“Dawn’s arranging a proper attorney in case I can’t resolve this quickly. We’ll figure that out, don’t worry.”
“You think I might be stuck in here.”
“I’m not saying that. She’s just being cautious. Now we need you to be, too.”
“There’s a big dude in holding I made friends with,” Marcus said. “He’s sort of mixed up but he’s looking out for me, I think.”
“Uh huh. Don’t trust him. Don’t trust anyone in here. Keep your head down and your back to the wall. Mind your business until I can find something that might spring you. Can you do that?”
Marcus shrugged. “I ain’t got much choice.”
Bob rose and pressed the buzzer. “Okay then.” He put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder and leaned in. “Remember what I told you in DC: I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Okay?”
Marcus nodded and tried to smile, but Bob knew the kid had to be terrified.
The door opened and the officer stepped inside. “All done?”
“For now,” Bob said. “The arresting officers—I’d like to speak with them.”
“Uh huh. Well, as you no doubt know, those arrangements have to be made through Sgt. Dyche.”
“The charming fellow taking bookings?”
“One and the same.”
“Then let’s go have a word.”
6
Sgt. Dyche looked up for a split second as Bob returned to the atrium, then went back to the newspaper on the counter.
“How’d it go, counsellor?”
“Fine. I take it you’ll want to question him with me present.”
Dyche shrugged. “I do not believe so, no, sir. Arresting officers have an open-and-shut case from their perspective, and video camera footage from the alley showing no one else left it before your client entered.”
He reached under the counter and withdrew a brown manila envelope. “I assume you want the police report from the arresting officer. It’s here, along with stills from the security camera footage.”
Dyche tossed it onto the counter. Bob picked it up and undid the string holding its flap closed. “And the arresting officer himself?”
They found Officer Jeb Fowler in the station parking lot, leaning against his Ford Crown Victoria cruiser, smoking a cigarette. He was short and skinny, with straw-blonde hair, spindly arms and a pencil-thin moustache under green-tinted Aviator-style sunglasses.
He was about as undersized a cop as Bob had ever seen.
Dyche introduced them.
“Mr. Richmond, this gentleman—who was just butting out that already lit cigarette he found on department property—is Officer Jebediah Fowler of the Patrol Unit. He and his partner, Officer David Czernowitz, picked up your client at the scene.”
“Sarge,” Fowler said, stepping on the cigarette butt. He tipped back his Montana peak Stetson slightly. “Mr. Richmond. I hope our fair city is treating you kindly.”
Bob didn’t want to waste time on niceties. “Your sergeant showed me the official report on our way out here. It’s only fourteen lines long. For an alleged homicide scene.”
“Uh huh. Stand by every word,” Fowler said. “And will do so again in court when the DA convicts him.”
“I’ll just leave you two to it,” Sgt. Dyche said, before turning and heading back towards the building.
“So… you’re claiming he had the gun on him.”
“Uh huh, right there in his jacket pocket.”
“On the left side, I take it, since he’s left-handed. Your fourteen-line report did not specify.”
“Uh huh, yeah, the left.”
“You’re sure.”
“As I’m standing here.”
“Marcus isn’t left-handed. Why would he fire a gun and then put it in the left-hand pocket?”
Fowler’s smarmy demeanor evaporated. “You think that’s real smart, don’t you, counsellor?”
“Well, now… if you fellas are allowed to lie to get information from people, I figure that’s just fair game. Can you answer the question?”
“Maybe because his wallet was in his right-hand pocket, leaving little extra room for a large pistol. Or maybe…” He took a couple of steps closer, until he was looking up at Bob’s chin. “Maybe he’s just a wrong ‘un, the kind who does unpredictable, wild things. We…” he sniffed, “… we looked him up, you know, your client. He’s got a past.”
Hickory Hills. Newspaper stories about his parents’ “murder-suicide”, cover for a CIA cleanup. That had to be it, Bob knew.
