Deception

by Randy Alcorn

  “Finally sinking in, boy?” Manny turned back toward me. “You don’t know where you were at the time of the murder, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Instead of withholding evidence and treating us like we’re killers, you should be turning yourself in.” Manny thumped me on the chest again with the knuckles of his closed fist. Hard.

  “You need to calm down.” Clarence stepped between us.

  “Stay out of this, boy,” Manny said.

  Before I knew what was happening, Clarence bear-hugged Manny and squeezed him like a bagpipe. Manny’s wiry, athletic, and quick. But Abernathy had him in a death grip. Manny kicked and grunted, but his feet were eighteen inches off the ground, and all he was getting was Clarence’s shins. He was a Jack Russell wrestling a Rottweiler.

  “Let him go,” I said.

  Then I saw something in Clarence’s eyes that scared me. I heard a sickening crunch. I pulled my Glock and pointed it at Clarence’s forehead.

  “I mean it, Abernathy. Let him go.”

  Clarence’s eyes were wild one moment and tame the next. He dropped Manny to the parking lot like a rag doll.

  Gun still in my right hand, I knelt by Manny. He was catching his breath and drenched with sweat. “You okay?”

  “Rib’s … broken.”

  “I’m … sorry,” Clarence said to me, from above.

  “You might want to tell Manny,” I said. “My ribs are still attached.”

  “Sorry,” Clarence said.

  Manny stood up, more quickly than he should have. I was trying to support him when he threw a hard punch that landed short of Abernathy’s chin, right on his left pectoral. Apparently the rib wouldn’t let him extend the punch, because it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Manny miss a punch.

  Clarence made no effort to retaliate. His usually straight neck was bent.

  “We’re not even yet,” Manny said. “But we’re gonna be, boy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Clarence said, dazed. “I shouldn’t have.”

  “Let’s get you to the hospital,” I said.

  “I’m fine,” Manny said, wheezing.

  “Either I drive you or I’m calling 911.”

  I tried to support Manny on one side with Clarence on the other, but it wasn’t working. His eyes were drooping now. I was trying to ease him to the ground when Clarence picked him up in his arms. Manny offered no resistance.

  I put my gun away and held my 1 button for 911.

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 19, 3:00 P.M.

  On the bright side, the fight between Clarence and Manny took the focus off my belonging on the suspect list. And lying about my alibi. And blacking out. And withholding self-incriminating evidence from the crime scene.

  If I wasn’t sure I was innocent, why should anyone else believe I was?

  Clarence and I sat in another emergency room, this one at Adventist Medical Center. It was my third trip to emergency in two weeks. Nice not being the patient for once.

  “I’m sorry,” Clarence said.

  “You’ve mentioned that,” I said. “Repeatedly. Manny had it coming. He always has it coming. But if we were to give everybody what they had coming, we’d all be in jail, wouldn’t we?”

  “I won’t blame him if he presses charges.”

  “Manny? An old street fighter like him? He won’t press charges. He handles things himself. How’s your insurance?”

  “Insurance?”

  “Health? Disability? Life? You might want to check it out. But the good news is, Manny hated your guts already. I doubt this is going to make it much worse.”

  “I’m a Christian. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve seen lots of Christians do what they shouldn’t.” I looked at him. “On the other hand, I’ve rarely heard them admit they were wrong. It’s refreshing.”

  “Daddy’d be ashamed of me.”

  “I got to know your daddy pretty well. He’s the main reason I’m willing to put up with you. But he was awfully proud of you. I think he’d be proud of you for admitting you’re wrong.”

  Something inside me, like a voice, suggested I should admit I’d been wrong about some things too. Fortunately, I could ignore it.

  A nurse came out. Her name tag said Angela Stiz. “You’re police officers, right? Manuel’s your friend?”

  I nodded, letting Clarence become an honorary police officer and honorary friend of Manny.

  “Dr. Nakamura sent me. He’s with another patient, but he’ll be out when he can. Your friend, Manuel … he’s got a broken rib with a contusion. Bruised lung but not punctured. He’s lucky. He says some wild man squeezed him. Probably a meth addict. When people are on meth, they do crazy things.”

  “We deal with lots of crazies,” I said.

  “We get our share in here too,” Angela confirmed.

  “Somebody’s got to protect the decent folk from the crazies,” I said. “Right, Officer Abernathy?”

  Clarence didn’t give me the satisfaction of looking my way.

  “The guy’s in jail, right?” Angela asked. “Off the streets?”

  “Well, he’s not on the streets,” I said. “Probably having a pleasant conversation with someone who doesn’t have a clue that he broke a cop’s rib while suffocating him. But he’ll be out on the streets again. I pity the people who’ll have to deal with him.”

  “Me too,” Angela said. “I wish there weren’t so many nutcases out there.”

  “He’s really going to be okay?” Clarence asked.

  “I think so. He’s a little cranky, but anybody would be after what he went through.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Usually Manny’s a sweetheart, but when you’re attacked so viciously, it can change you.”

  “Listen,” Nurse Angela said, “why don’t you go visit him, one at a time? Seeing his friends will cheer him up. You want to go first, Officer?” she said to Abernathy.

  “Yeah, you go first, Clarence,” I said. “That’ll make him feel better. You’ve always had a calming effect on Manny.”

  “Follow me,” she said.

  “Come on, Clarence. It’ll do him good. Do you have your Bible with you?” I looked at Nurse Angela. “He’s sort of a police chaplain. He can quote Scriptures about turning the other cheek and things like that. He’s like a big brother to Manny. Extremely big.”

  “If you don’t have your Bible, I can get you one,” she said, cheerfully.

  “No. Thanks.”

  “Tell you what,” I said. “We’ll give Manny a little more time before we see him. We’ll just be out here … praying for him.”

  “That’s nice,” she said. “He’s fortunate to have friends like you.”

  I sat there, feeling a warm smugness. After a minute of silence it still felt good.

  “What about you?” Clarence said.

  “What about me?”

  “You said it was refreshing to hear me admit I was wrong. What about you? You lied about your alibi? And the Black Jack wrapper had your prints on it? And you removed incriminating evidence from a crime scene?”

  “Okay, I lied, but it wasn’t a big lie. In Washington DC it would pass for the unvarnished truth. Senators would swear by it on their mothers’ graves.”

  “The great defender of justice rationalizes his injustice,” Clarence said. “Guess I’m not the only hypocrite, am I? You were really so drunk you don’t remember where you were?”

  “I don’t.”

  “That’s a serious problem,” Clarence said.

  “Yeah.”

  “So you’re not only a hypocrite, but you’re on the suspect list, aren’t you?”

  I no longer felt smug.

  30

  “While the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for example, never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but percentages remain constant.”

  SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE S
IGN OF FOUR

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 20

  CLARENCE AND I walked the streets on a beautiful Portland morning, sunny, crisp, and chilly. Christmas was on the signs, in the shops, on the trees, and in the air. A blue-jeaned, red-jacketed guitarist played “Silent Night.” I dropped a buck in his open guitar case. Call me a philanthropist. Me and Bill Gates. I don’t tire of Christmas.

  What I do tire of are the things that keep me from enjoying Christmas. Unsolved murders are among them. We were walking toward the parking garage to Clarence’s SUV, which had two bicycles in the back since I’d given in to Clarence’s badgering and agreed to go for a ride.

  Clarence drove across the Hawthorne Bridge and southeast to Johnson Creek, where we parked and got on the Springwater Corridor Trail.

  “Motive is everything,” I told Clarence between huffs and puffs as we rode our bikes toward Gresham. “If we find the motive, we have him … or her. And to find the motive, we have to learn what we can, not just about the professor but about each detective. That’s how we find out where they crossed paths, how the circles of their lives overlapped—where they came from, where they’ve traveled, common interests. And why a homicide detective would murder this guy.”

  I raised my hand, signaling him to slow down. My face was freezing even though I was dressed like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Sharon wouldn’t have let me out of the house.

  “You work with these detectives,” Clarence said. “Don’t you know them well enough?”

  “Everybody has things they don’t want other people to know. But I have a theory that’s proven pretty reliable. My theory is that most murderers can be understood by the kind of person they were in high school. Stop pedaling faster when I’m talking! Why are we doing this anyway?”

  “To get you in shape,” Clarence said, looking obnoxiously snazzy in his black Adidas sweat suit. “So far we’ve worked off maybe half a donut. Keep talking. I’m slowing down.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “when you look at a murderer and his type of murder, 90 percent of the time you see the seeds scattered back in high school. If somebody was killed with a cello, and you find out one of the suspects was a high school cellist … well, there you go.”

  “A cello?”

  “Just an example. Not a great one. Anyway, I’m going to be asking the detectives some questions, and I’ll ask Ray to compare their answers with what he digs up. If something doesn’t jibe, or they leave out something important, we’ll ask why.”

  “Sounds like you’re fishing.”

  “Yeah,” I said, turning off the trail at 181st when I saw a McDonalds. “And a good fisherman knows where to cast his line.”

  The detective floor conference room was chilly in more ways than one.

  “You’re going to interrogate us as a group … again?” Chris Doyle asked.

  “It’s not an interrogation,” I said.

  “Who you think you’re kidding?” Brandon Phillips said. “We do this for a living.”

  “I’m going to ask you questions about growing up, family, and school.”

  “I’m not going to waste my time with this,” Bryce Cimmatoni said, standing.

  “Cimma, sit,” Sergeant Seymour said as he would to a Doberman. “I don’t like this any more than you, but we’re on the verge of losing control. If Internal Affairs takes over, it’ll get ugly. If an outside agency comes in … it’ll be a nightmare. We’re going to do this with everyone present, because we’re accountable to each other. If someone’s lying, someone else may know. If you do, challenge them on it, here and now. Or come to me or Chandler afterward. Time’s running out.”

  “You don’t have to confess this time, Cimma,” Kim Suda said, followed by a ripple of laughter and whispers. Cimmatoni didn’t smile.

  “This time I’m starting,” I said. “I grew up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Moved to Portland when I was fifteen. Went to Franklin High. Have one brother, one sister. My dad was a tavern owner. He also had an amusement machine business: pinballs, jukeboxes, pool tables, shuffleboards. My house was full of the stuff. Everybody came over for parties.”

  I looked out at the blank faces, all except Tommi Elam’s. She seemed fascinated.

  “I bet most of you didn’t know that,” I said. “See what a bonding thing this can be?”

  “It would help if we even slightly cared,” Doyle said.

  “In high school I played football and did track and field, shot put and discus.”

  “Don’t care,” Doyle muttered.

  “Tommi? Tell us about family and high school.”

  “Born and raised in Portland. Dad owned a marina. We were always boating. I was into waterskiing. Went to Grant High School. Go Generals! Two sisters and a brother. In high school I was shy. Enlisted in the army after graduating. At my reunions, no one can believe I became a cop.”

  “What kind of school activities?”

  “Volleyball. National Honor Society. That was about it.”

  “What about you, Cimma? What’d your dad do?”

  “Steel mill.”

  “You must have been into sports, big strapping guy like you. Football?”

  “Linebacker. Three years varsity.”

  “Clubs or social groups?”

  “No.”

  “School dances?”

  “No.”

  “Anything you liked to do? Hobbies?”

  “No.”

  “Macramé? Decoupage? Scrapbooking?”

  He glared.

  “Well, that was helpful. How about you, Kim?”

  “Born in Santa Clarita, California. Just a regular high school kid. But I did go to dances.” She smiled at Bryce, not warmly. “My friends and I hung around Magic Mountain. Had annual passes.”

  “Cheerleader?”

  “No way. I played basketball and softball. First base. Batted third. Won the state championship my senior year. We were up by one, and their best hitter tried to stretch a right field triple into a homer. I was the cut off. Threw her out at home.” She acted it out, winding up her left arm and emulating the throw.

  “How’s this going to help catch a killer?” Doyle asked in a whining nasal tone that made me want to Glock-whip him on the spot.

  “Just go with it, okay?”

  “None of this is okay,” Phillips said. “It’s irrelevant. A total waste!”

  “Manny?” I asked.

  He winced from his rib injury, which defanged his glare. “I dropped out of high school.”

  “Family?”

  “Three brothers and a sister.”

  “Activities?”

  “Gangs and drugs. Reformed, then became a cop.” Manny’s concise. “This is stupid,” he added.

  When you’re doing something awkward, such as accusing coworkers of murder and trying to accumulate incriminating information, it’s always nice to have your partner behind you.

  “Karl?” Baylor’s face wasn’t as sour as the others. It was worth a try.

  “One brother. Raised in Brooklyn, then moved sixteen miles from here. Went to Barlow High School. Graduated 1996. I was the starting point guard on the basketball team. Tennis, second doubles.”

  “Favorite teachers?”

  “Tom Johnson, Gene Saling, Linda Saling, Tom Starr, Andrew Pate.”

  Wow. He knew his favorites. I looked at Jack Glissan. “I know all about you, Jack.”

  “So since you’re old friends,” Doyle said, “he’s not a suspect, but we are?”

  “Didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Look, who cares?” Jack said. “Raised in Bellingham. Played football, basketball, and baseball. Came down here to Linfield in McMinnville, then moved to Portland. Never left.”

  “Noel?”

  “Grew up in Liberty Lake, a suburb of Spokane. Only child. Dad was a mail carrier. Took up golf after high school. I was visiting Portland, checking into law enforcement, and somebody introduced me to Jack. He talked me into police academy.”

  “Anything else?”

&
nbsp; “Well, high school four years. Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

  Three people checked their watches at once. One of them was Sarge.

  “Chris?”

  Doyle looked up from his watch. “Grew up in Indianapolis. My father was a teacher.”

  “High school?”

  “College.”

  “What subject?”

  “History mainly.”

  “Mother?”

  “She was born and raised in Stratford, England. Graduated from Oxford, King’s College. Taught literature there before marrying my father. She tutored my sister and me in the queen’s English.”

  “I never knew that, Chris,” Tommi said.

  “Sports?” I asked.

  “Wasn’t into sports then.”

  “Not a stud like you are now?” Cimmatoni asked.

  “Other activities?”

  “Not really.”

  “Chris,” Suda said, “didn’t you tell me you were on the chess team?”

  In a room starved for laughs, the effect was immediate.

  “He went out with an injury his senior year,” Noel said, “or he would’ve nabbed a scholarship.”

  More laughter. Chris steamed. I play chess and respect it. Chess is difficult and challenging and a lot saner than rugby. But cops generally don’t wear their chess club sweaters to work.

  “Five more minutes, Chandler,” Sarge said, pointing at his watch.

  “We’re down to you, Phillips,” I said, realizing that without an outright confession of guilt, this session had been an unqualified disaster.

  “Where’d you grow up, Brandon?”

  “Texas.”

  “Where in Texas?”

  “Dallas area.”

  “Remember the name of the town?”

  He glared. “Irving.”

  “Sports?”

  “Cross-country. Baseball.”

  “What school?”

  He shook his head like it didn’t matter.

  “That’s it.” Sarge dismissed us.

  “Well, that was productive,” Doyle said, looking at me like I was as dumb as I felt.

  “Genius, Chandler,” Cimmatoni said, his shoulder bumping me hard as he pushed past me.