Hollow Man (23 page)

Time stopped. I felt people watching me, the guys in the taco truck, the cops, and, of course,
her
. I stood, slowly, and moved away from the picnic table. I looked at Detective Ledsome and let a measure of bemusement drift into my eyes.

“I don't understand,” I said. “You're joking, right?” But I didn't know her well enough for practical jokes.

“No. We really do need to talk.”

I felt a hand take mine, and I looked down into those soft, brown eyes and saw fear. “It's fine, don't worry,” I said.

“Capital murder?” she whispered.

“I promise,” my voice was warm, unconcerned, “everything's fine. It's an investigation I'm helping them with.” I turned to Ledsome. “Okay. So let's talk, we can go over—”

“Not here. The police station.”

“Seriously?”

“Our little talk needs to be on tape.”

“Why?”

“For the record. So when the prosecutor handling the case gets the file, everything is aboveboard and by the book. Same as we do for all witnesses and suspects.”

“Which one am I?”

She didn't respond, just walked to the passenger side of her car and opened the door. “You can ride up front with me,” Ledsome said.

I let go of the comforting hand that was gripping me and walked toward the car. I got in without saying anything, and Ledsome slammed the door a little too hard once I was in. As a reminder of my situation, the car rocked when the two burly detectives climbed into the backseat. Ledsome slid behind the wheel and locked the doors. She waited for me to buckle up before she put on her own seat belt.

As we bumped out of the parking lot, I looked at her profile and decided how I was going to play this. “Look, Megan, I didn't want to make a scene back there, frighten my girlfriend, but what the fuck is going on? You're acting like I'm a fucking suspect and I don't appreciate it.”

“Your girlfriend, huh?”

“Seriously, I want to know what's going on.”

Her voice softened and she glanced over as she spoke. “I know. But hang tight until we get to the station. I really do have to do this by the book, have the video camera capture everything.”

“Fine, but tell me one thing. Do you seriously think I had anything to do with this?”

“That, Dominic, is what we're going to talk about.”

When an innocent man is accused of a crime, his first reaction is outrage. If that doesn't work, he calms down and tries to explain why it's all a mistake. If the accusations persist, and graduate to chats at the police station, he starts to worry that maybe a series of unfortunate coincidences points to his guilt, and that he may not be able to make the cops understand that they are, in fact, just coincidences.

When a guilty man is accused of a crime, he often confesses. A combination of guilty conscience and a sense of inevitability, especially if he's in a police car, come together to crush any resistance and bring forth a confession. Alternatively, a guilty man will lawyer up, demonstrating that he's been through the system enough to know he can't trust his own mouth and won't help himself by talking. Sometimes, a guilty man will try to lie his way out of trouble, getting
increasingly nervous and more fidgety the more his lies don't stick. The police are used to this, and if he keeps lying he'll be caught out and, eventually, confess.

When someone like me is accused of a crime, whether he's guilty or innocent, he'll lie. But he won't get nervous, and, because he's been lying his whole life, chances are they'll be good lies and they'll stick. This depends on the sociopath being smart, of course, there's always that caveat. Stupid men tell stupid lies, there's no way around that. But smart or not, a sociopath has no guilty conscience to provoke a confession.

So I sat there quietly for the ride, waiting to see what they had. I wasn't under arrest, which was a pretty damn good start, and despite the serious faces and muscular cops literally breathing down my neck, I knew I was free to leave. I couldn't do that, though, because if they thought I knew something and declined to help them, I'd be fired in a heartbeat. And if they knew that I knew something, they'd probably arrest me on the spot if I refused to cooperate. At the very least, they'd have me suspended without pay, which would be great for guitar practice, less great for paying the rent.

At the police station, Ledsome took me into one of the small interview rooms that I'd seen a thousand times on video tape. It smelled of stale body odor and some form of cheap cleaning solvent. She acted like she was used to the smell, didn't even wrinkle her nose. There were four of these rooms and each one had a camera high in the corner, and it was from that perspective I'd watched and listened to dozens and dozens of interviews with suspects and witnesses. Mostly suspects.

“I need to go to the control room and turn the camera on,” she said. “Need anything? Coffee? Water?”

“No.” I sat at the small, round table. “I'm fine.”

“Be right back.” The door swung closed with a whoosh, locking itself automatically. I'd been told this was an intentional design feature so the cops didn't have to manually lock the door
when they left the room. That, the theory went, would undermine their attempts to play nice guy, appear all trusting and understanding.

She was gone a long time, but I'd expected that. Another one of their little tricks to soften up their suspect, if that's what I was. I checked my watch and realized I hadn't told anyone at work I'd be out.

Then I wondered if they already knew.

Ledsome came back after twenty minutes with a can of Diet Coke and a note pad. She sat opposite me and made a big show of settling in, which is tough for a petite lady. She gave the date and time aloud, looking at her watch, and said our names clearly for the camera. Then she said, “Dominic, I want to confirm that you are here voluntarily and know that you are in no way obligated to speak with me, and that you are free to leave at any time.”

“Apart from the locked door, you mean.”

That seemed to fluster her a little because she shouldn't have let it close on me before. Doing so meant I was detained against my will, which undermined this new statement that I was free to leave. And, as I knew and she might have been figuring out, if she ever wanted to use my statement against me, that could be a problem.

“I apologize for that,” she said, “I didn't mean to close the door. You are free to leave now, if you like.”

“No, it's fine. Although the door is closed again.”

“Thank you. We appreciate your cooperation, and the door is closed purely for privacy. I can open it for you at any time.” She looked up at me when I didn't respond. “Right, then, shall we start?”

“I'm just wondering if we should begin by letting people at my office know I'm here.”

“No, actually. We'd rather not.”

“You don't want anyone to know I'm here?”

“Not yet.”

“I am really not understanding any of this.”

“Dominic, I'm going to level with you. And the chances are, you're going to be mad at me and that's fine. But please remember
that we have two dead people, two families who lost loved ones, and all I'm trying to do is get the guys who killed them.”

“And sometimes you have to fuck with people to do that.”

She cocked her head. “Yes, something like that. Just out of interest, how do you know I'm fucking with you?”

Wishful thinking.
“Because you don't interview a suspect and start with an apology for making them mad. You do that to a witness you've lied to about something.”

“Very astute.” She took a deep breath. “I'll start with the minor deception and explain why after. First, no need to tell your boss you're here; she knows.”

“Maureen?”

“Yes. In fact, I had her switch out with you yesterday, for the raid on Otto Bland's house, on purpose.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted you there when we arrested him. I wanted to see your reaction, and his reaction.” She grimaced. “I guess I got to see yours, after all.”

“Go on.”

“That call, the phone tip about the gun. It wasn't just the location of the gun that we got. The caller gave us a make, model, and license plate for the car that drove out of the trailer park minutes after the shooting.”

“It wasn't my car.”

“No, it wasn't. It was your roommate's.” She was staring at me intently, watching for any and every reaction. Just like she must have been doing at Otto's.

I let my mouth fall open, but snapped it shut when I thought maybe I was overdoing it. “You're fucking kidding me. Tristan?”

“Tristan Bell.”

“That's not possible. It's…it's ridiculous.” I looked up quickly. “Unless you mean someone stole his car…but he'd have said something to me.”

“No one stole his car. He also fits the vague description we got from the caller.”

“Who's the caller? Can he ID him in a lineup?”

“We don't know who it is. A woman. She called from a gas-station pay phone not far from the trailer park, so that backs up her claim that she lives there.”

“You sure she wasn't involved?” I asked. “I mean, she's giving you a shitload of information. The gun, the license plate, the description.”

“I guess it's possible, but if she's involved, why give us the gun?”

“Good point.”

“Plus, she sounded scared, which also fits the way things go out there.”

“Snitches get stitches, and all that.”

“Right.”

“So why the games with me?” She didn't respond, just stared until it sank in. “You thought I was involved, didn't you?”

“Not really. I mean, no. For one thing, the caller said there was only one person in the car.”

Thank God for nighttime and poor people who can't afford glasses.
“Then why give me the runaround?”

“This is a capital-murder case, Dom. We had to be sure.”

“And are you?”

“Yes. We checked with your neighbor, and he gave you an alibi.”

I frowned. “I didn't see my neighbor that night.”

She smirked. “No, and he didn't see you. But he heard you. You and your girlfriend.” She turned her face so the video camera wouldn't catch the wink she gave me. “And she seems so demure and sweet.”

I liked the way this conversation was going, so I let the humor out of the bag. “Yeah, well, it's always the quiet ones, Detective. You seem jolly quiet yourself.”

“We'll need a statement from your girlfriend confirming she was with you, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Without the sound effects.” She suppressed a smile and cleared her throat. “Anyway, I need to know if you saw Mr. Bell that evening. If you saw him in the apartment, or if you noticed him leaving.”

“I didn't. No, none of that. I was in my room the whole evening.”

“So you can't say he was there, and you can't say he wasn't.”

“Correct.”

“Do you have any information about Bell that might help us? Has he been flashing cash or anything?”

“I don't think so, no. Nothing like that.”

“Think about it and let me know if something occurs to you.”

“Sure.”

She sat very still for a moment, her eyes on her pad, like she was wondering what to say next. “There's one other thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, and I'm hesitant to tell you, but I kinda have to. Again, let me finish before you say anything.”

“I'm intrigued.”

“How well do you know Bell?”

“Not very. He keeps to himself and we don't hang out together or anything. Now I'm in juvie, I rarely see him at work as he's usually downtown.”

“He may not be the mild-mannered computer geek you think.” I raised an eyebrow and she continued. “We took a little look-see on his work computer. It's county property, so we didn't need a warrant or anything, and we saw he'd been on your computer.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, a couple of times. Looks like he connected remotely, which made tracking his activity harder, but from what we can see, he was searching that trailer park on your computer. And then deleted the searches.”

“On my computer?”

“Yes. Dominic, we have reason to think that he killed those two men with Otto Bland as part of a robbery. And now he's trying to frame you.”

Detective Ledsome stood and said, “I don't think we need the camera for this bit.” She left the room, letting the door sweep shut again. I didn't know if it was intentional, but for the first time she had truly thrown me, because I had no idea what she was about to say. She was back in under a minute. She sat, put her pen down on top of her pad, and looked me in the eye. “We don't think you're in any danger. It just seems like he might be laying a few crumbs to turn suspicion on you.”

I shook my head. “On me?”

“Yes. He's smart, very smart—and if he really killed those men, then he's also ruthless.”

“I can't believe this,” I said. “I mean, that he would be involved in something like this, and then that he'd try and frame me.”

“I know, it's hard to grasp. But we have a good motive for the crime. He has a gambling addiction, and he's even used his work computer to place bets, which tells you how bad it is.”

“So the murders, they were about robbery?”

“Right. Like I told you, Ambrosio Silva was a landlord who carried a lot of cash at the end of the month. Somehow Bell found out and robbed him.”

“How would he know about that?”

“We aren't sure, but probably through Otto Bland.”

“So three people are dead over money.”

“The oldest motive in the book. And, by the way, another
reason we can exclude you. As far as we know, you've no gambling problems, debts, or drug addictions. In fact, I'm told you don't even drink.”

“Wow, you really are thorough.”

“Although…” She cocked her head. “You told me you went to Otto's and had a beer with him.”

“Sorry, I was speaking figuratively. He had the beer, I had a Diet Coke.” I cursed myself for being so loose with language, and suddenly wondered if they'd checked for empty soda cans. “Hang on, I don't think he had any. Now that I think about it, I just had water. Sorry to be so imprecise, I know little things like that matter.”

“That's okay, we did check for cans and bottles to see if anyone else had been with him. Didn't see anything like that.”

“As I said, impressively thorough.”

“This is capital murder. We get real thorough for those.”

“What else do you know about me?”

“Not much. You're good at your job, you're fair, and people like you. Oh, and I'm told you play guitar a little.”

“A little?”

“Never heard you play, so I can't really judge, can I?”

“You could take my word for it.” I gave her a little smile. “Or you could come watch me play.”

“Maybe, after the case is closed, and if your girlfriend doesn't mind.”

My mind went immediately to the Norman Pub and my permanent ban. I'd been so distracted, so consumed with getting away with double murder, that I'd not tried to get gigs elsewhere. As a result, I had no clue whether my name was mud in the Austin music scene. I had gotten as far as finding out who screwed me over, but I didn't know how bad the damage was. If it stopped me from sleeping with Detective Ledsome, it was very bad indeed.

“Yeah, that'd be nice. I don't think she'd mind at all—it's not like we're steady or anything.” I looked up. “Don't you have a husband?”

She shrugged. “We don't do everything together.”

“Then come hear me play; it'll be fun.”

“It'll have to wait until the case is closed, now that you're a witness.”

“Right, sure. About that, are you going to arrest him?”

“We're watching him right now. I want to get a few more things in place, then we'll draft the arrest affidavit. A couple of days, no more. We don't think he's a danger to anyone else, and since we're watching him, we'll know if he tries to run.”

“This is crazy,” I said. “You really think he's trying to frame me for this?” The idea that Tristan was smart enough to pin the crime on me was patently ridiculous, not something I'd ever consider or accept. But I wasn't averse to the police buying the theory.

“We do. I know it's bizarre but it's a fine way to get away with a crime.”

“Yeah, sure, but the guy's a dork, not a double-murderer.”

“People get desperate when they run out of money. Remember, he's not stealing just to pay off his debts, but also so he can keep gambling. It's an addiction and he'll do anything to support it.”

“Even kill?”

“It's quite likely it was a stickup that went wrong.”

“Maybe. And I guess he knew Otto through work.”

“Right.”

I shook my head slowly. “You think you know people.”

“I know. I'm sorry.” She reached over and put a hand on mine. “But please don't feel bad or beat yourself up. There are a lot of bad people out there, and they disguise themselves well. And I guess there are good people out there, people we know and like, who end up doing bad things. We see that all the time.”

“True.”

“If it makes you feel any better, like I said, they probably didn't go out there intending to hurt anyone, certainly not kill anyone. They were amateurs at this, and when things went wrong, they panicked
and started shooting. It's not like they're evil geniuses who planned it all, fooling you, me, and everyone else they know into thinking they're sweet, little angels.”

“I suppose not.”

She let go of my hand and sat back. “Are you able to stay out of your apartment for a couple of days?”

“And go where?”

“We just don't want you to give anything away while we wrap things up.” She gave me a sheepish grin. “We even thought about pretend-arresting you, to keep you out of harm's way and so that he'd think his plan was working.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. But you can thank your boss that didn't happen. She said you'd crap your pants.”

“Probably would have. I'm guessing the other inmates wouldn't be too happy sharing a cell with a prosecutor.”

“We'd have kept you in solitary, don't worry.”

“Splendid, much better.”

“So can you? Stay somewhere else?” She smirked. “Your girlfriend's place, maybe?”

“Maybe. Of course, thanks to you I'll have to explain that I didn't actually commit a double murder for a few hundred bucks.”

Her cell phone buzzed on her hip and she unclipped it. “Ledsome. Yeah, we're done. We'll be right there.” She hung up and smiled at me. “One more favor to ask.”

“Cavity search?”

“You wish. No, just a formality. The guys at the top of the food chain, they like to be sure we're satisfied internally when we rule out a potential suspect.”

“‘Satisfied internally.' What does that mean?”

“Like I said, it's another favor. So we can cross you off the list once and for all.”

“My fingerprints?”

“I guess technically it's two favors, now that you mention it.”

“You're welcome to my prints. What else?”

“We need you to take a polygraph exam.”

“A lie detector? Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“I don't know; those things aren't reliable. I mean, I want to help, of course, but you're kind of catching me by surprise here.”

“Up to you, but that was the examiner who called. He's here now, set up and waiting for you. As I tell people, if you've nothing to hide, you've nothing to fear. Am I right?”

Lie detectors weren't admissible in any courtroom in Texas, but that wasn't the point. The Austin Police Department used them for their own reasons—two of them. One was so detectives could satisfy themselves they were correctly ruling out a potential suspect. Peace of mind, you might say. The second reason was that even though the results weren't admissible, people had cracked under the stress of taking the test. Knowing their lies were found out, they simply confessed.

I myself had handled a case in which the defense lawyer insisted his client was innocent of a burglary. He believed his client so much that he offered to have him take a lie-detector test. Not agreed to, but offered to. Not only did his client fail the test, but the guy broke down and spilled his guts halfway through the exam. The defense lawyer, a nice-enough fellow, was highly embarrassed and, I suspect, didn't suggest polygraphs to his clients after that.

The science is questionable, but in theory it's pretty simple. It's supposed to measure bodily responses to stress, things like skin conductivity and heart rate, stuff people can't control and that will give them away.

Only, I don't suffer from stress, which means that I'll flatline a polygraph in all the right places.

The examiner used by Detective Ledsome was named Tony Bentley, and I don't know if it was on purpose, but they picked an Englishman. He looked like a small-town GP, red-cheeked, soft-bodied, and full of smiles. He pumped my hand and chattered merrily to himself as he wired me up. Ledsome wasn't allowed in the room to watch, but I was pretty sure there was a camera on somewhere.

Bentley began by asking my name, date of birth, and job title; then he moved on to current events. He asked these as his preliminary questions, simple ones with answers that were obviously true or false, to establish a baseline against which he could compare the important answers.

“Is Barack Obama the president of the United States?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who won the Super Bowl last year?”

“No.”

“Is the Pope a Roman Catholic?”

“Yes. And a bear shits in the woods.”

“Sir, please just answer my questions.”

“Sorry, I was anticipating. Go on.”

“Were you born in England?”

“Yes.”

“Were you involved in a murder-robbery two weeks ago?”

“No.”

“Do you know Tristan Bell?”

“Yes.”

“Was he involved in the murder-robbery two weeks ago?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you currently work in the juvenile division of the district attorney's office?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever shot anyone?”

“No.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No.”

“Are you in any way familiar with a man by the name of Ambrosio Silva?”

“No.”

“Are you in any way familiar with a man by the name of Dave Gass?”

The security guard?
“No.”

Bentley picked up a list of questions written by, I assumed, Detective Ledsome and worked them in. The whole thing took twenty-five minutes, and when we were done, he left me there, hooked up, while he consulted with Ledsome.

They both appeared about five minutes later and Bentley, wordlessly, unhooked me. When he was done, he stuck out a hand.

“Jolly good show. Thanks for the cooperation.”

“Most welcome,” I said.

“You need a ride to your girlfriend's house?” Ledsome asked. “You know where she lives?”

“Yeah, I know where she lives.” I stood and stretched my back. “Cute little cottage on the wrong side of the tracks.”

“You want a ride there, or to your car?”

“My car, but I need to go home to get some stuff first.”

She shook her head. “That's not a good idea.”

I moved out into the hallway and Ledsome stepped out with me. I leaned against the wall, as close to her as I dared. “Why not? Cos the big, bad Tristan is there?”

“He killed two people.”

“Probably just one, if we're getting technical.”

“That makes a difference to you?”

“Been living with him for a couple of months now. He's not killed me yet.”

“No, he's got your best interests at heart. He's merely setting you up to take the fall for his ‘just one' murder.”

“If he is, then all the more reason he won't kill me. A dead patsy isn't much of a patsy.”

“Maybe. And then his patsy shows up acting weird and gathering his belongings, looking nervously out the window for the cops.”

“None of which I'll do,” I said. “Look, it'll take me five minutes. I'll shove some stuff in a bag and be out of there before you know it.”

“And tell him what?”