms. Traeger. There’s compelling evidence. I have an eyewitness at the scene who saw Mr. Shays talking heatedly with Jeffrey Casner just before the explosion. This eyewitness saw your client running away from the vehicle seconds before it blew up. Now, we’re still putting together all the pieces, but with all due respect to your habeas corpus, in my jurisdiction, that’s called prima facie evidence, and it’s enough to hold Mr. Shays—without bail—until a preliminary hearing can be held.”

He’s good; I’ll give him that.

She switches tactics. “Detective, I apologize. I meant no disrespect to you or your department. It’s been a long day, and the news of Mr. Shays’s arrest came as a surprise to me. I want what you want: the capture and prosecution of Jeffrey Casner’s killers. I just need to spend a little time with you this evening to help you see that there’s no way Mr. Shays could have committed this crime. If you’re willing to work with me tonight, I’m hoping we can rule him out as a suspect and clear the slate to find who did this.”

He thinks about it for a moment. “All right. I’m willing to listen.”

“Do you have the witness statement?” she asks.

“I imagine it’ll be done by now. I’ll have to go get it. Wait here, please.”

He gets up and leaves Rebecca alone with me in the room. She smiles broadly at me. “Hi,” she says pleasantly.

“Hi? You’re giving me
hi?
What are you doing here?”

“Representing you, obviously.”

I suddenly remember where we are, a room known for a lack of privacy. “Wait a second. We shouldn’t be talking in here. Someone could be watching.”

“I checked the room that looks in on this one. No one’s in there. Fogle is the only one here who’s working on the case at the moment.”

“I see. And you’re representing me?”

“Yep.”

“Are you out of your mind? I’ve been arrested for murder!”

She holds up the arrest report in front of me. “Duh.”

“I asked you to call my attorney …”

“I
did
call your attorney. He’s in the Bahamas right now, and will be for the next week. I kinda figured you didn’t want a public defender, so I hid in the car until the cops left, then drove over here after a reasonable amount of time had passed, and here I am.”

“Here you are.” I lower my voice to an emphatic whisper. “Might I remind you that you’re not an attorney!”

“Relax,” she says, “relax. Before I left school, I was pre-law. I’ve taken a bunch of criminal justice and criminal procedure classes. I know what I’m doing. Besides, this case is so open-and-shut, you don’t need your expensive attorney. I can get you out of here. And just so you know, I didn’t tell them I was your attorney; I told them I’m your legal advisor, which I am. I couldn’t represent you in court, but I’m allowed to counsel you in this situation. So chill. I’ve got it covered.”

I’m stunned by how calm she is and how reasonable her explanation sounds. If it’s an act, it’s a hell of a good one. “You really know what you’re doing?” I ask her.

“Completely.”

I pause in acceptance of her aid. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I say quietly.

“I’m glad you’re okay too. That explosion was scary. And kinda cool. But mostly scary.”

“I fucked up,” I say to her. “I couldn’t save him.”

“You tried. That’s what matters. You tried to save him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

At this inopportune moment, Detective Fogle returns with the typed witness statement and hands it to Rebecca. She thanks him and begins reading. Though she tries hard to keep a poker face, I know her body language well enough to know by now that this document is good news for us. She finishes reading and looks over at Fogle, who is still standing opposite us on his side of the table.

“This is it?” she asks. “This is all?”

“You can see that the witness was on the same block, and swore that he saw Mr. Shays having a heated argument with Jeffrey Casner, then running away from the vehicle right before it exploded.”

“What I’m missing here, Detective, is the substance of that argument. Nowhere in this report does the witness state what was said by either Mr. Shays or Mr. Casner.”

Fogle looks less than pleased at this. “Yeah, I asked about that. He was too far away to hear what was said.”

“And you’re accepting this as a valid witness statement?”

“Absent any other eyewitnesses with information to the contrary, he’s what we have. He saw the exchange. He saw Mr. Shays running from the scene before the car blew up.”

“Which would be consistent with Mr. Shays’s statement,” Rebecca says, “that he was warning Jeffrey Casner
not
to get into his car. He knew that someone had planted an explosive device, and he was acting as a Samaritan to try to save Casner’s life.”

“Then how did he know about the bomb?” Fogle asks her. “Knowledge suggests complicity. An accessory before the fact.”

“His knowledge of the circumstances is not key to the chain of evidence,” she argues. “Where’s the means? Where’s the motive? My client will swear under oath that he had no prior relationship with Jeffrey Casner before tonight, eliminating any suggestion of motive.”

“You know, I’m right here,” I remind them both. “You might consider asking me some of these questions.”

Fogle nods a little. “All right, Mr. Shays. As you said, you’re right here. Let’s assume for a moment that you didn’t plant that bomb.”

“Great,” I say, “can I go?”

That elicits a little laugh from him. “Humor me. Stick around. If you didn’t plant it and you aren’t working with the people who did, how did you know it was there?”

I look at him, then at Rebecca. She less-than-discreetly makes a head gesture that screams
tell him,
and I have to agree that I don’t have much choice.

“For the past two years, I have been gifted with foreknowledge of some events,” I tell him. “And with that foreknowledge comes an obligation to prevent certain tragedies from happening. One of those tragedies was the murder of Jeffrey Casner. I learned about it early this afternoon, and I hurried here to try to stop it from happening. I got here just in time to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen to my warning, and he got in the car anyway. The heated argument we had was him telling me he didn’t want to listen to my warning. I was running away from there because I knew I’d failed, and I was trying to get to safety.”

There is a long pause as he takes this in, which doesn’t bode well for me. The look on his face is pure disbelief, and after a few seconds, his words confirm it. “That’s it?” he says. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

Rebecca tries to stop him. “Detective …”

“Let him talk,” I say quietly. “It’s all right.”

Fogle continues. “I was ready to listen to a lot of possibilities. Alibis, explanations, maybe a suggestion of who did this. But that?” He exhales while shaking his head. “So you’re what? You’re psychic now, is that it?”

“In a sense, yes,” I answer. “I’m not a fortune teller or anything like that. I just have to do this, and I don’t know why.”

He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know what to do with you, Mr. Shays. You seem like a good guy. I’d really like to believe that you’re some kind of … I dunno, guardian angel, maybe. I want to believe that you were there on that street to save Casner’s life. But then I look at the evidence. I have you at the scene, seconds before the explosion, arguing with Casner. I have you running away from the scene. I have the fact that Casner wasn’t even supposed to be in Atlanta tonight, but he canceled his trip to Florida at the last minute, and nobody knows why.”

“He did?” I ask.

“That’s right. He was supposed to be in the Keys, fishing, but for some reason, he stayed in Atlanta.”

Rebecca and I exchange a meaningful glance.
The Days Inn—the room cancellation by the man from Atlanta. Could it be him?