“It’s complicated,” she dodged.
“I bet it is.” The corner of his mouth turned up in distaste.
She looked at the scribbled notes on her yellow pad. “The story you told the police is that your son shot your girlfriend Sandra, then ran into his room and jumped out the window. You later added that you experienced a loss of time. Can you tell me about that?”
“What’s there to know? I was drunk.”
“Can you describe what happened?”
“I’ve already given my statement to my lawyer and the police.”
He was digging in. His self-preservation instincts were telling him, the less said the better, but she had not gotten to the top of the news barrel without having learned the artful skill of information extraction. It was a simple matter of understanding one’s prey. This was not a cold-blooded killer, even if he looked like one, this was a man who had made a mistake and acted out of panic to cover his mistakes. When pressed, he would break. “You claim your son shot your girlfriend, but you didn’t actually see it happen. Is that correct?”
He turned a hard cheek toward her.
“Are you aware that forensics place the shot near the front door of the house? Where were you standing before you blacked out?”
His brow ridge dropped. “I already told you, I have nothing further to say.”
“Okay,” she said taking up an attack position. “Then you just listen, and I’ll tell you what I think. You came home from the bar and you were angry about something. Words got heated, and you told your girlfriend to shut up, but she wouldn’t. You grabbed your gun and you shot her dead.”
“I don’t have to listen to this.”
“What happened next, Ross? Did you hear your son escaping out the window so you pursued him? Did you chase him to silence him, only to have him slip through your fingers?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You want to know what I know? I know your son is innocent, and that you’re a liar.”
The bomb was planted. She expected him to explode into a fit of indignation, to which she intended to respond with an accusation he could have no answer for. If his son did shoot his girlfriend, why did he chase him out into the darkness, unarmed?
But the explosive rage never came. Instead, Ross Blake sat with something that looked like shock on his face.
“Mr. Blake,” she said.
His eyes lifted to meet hers. “You know my son is innocent?”
Did she detect relief in his voice? Was it possible that he truly believed his son had done it? Had she completely misread the entire situation?
“Beyond a shadow of a doubt,” she continued. “But what surprises me is that you don’t.”
“I blacked out,” he said. “I don’t know what happened.”
“You killed your girlfriend, that’s what happened.”
“I couldn’t. I could never do something like that.”
“Then you need to help me,” she said, “because the police have everything they need to lock you away for life. You need to level with me and tell me what happened that night.”
His eyes shifted erratically as he pieced things together in his head.
“Run down through what happened, and let me help you.”
His eyes focused on her.
“Please,” she said, “I can help.”
“I was having a fight with Sandra,” he said, “because my best friend said he was sleeping with her. I know it sounds bad, but I was just gonna throw her out of the house, not kill her.”
“I believe you. What happened next? Did you go for the gun?”
“No,” he growled. “We were arguing. I got mad, and I knocked some of her things off the top of the television. I was so angry, but the worst I could think to do to her was break her stuff. Then,” he said, allowing his mind to go back to that place, “I looked at the broken things on the floor and I wished I could just die. I didn’t want to be hurt again. Losing Jonny’s mother was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life. I didn’t want to feel that again. And I think that’s when I just let the alcohol take over.”
“What do you mean, take over?”
He looked disgusted. “Not like that. I didn’t turn into some kind of drunk monster. I just stopped fighting that drunk feeling. I gave into it, thinking I’d puke or pass out, it didn’t matter to me which. I just wanted to disappear.”
“Did you pass out?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t remember passing out. The next thing I remember I was standing over Sandra’s body. I remember falling down on my knees and touching her shirt where the blood was and feeling for a pulse. She was dead.” He fought back the emotion of it. “That’s when I heard a noise in Jonny’s room. I went in and saw him outside the window and I chased him.”
“You chased your armed son out into the night?”
“I was in shock! And drunk! I don’t know what I was thinking! I just wanted to know what happened.”
“So what made you think your son killed your girlfriend?”
“Who else could have done it? There was no one else in the house.” He looked down at the table. “I thought maybe I blocked it out. Maybe the image of him killing Sandra was so horrible, my mind hid it from me. I didn’t want to believe he did it, I didn’t want to believe my son was a murderer.” His eyes connected with hers again. “What did you find? How do you know for sure he’s innocent?”
She wasn’t quite ready to show her hand. “What about the shirt? Why did you burn your shirt?”
“Her blood was on it, and her blood was on my hands.”
“What about the gun?”
He shut down.
“Do you love your son?”
“Of course I love my son!”
“Prove it! This is your chance to save him. What happened to the gun? Did you find it? Did you hide it?”
His face hardened. “I think it’s time you tell me how you know he’s innocent.”
She was losing him, and it would only get worse if she told him it was a psychic who told her Jon was innocent. “Your son came to me,” she lied, “and he told me you shot her.”
He pushed back from the table with a squelch. “That’s your evidence? My son told you?”
“There’s more,” she said, knowing definitively there wasn’t. What evidence could she make up to clear the boy of the crime? Her window of opportunity was shutting fast. “He filmed it!” The words flew from her lips before she could fully consider the ramifications.
“He wha-? How?” he said.
That was a very good question, one she had absolutely no idea how to answer. To her great relief, he was quick to answer it for her.
“Did he fake something on that iPad of his?”
She pushed forward with mock confidence. “It was grainy, but there is absolutely no doubt you shot her.”
There was no indignation, no look of denial, only complete and utter shock, as though, in his mind, there had been a seed of doubt the whole time. Of course there would be. There had to be. He came home drunk, angry that his girlfriend had betrayed him in the worst possible way, and then blacked out.
“Where’s the gun, Ross? Where did you hide it?” she pressed.
The big burly man melted before her eyes. “It was in my hand. I thought I had picked it up. I thought he shot her, and I had picked it up. How could I have killed her? I’m not a killer.” His shoulders sank.
“Where did you hide it, Ross?”
He hung his head in defeat. “In the garage,” he said in a weak voice. “I hid it behind the tool rack in the garage. I knew how it looked. I knew they would think I did it. I don’t understand how this could happen. I couldn’t...” his voice broke off.
Once again, she found her understanding of Ross Blake shifting. A guilty man would never have confessed to hiding the weapon. This was not the confession of a murderer. This was a man coming to grips with the horrifying possibility that he might be a killer. But was he? What if he
was framed? What if someone drugged his drink, followed him home, and murdered Sandra after he passed out? The evidence all pointed to Ross as the killer, but what if he wasn’t? She couldn’t let him continue to believe that there was video evidence of the murder, not if there was a possibility that he was innocent.
“You didn’t do it,” she said, surprising both of them.
He looked up. “What?”
“You didn’t kill her. At least—I don’t think you did.
He tried to process her words.
“I lied,” she said holding up her hands, “Not about your son being innocent, but I lied about the video. There’s no video.”
“You lied!” he snarled.
“I had to know.”
“Know what?!”
“That you’re both innocent.”
His face twisted in rage. “We can’t both be innocent!”
“I didn’t think so either, until just now.”
He sat glaring at her, then slammed a fist on the table. “Then WHO did it?”
“I think maybe you should see a psychiatrist and find out. You’ve obviously repressed the identity of the killer.”
“But we were alone in the house!”
“Maybe someone followed you home.”
“This is crazy! Who would do this? We don’t know anyone who could do something like this!”
“Are you sure?”
He gripped the table. “I trusted you. I laid my soul bare. How do you know my son is innocent? What evidence did you find?” The words sounded like a growl.
“We’re done,” she said, standing abruptly.
He reached out to snag her arm, but she anticipated his move and spun out of the way. The officer near the door was on his feet.
“You said you have proof. What’s your proof?!” His face was red with rage.
“Step back and put your hands on the table!” said the guard.
There was a wild look in his eyes, and it looked like he might pounce. Karen shifted her weight and prepared to pivot if he decided to launch himself at her.
“I should have known!” he spat. “I can’t believe I trusted you.”
The officer stepped in between them. “Hands on the table, Mr. Blake!”
Karen’s heart jumped as he slammed both hands down hard. “I never should have trusted you,” he said. “You reporters are all the same.”
The officer tore Ross’s hands back one at a time, cuffed them behind his back, and spun him around. There was spit on his chin and fire in his eyes.
Karen squared off with him. “Whether you believe me or not, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to do my best to prove both of you innocent. You have my word.”
His face boiled as he tugged on the officer’s grip. “Your word doesn’t mean jack to me.”
She lifted her chin defiantly. “My word is all you’ve got.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Canary? What kind of name was Canary? Was it her given name? Was it a nickname? Perhaps it was a code name. She was definitely a spy of some kind, so of course she would have a code name. Whatever it was, it only made him more curious about her.
He crouched in Canary’s back yard, staring at her house for the better part of an hour, only hiding himself once when he heard her mother’s car pull into the driveway. It felt weird lingering and watching her house like a peeping Tom, but how could he go anywhere? All his answers were here, and nothing but police and jail-time awaited him beyond the warped, wooden fence of the back yard. No. That wasn’t quite right. He reached in his pocket and felt the envelope and the key. There was also the matter of a possible fortune hidden in a safe deposit box at Norfolk County Savings and Loan. It was where the voices were leading him next, and they hadn’t steered him wrong yet. They wanted him to see Canary to get some answers, and he did, but this had become a dead end. He looked around. The prospect of spending any more time with Canary before late night seemed unlikely. Besides, his legs were starting to cramp up.
He adjusted the computer tablet in his lap. Would she contact him? Would the black screen suddenly light up with a message telling him what to do next, or would it remain as it was, dark and sorely unhelpful? Canary wasn’t thinking about him, she was most likely occupied with her mother’s ordeal. If he wanted answers, he would need to look somewhere else.
He emptied his mind and tuned into that place where the voices lived. Energy danced in the back of his mind, undulating with endless possible word combinations. With each attempt it was growing easier to tap into this secret place. It was simply a matter of letting go of his will and allowing the voices to exert theirs. His mind produced random gibberish from his own subconscious, like some kind of dream. But if he gave himself completely and waited expectantly, there was less interference. It was like riding a bike, eventually he would perfect it, then there would be nothing stopping him from being connected to the voices continually.
A phrase materialized. “By the end of the whirly one,” it said. That was definitely random.
“That’s how I roll,” said another.
Then the buzz produced a third. “The cabbie doesn’t know.”
Cabbie?
“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” said another random voice.
Then a buzz. “225 Third Street.”
He repeated the address in his mind, but he could feel the effort bringing him up out of that empty place where the voices played. He attempted to hold onto the address lightly, and continued to listen.
“Act normal,” said another much weaker voice.
If he kept emptying his mind and listening to the voices, he would lose the address. He decided to write it down, then he’d be free to go deeper and get a more substantial message. His eyes flicked open. Though he had only spent seconds in meditation, his lids felt heavy. Sleeping on the lumpy mattress in his friend’s basement probably had something to do with it.
He entered the address into his iPad and flicked it back off. It would be nice if he could tap into the voices without having to be half asleep to do it.
His legs were screaming for blood supply, so he got up and paced behind the garage, careful not to kick any of the clutter and give himself away. Over the fence, and beyond some bushes, a yellow cab was parked on the side of the road. His mind whispered: The cabbie doesn’t know.
Did the voices want him to take a cab to the bank? Why else would they say that? But what about Canary? What about his answers? He decided they could wait. It wouldn’t take him long to get to the bank and back, and it beat crouching behind Canary’s garage till nightfall.
He went to the corner of the yard behind the garage where he had originally entered through a large warp in the wooden fence, and squeezed through.
“Hello?” said Jon, tapping on the driver’s window.
The cabbie pulled his sandwich from his mouth and opened the window. “Yeah,” he said, peering up.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were eating.”
The cabbie started packing the sandwich into its white paper packaging. “It’s okay. You need a ride, kid?”
“Yeah. I need to go to the bank, 225 Third Street.”
“Which bank is that?” he said.
“The Norfolk County Savings and Loan.”
“That’s not on Third. That’s downtown on Westwood Boulevard.”
“What’s at 225 Third Street?”
“I don’t know,” he said, wiping his mouth, “Do you need a ride to the bank, or what?”
“Yes. Please.”
“All right. Hop in.”
Jon pulled the door handle and slid into the back seat. The cab reeked of onion and salami. At least he hoped it was onion. It wasn’t exactly the most hygienic vehicle he had ever been in; there was a great chance the smell was body odor.
The seat cushion was torn in several places with yellowish foam pushing out through the tears, and the carpet had a few items stuck to it that would probably require a putty knife to remove. It was decidedly less t
han ideal—but he would travel to the bank in the back of a garbage truck if it meant a chance at a new life.
He desperately longed for a new life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Karen checked the break room of the police station for a cup of tea. Her run-in with Ross Blake had frazzled her nerves; she needed some soothing. The small room was cluttered, but reasonably sanitary. A twenty-year-old coffee and tea dispenser was tucked in a corner next to the door. As she fished in her pocket for change, a familiar voice caught her ear. It was Agent Collins’. She was sure of it.
“They just finished questioning the driver of the blue car,” he said.
Was he talking about the blue car involved in the murder this morning? She leaned her shoulder into the wall and listened through the open door.
“We have a confirmation,” said Collins.
“Lost time?” said another voice Karen recognized but couldn’t place.
“He said the last thing he remembers is being in his house last night.”
Lost time? Karen thought. Like what Ross Blake had experienced? Two killers, both experiencing blackouts? What were the odds on that?
“That’s longer than the others.”
“Yeah, a lot longer, but not the longest we’ve seen,” said Collins.
The other man’s voice dropped low. “Do you think this is connected to the others?”
“I don’t know, Coop, but it’s the fourth one in this state in less than two weeks. It’s reasonable to think they’re connected.”
Four murders connected to attackers who experienced lost time? That was the story of a lifetime! Why had she not heard about this before?
“Dr. Tanner is going to regress them both to see if it’s what we suspect.”
“You couldn’t pay me to do that guy’s job.”
“I’m going to go grab a bite while we wait for the results. You want anything?” said Collins, moving closer to the break room door. Karen drew away and stood awkwardly by the coffee machine.
“What are you getting?”
“A sub or something.”
Both men sounded as if they were walking past the break room. Karen attempted to look natural, but was sure she wasn’t doing a very good job of it.
VOICES: Book 2 in the David Chance series (Suspense, Mystery, Thriller) Page 12
