“Did she go home with you?”
“You know she did. But I thought it was for real.”
Bascombe nods. “You thought she was moving back in with you. Things were getting back on track.”
“Exactly. She spent the night.”
“You had intercourse.”
He nods. “I remember waking up and thinking, Everything’s gonna be fine now. But in the morning she’s already made breakfast, and on the table there’s my checkbook and she’s already filling out the amount. It’s just sitting there, waiting for my signature. I got what I wanted, she said, and now it was her turn.”
“Those were her exact words?”
“Pretty much.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t believe it.”
“And what happened then?”
“We got into it then. She called me some names and I called her some, too. She said I was trying to cheat her. She said we had a deal. I was incredulous. I said if she thought I was paying her ten grand for last night, she had too high an opinion of herself. But it’s her mother that puts these ideas in her head. Before she let Candace back in her life, things were different. Her new landlord didn’t help things, either. She was filling Simone’s head with all this girl power stupidity, be an independent woman, stand up for yourself. The thing is, Simone did have some things in her past, and people assume if that’s the case, that you’re gonna instinctively choose abusive men. So in her eyes, the professor’s, the fact that Simone chose to marry me meant I was like that.”
“But you’re not like that,” Bascombe says.
“Of course not.”
The lieutenant gets up. “Look, Jason, this is really helpful. We need to take a quick break, all right, and confer on some of this. Can I bring you anything while you’re waiting?”
The interruption surprises me, but I take it in stride and start gathering my papers. Bascombe puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t worry about that, March. Let me talk to you outside a minute.”
It goes against the grain, leaving everything out, but I follow him anyway, pulling the door shut after us.
“All the paperwork’s in there,” I say. “I don’t want him looking through it.”
“Come with me.”
We head down to the monitoring room, where Aguilar is on observation duty. On-screen, Young sits frozen, eyes fixed on the stacks of paper across the table. But he makes no move toward them.
“I want to see what he does,” Bascombe says. “He’s putting on a pretty good show in there, don’t you think? Question is, if you leave an innocent man alone with all that paper, does he let it be or does he take a peek? I say he looks, because more than anything he’s curious what’s going on.”
“If he’s guilty, he’ll look to see how much we’ve got on him.”
“Yeah, but if he’s guilty, he’ll also know we’re watching him.”
My patience for interview room tricks runs out fast, but I know it’s the lieutenant’s thing. In a situation like this, he’s looking at physiology and behavior, none of which is admissible in court, though if you’re a good reader of signs, it might lead you toward some truth. Personally I believe in the story. You lock them in, then you trip them up. That takes time, though, and attention to detail.
“We need to lock him into a timeline for yesterday,” I say. “According to Sheila Green, the killing went down sometime between four in the afternoon and when the call came in at quarter to nine. I want an explanation for the injuries to his face, too.”
“And his movements this morning,” Aguilar adds. “Was he on his way to the scene or not?”
“It’s interesting, though, isn’t it?” Bascombe says, ignoring us both. “Is he concealing something or not? He hasn’t tripped up yet as far as your victim is concerned. He hasn’t even let on that he knows she’s dead. When you brought him in here, he did see the sign on the door, right? He knows this is Homicide.”
“It’s not like I pointed it out to him or anything. But yeah, he’d have to be pretty self-absorbed not to realize.”
“Or pretty convinced he knows what’s going on.”
“Meaning what, you’re buying his story? He thinks he’s in here on a rape charge?”
“Maybe,” Bascombe says. “Or maybe he’s really good. Maybe we’re not dealing with your garden variety domestic here. You’re assuming he killed her in a crime of passion scenario, then tried to make the scene look like something else, a sex murder. What if this guy’s the real thing? He just happens to be starting in his own backyard.”
“That’s what you’re getting off him?” I ask. It seems like a stretch to me.
“I’m not getting nothing off him, that’s my point. Here’s what we need to do. Go back in there and get what you need-an explanation for the injuries, a full timeline-but do something else first. He’s sticking to this rape story, so let’s run with that. Whatever happened between them, it was at his apartment. He gave us that. So tell him we want consent to search.”
“He’s not going to give it.”
“Try him. I think he just might.”
“Meanwhile,” I say, “how about those other homicides? I can handle this if you want to catch yourself up on one of those.”
He sees through me and answers with a knowing smile. “Am I cramping your style, Detective? I’m sorry about that. I just like to see the way you work.” He turns to Aguilar. “Get this Reverend Blunt on the phone, too. Let’s get started on Jason’s alibi, such as it is.”
If Jason Young is surprised that I’ve returned alone, he gives no clue. My papers remain untouched where I left them. When I sit, he slumps a little, like he’s relieved the temptation to reach for them is at an end. I slip a hand inside my briefcase and place my trump card on the table, watching his expression the whole time.
He glances at the book just long enough to see what it is, then loses all interest. Either he’s unfamiliar with The Kingwood Killing or he’s a better actor than even Bascombe is giving him credit for. I flip through the book for good measure, trying to bait him.
“So is this still break time or have we started already?”
The flash of attitude makes me smile. I close the book but leave it out on the table. “Here’s the problem, Jason. You said it yourself. We have two versions of the story, and I could see it playing out either way. No offense, I just don’t know you. I can’t tell which version to believe. But I’ll tell you one thing: I can respect what you’re doing. Holding down these jobs, getting your life straightened out. Taking responsibility.”
“Thanks,” he says in a grudging tone.
“If it was your story plus something else, you’d be all right. But the way the courts work, if it’s you against her, I think you know who’s going to win. In every other type of crime, the system is weighted toward the defendant, but here it works the opposite way. Basically all she has to do is say you’re guilty, and then the burden’s on you.”
As I deliver this slanted take on the legal system, Young deflates more and more, until his forehead’s practically touching the table and his hands clutch the back of his neck. I’m talking not to his face but to the top of his head.
“What do you mean, my story plus something else?”
“Well,” I say. “One thing would be if we took a look at the scene and there was no evidence to support the other side.”
“The scene?” He looks up. “You mean my bedroom?”
“The bedroom. The apartment.”
“It’s been weeks, though. I mean, if there was any evidence, I’m not so stupid that I wouldn’t have tidied up.”
A charge goes up my spine. In a different context, that could sound like an admission, considering whoever killed Simone certainly did tidy up.
“The point is, it would help corroborate. And if we were to drop this thing, the first question the judge is gonna ask is whether we checked the apartment. If the answer’s no, then we’re back to square one.”
He sighs. “Do I have to sig
n something?”
“All you have to do is say you consent to the search.”
“I consent to the search. Do whatever. But when you come back, can you bring me some water or something? All this talking is doing my voice in.”
He expects me to get up and leave, but I ignore him and keep on writing. After a moment, Bascombe walks in and puts a couple of bottled waters on the table.
“Here you go, sport.”
Once he’s gone, I can feel Young’s eyes on me.
“Somebody’s watching all this,” he says.
I nod. “There are a couple of questions I still have to ask. Starting with what happened to your face.”
“This?” He touches the wound on his jaw. “It’s nothing.”
“I’m going to need a little more than that. Like: who did it, what did they hit you with, and when?”
“It was. . a couple of days ago. Monday, actually.”
“No, Jason,” I say, raising my pen. “That’s fresh. Trust me, I can tell.”
“It was Monday. I was in back at the Luggage Outlet, trying to get to a box on top of the shelves, and one of them fell and caught me in the face.”
“Were you hanging upside down?”
“What? No. I wasn’t hanging upside down.”
“Then you’re making this up, Jason, because the blow that made those marks came from underneath, swinging like this.” I pantomime the arc, clocking his jaw with an imaginary weapon. “Lying like that just makes you look guilty. You’re better off leveling with me.”
“It has nothing to do with this,” he says. “And anyway, I told you what happened. If you don’t believe me, I can’t help that.”
“Let’s go over what happened yesterday, then. That’s when I think you had your little accident.”
“Wrong,” he says.
“That’s fine. Just walk me through what really happened.”
“I went to work, like I said. Reverend Blunt came in sometime in the morning. He wanted to check on me because I hadn’t been in earlier.”
“Did he ask about your injury?”
“No.”
“That’s strange, don’t you think?” I let it slide, but the inference is clear: he didn’t ask because on Saturday morning it wasn’t there. “What did the reverend ask about, then?”
“Orders,” he says. “Work stuff.”
“And then he left? How long were you at the warehouse after that?”
“Until seven.”
“That’s a long time. Do you punch a card or something?”
“I keep track of my hours.”
“Okay. So you left at seven and went where?”
“Home.”
“Straight home? And then what?”
“Then nothing,” he says, his voice sharp. “I watched TV, went to bed, then got up in the morning for church.”
“Where we found you. And from the time you got home to the time you left this morning, you never went out?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
He meets my gaze, probably sensing this is important. But he doesn’t change his story: “Not at all.”
I dig through my paperwork for Aguilar’s notes from this morning, taking my time, letting him sweat a little.
“Mr. Young,” I say. “When you arrived at your residence this morning at 8:32 a.m., where were you coming from?”
“That’s not right. I left around then.”
“You left sixteen minutes later at 8:48 a.m.”
He stares at me. “What?”
“You just said you were home all night, but in fact you didn’t come home at all last night, did you? We already know your movements, Mr. Young. Why are you lying to me?”
“Why are you asking me this? It has nothing to do with what happened.”
“Tell me where you were last night.”
“You already know.”
“I need you to tell me.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t understand what’s going on here.”
“Mr. Young-”
“No, listen. I’ve tried to cooperate. I’ve told you everything I can about what really happened with Simone. You can search my apartment, fine. But I’m not going to talk about anything else. Whatever happened yesterday, it’s nobody’s business. You can tell her I said that, too. If you want the truth, I already gave it to you, but if you’re just out to crucify me, then forget about it.”
“If you’ll just answer a few more-”
“I’m not answering anything,” he says.
I can see what’s coming, too. He’s going to lawyer up. Before he gets there, I stand abruptly and start filling my briefcase. “No, you’re right, Mr. Young. You’ve bent over backward to be helpful. There’s a limit to what you can reasonably be expected to share. Just sit tight for a little while and we can wrap things up.”
“How long? I’ve been here for hours.”
“Not much longer,” I say, heading for the door.
Aguilar is alone in the monitoring room, telling me Bascombe grabbed some help and went to the apartment on Dunlap the moment Young gave his consent. He stifles a yawn. I drop into an empty chair and yawn myself. My limbs are heavy as lead. I close my eyes and melt into the seat cushions.
“He’s on the hook now,” Aguilar says. “He can’t account for himself after the reverend left-I checked on that, by the way. According to Blunt, they saw each other around eleven in the morning and he has no idea what happened after that. He said he would go to the warehouse, see what got done yesterday, and call back. I gave him your number.”
“Young’s lying about last night, obviously. We know that.”
“You don’t sound excited.”
“There’s one part that doesn’t fit for me. When I showed him the book, he didn’t flinch. Of everything I had in there, that should’ve cut him the deepest. That should’ve surprised him. But it didn’t even register.”
“Maybe you’re wrong about that part.”
According to my watch, it’s half past twelve. My internal clock’s so far off that my stomach hasn’t rumbled. “I’d better get in on the tail end of that search. You mind baby-sitting for me?”
“If he gets antsy, I got your permission to arrest him? We’ve got enough, don’t you think?”
“I guess so. How are the other cases coming along?”
“The drowning is down,” he says. “They’re still looking for the shooter on the other one.”
“We’re still in the running, then.”
“But the clock’s ticking.”
The sleep deprivation starts catching up to me on the road. I stave it off with some drive-thru coffee, pulling up behind the lieutenant’s car in record time. Inside the apartment, he’s sitting on the couch with a laptop opened in front of him, scrolling through emails with a tap of the finger.
“Anything?” I ask.
“His fantasy football team’s doing all right. Apart from that, nothing here.”
Walking through the six-hundred-square-foot apartment doesn’t take long. Young keeps it tidy, everything squared away. The furniture looks cheap but newly purchased, and the colors go together. It’s not an unpleasant place, just a spartan one. The contrast with his dead wife’s room full of consumer goods couldn’t be more pronounced. Only one photo on the wall, a framed wedding shot. Apart from the fridge, the kitchen seems to be mainly for storage, what you’d expect in a bachelor pad, assuming your bachelor’s meticulously neat. I look in vain for a block of kitchen knives with a telltale empty slot.
Mack Ordway is in the bedroom opening dresser drawers. Mack’s the graybeard on our shift, always on the verge of retirement and at the same time always up for a jolt of overtime. I’m not surprised to see him working on Sunday. Sometimes I think he lives in the office.
“What’s the story in here?”
“Bed’s still made, probably hasn’t been slept in. There’s an old shotgun in the closet, but I didn’t see any shells. If you look in that valet thing on the nig
htstand, there’s a Tanto Folder with a serrated edge. Could be your weapon, but it looks clean to me.”
“Let’s bag it anyway and make sure,” I say.
“Then there’s this.”
He bends down to open the dresser’s bottom drawer. It’s empty apart from glass shards and a half dozen busted picture frames, all of them facedown. Ordway uses a handkerchief from his pocket to pick one up by the edge. It’s a photo of Simone Walker in a powder blue halter top and a floppy straw hat, her smile huge, her eyes hidden behind round sunglasses. He turns over another, showing Simone and Jason arm in arm in front of a Galveston crab joint. The next one is Simone by herself again, looking up from a glossy magazine, her hair spread out on the back of a flower-print couch.
“They’re all her,” Ordway says, “or the two of them together. Maybe he got angry with her for leaving and did all this.”
“Or maybe he did it yesterday before he went to her place and killed her. Let me take a photo, then you can bag those, too.”
I leave him to it and head down the hall. In the bathroom, there are wet towels on the floor and a can of shaving cream on its side by the sink, a puff of foam clinging to the cap. No prescription drugs behind the mirror, though. A slatted door down the hallway conceals a stacked washer and dryer. The dryer’s empty. I pull the washer door open.
“Hello.”
“What you got?” Bascombe calls.
“Take a look.”
He and Ordway both appear over my shoulder. I step back so they can see what I’ve found. A pair of jeans twisted into a ball by the spin cycle, a knotted white shirt.
“How much you want to bet he was wearing these when he came home this morning? Aguilar can say for sure.”
“Did we not check the washer?” Bascombe asks.
Ordway ignores him. “Let’s see what we got here.”
He tugs the shirt and spreads it open in the air between us. “That’s the thing about bloodstains. You can’t just throw something in the washer and get rid of them.”
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