Lie in Wait (14 page)

 

Chapter 29

A
TV
NEWS
van was parked across the street from the Canaan Police Station when North arrived. Word got out fast on the scanners.

The Canaan Police station was nearly an hour closer than the state police barracks, so North had called in ahead to inform them he'd be bringing in a suspect for interrogation. Some detectives believed letting a suspect stew made them nervous, and there was a logic to that. But North was of the mind that the quicker he got the questioning started the less time the suspect had to formulate a story of lies.

North pulled the cruiser around to the back entrance.

Two reporters climbed out of their van and chased after the car on foot. North braked and threw the transmission into park. The cruiser's front end rocked.

“C'mon,” he said. He hauled Brad from the backseat, mindful of the boy's head, and

led him to the station. The reporters appeared around the far corner of the building at a clip, one clutching a microphone, the other holding a video camera.

“Vampires,” North mumbled.

Inside the station, North nodded at the nighttime dispatcher and hustled Brad down the hallway.

In what served as the booking room, North sat Brad down and took out a fingerprint blotter and a card.

He unlocked one of Brad's handcuffs and sat back down across from Brad.

“Let's see the hands,” he said.

“Are you
arresting
me?” Brad's eyes were wide with panic.

“We'll see. For now, they're for comparison.”

“To what?”

“To those left in the Merryfields' house.”

The color left Brad's face. “I haven't done anything.”

That's why you just jumped out a window in bare feet
, North thought.

“My arm is killing me,” Brad said upon finishing with the fingerprints.

The forearm did look nasty: swollen and purpled. But North doubted it was broken. Either way, it'd wait.

“A broken arm is the least of your worries,” North said.

Brad said nothing, simmering.

So
, North thought,
this was the arm that threw all those touchdowns
. The one that might have been worth a great deal of money. It did not look any different from any other boy's arm.

North gave Brad a paper towel and a handi-­wipe to clean his fingers. Then he cuffed him again and led him down to the holding room. A modest rectangular wood table sat in the center of it, two chairs on either side of it.

“Sit,” North said. He gave Brad a small shove. “And decide that what you're going say is going to be the truth.”

Brad rolled his eyes and slumped into the chair facing the door. “Where's my dad?”

North left the room, shutting and locking the door behind him.

He strode down the hall to see about a cup of coffee. He needed something to keep him awake. He felt like death, his brain quagmired, exhaustion climbing into his bones. The clock on the break room's microwave showed 1:12. Tomorrow—­no, make that later today, in about seven hours—­Loretta had to take her mother in for a treatment, and North wanted to be there to support her. The treatments made for a grueling ordeal. His mother-­in-­law was so infirm that even with a visiting nurse helping Loretta and North, it took nearly two hours simply to help her from bed and get her sponge bathed and dressed in the morning. The heightened patience and tenderness needed ate at Loretta's emotions and left her done-­in and melancholic. North hoped he would have some energy left after the interrogation to be of use to his wife.

I
N THE MEAGER
break room he poured the dregs of coffee into a paper cup, heated it in the microwave.

A hollering came from the hallway: “Where's my son!?”

Victor Jenkins thundered past the break room and down the hallway. North slugged down his coffee and jogged after Jenkins, caught him by the arm.

“Where's my son?” Victor said, wheeling on North.

“You can't see him now.”

“I can see my son if I damn well want.”

“No. You can't. Don't make it worse.”

“My son did not kill that girl. He didn't even know her.”

“We need questions answered.”

“What questions?”

“Why he smashed out a window and slid down the roof, for starters.”

“Cops come knocking for me, I might do the same.”

“We didn't come knocking for him.”

Victor wiped spit from his mouth. “I don't want him saying a word till I get him a lawyer.”

“If he's innocent as you say, it won't hurt him to talk, now will it?”

Victor took hold of North's sleeve. “If you think—­”

“Let go of me, Victor. I won't ask twice.”

Victor let him go.

“Now. Go plant yourself in a seat in the lobby. I'll come back out in a bit, talk to you. I promise. OK. If your son has no link to the girl this will be over quickly and you can be on your way after a routine questioning, and I will formally apologize for the disruption. He has not been charged. We only want to ask him some questions. Like you said, he has nothing to do with it. Fine. He'll be out in no time. But we need his help as a citizen. We'd never have cuffed him if he hadn't tried to flee. Please. Go sit.”

“This'll all clear itself up,” Victor muttered. “You'll see.”

 

Chapter 30

T
EST SAT ON
the edge of a La-­Z-­Boy recliner.

Fran Jenkins sat before Test on a velveteen hassock, her knees pressed against each other, a gin and tonic balanced atop them. She fingered the crucifix hanging from a chain around her neck as she stared at the wall, bare save for a picture of Brad in a football uniform, his arm cocked back for a throw.

“I don't care for sports,” Fran whispered. “I'm just not a competitive person.” She took a drink of the gin and tonic, smacking her lips. She'd looked through all the kitchen cabinets before finding a dusty bottle of Gordon's in a hall closet. Test gathered she wasn't used to drinking any more than she was used to her son being hauled from home to be questioned for murder.

“Never have cared for sports.” Fran drank.

“If you could look at me ma'am,” Test said.

The woman continued to stare at the wall. “Victor said he liked that in me,” she mumbled. “Attracted him to me; a girl who didn't care a lick whether he used to be a great football player and no longer was one. That was it. That I didn't care; though I knew it wounded him gravely that he could no longer use his God-­given talent. He saw himself as a washed-­up failure.
Just a high school coach,
he used to say. Still says, when he's depressed. He was depressed for a long time.”

Test could smell the gin. She decided she'd let the woman say what she needed to say before pushing her. Already, Test was formulating a sense of the marriage.

­“People talked about Victor having been a bachelor for so long. ­People can be cruel,” Fran said. “I know. I worked in the school cafeteria for years. The lunch lady. No punch line like the lunch lady.”

Test nodded.

­“People can be good too,” Fran said. “Overall, ­people are good. Decent. My husband is. His father. Now there was a cruel man. If you knew what I knew.”

What was it she knew? Test wondered. “Mrs. Jenkins,” she said. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Fran Jenkins sipped her drink. The ice had started to melt, the glass sweating. She sat erect to face Test. Her pupils were dilated. “My son did not do it. I don't know why I should sit here and speak to someone who believes he did.”

“I don't believe anything. I'm only going on what we have.”

“What do you have?”

Test hesitated. She did not want to divulge evidence against Brad to his mother. But, she sensed she'd get nothing from Fran if she did not at least appear forthcoming. The more casual Test's tone, the less Fran would grasp the seriousness of Brad's situation. Test needed Fran to open up, not to go silent.

“We only want to speak to Brad because he knew Jessica. He may have been involved with Jessica. She was underage.” If they'd had sex, as the e-­mails had indicated, it amounted to statutory rape. “But, you know.” Test shrugged, boys will be boys. “Brad's a good-­looking, beloved kid, and he's young too. It's just. He's of age. And she wasn't.”

“You don't exactly strike me as the type who waited till she was of age,” Fran said and cocked her head, judgmental and condescending, her sudden, acidic tone surprising Test. “Somehow, I doubt the boy was as young as you, either. Was he a senior? Or maybe a college boy? You know how many underage girls tempt popular boys like Brad? Throw themselves at him? Test him? Then society blames the boy.”

Test had read Fran wrong. She was neither meek nor spacey. She was clever. Calculated. Spiteful. Test regretted the easy tone she'd granted her. It had given Fran license to think less of Test's authority.

“If you think you're insulting me,” Test said, “you are mistaken. Far worse things have been said to me. Done to me. But you're not just wasting my time and yours. You're wasting your son's. If you can help him, if you can tell me anything to help me help him, do it now.”

Fran twirled a finger in her glass, held Test's gaze.

“I won't say anything you can twist against him to scapegoat some hussy and—­”

“I'm not here to get
more
evidence against your son,” Test said. “We have more than enough already, frankly. Your son will be charged with murder. There is nothing you can do.”

“Then what are you here for? To
help
me? To play good Samaritan?”

“I'm here to do my job. If you have anything to say that can help Brad, now is the time. Can you provide an alibi for him?”

Fran ran a finger round the rim of her glass.

“Were you home last night, between six and seven thirty?” Test said.

“No.”

“Where were you?”

“You already know where I was.”

“I'd like to hear it from you.”

“Attending a meeting.”

“What meeting?”

“I don't see how it's important.”

“What meeting?”

“Family Matters.”

“Which is?”

“Families, parents, who believe marriage is between a man and a woman, that
parents
means a father and a mother who believe in tradition and the right for our kids to go to school free of having to be forced to endure a homosexual agenda. Parents who believe in God.”

“And what time did the meeting take place?”

“Five thirty till nine. You know all this.” She took a good belt of her drink now.

“Was your husband with you?”

“I told you. Yes.”

“And you have witnesses to this?”

“Certainly.”

“That he was there, the
entire
time?”

Fran set her drink down on the coffee table.

“Mrs. Jenkins,” Test said. “Was your husband with you the entire time?”

Fran fidgeted with her necklace.

“I take it he wasn't.”

Fran exhaled. “No.” She set her hand on her drink, but did not pick it up.

“When did he leave?” Test said.

“About six.”

“Why?”

“I don't see what this has to do with anything. He has witnesses, an alibi, if that is what you are after.”

“Who?”

“Jed King.”

King again. Test wondered if Brad knew King. And if so, how well. What he might be willing to do for the man.

“Why was he at King's place?” Test asked.

“To spread the word. Distribute signs.”

Distribute signs
, Test mused. Plant them to antagonize. Test doubted Jon Merryfield had requested one of those ugly signs be put in his yard.

“Was your husband home when you got in?” Test said.

“No.”

“And what time did you get in?”

“Nine fifteen or so.”

“What time did your husband come in?”

“I was asleep. You'd have to ask him.”

“And Brad? Was he home when you got in?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure?”

“I would not lie for my son over something like this. You're not a mother, are you?”

Test gave no indication either way. Fran had misread Test and Test would play it to her advantage, if possible.

“So Brad—­” Test said.

“What are you, mid thirties?” Fran said.

“Brad was here?” Test said, ignoring Fran's attempt at diversion.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Upstairs. In his bedroom.”

“Did you speak to him?” Test asked.

“No.”

“You saw him?”

“No.”

“I see.”

“No you don't
see.
”

“You never saw him?”

“I heard him.”

“You spoke to him?”

“I heard his television,” Fran said and stared at her empty glass. She wanted another drink, now that she'd started.

“How do you know he was in there when you didn't speak to him and you didn't see him?”

“I knew.”

“I see.”

“You don't.”

“What about earlier in the day?”

“What about it?”

“Was his behavior normal?”

Fran drew her lips tight. “He ate a big early dinner since I was going to an early meeting. I wanted him to come. I've tried to get him to go. Practically begged. I thought I'd even convinced him to go to this one. It'd be good for him. But he insisted he had to study his playbook for this weekend's game.”

“What'd he have for dinner?”

“I don't see how—­”

“What'd he have?”

“Chicken potpie, milk and chocolate cake. His favorites.” Her lips pursed.

“Did he speak to anyone on the phone before you left?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did he go out?”

“Not before I left.”

“When was that?”

“I left to go see how the plumbing was coming in my shop at four thirty.”

“Shop?” This information surprised her.

“Petal Pushers.”

“The florist?”

“I took it over last month.”

“I love that place,” Test lied. She knew of it but had never stepped foot in it. She was allergic to the pollen of most flowers, roses in particular. And if she was going to buy them for someone, she picked them up at the grocery store. As much as she supported the local economy, she couldn't justify paying three times as much at the local florist for identical flowers.

“I wanted to own a flower shop when I was a girl.” Test lied again, and almost got a smile from Fran. “So you never saw your son after he went to his room following dinner?”

“I heard him.”

“You heard his television.”

“He did not kill that girl.”

“Even if you heard his television. This was at nine o'clock. You can't give him an alibi from six thirty to seven thirty.” Test stopped short of saying
the time of the murder
.

“He didn't kill that girl.”

“And you went to bed?”

“I was tired.”

Test closed her notepad and stood.

Fran stayed seated, her knees pressed together, shoulders caved. She looked like a child. She stared at the photo of her son on the wall. She clutched the neck of her robe tightly. “He did not do it. That's the truth.”

Test considered Fran. The corners of her eyes were deeply wrinkled. Her cheeks sagged. Her auburn hair sprouted from gray roots, and though she was tiny, her body still carried the softness of women who never fully rebound from pregnancy.

“Thank you,” Test said.

Fran stared into her empty glass, as if she were wondering where the melted ice had mysteriously gone.

Test stepped toward the door, stopped and turned.

“How do you know your son didn't do it?”

“Because he said he didn't.”