“We have your old police photo, and you haven’t changed that much. A photo array is being shown to the witness as we speak.”
Now I know these guys are amateurs. They shoulda let Davidson run with the interview. He might’ve had a better chance. They’re full of shit, and this is all a fishing expedition. They would’ve shown that photo array first thing, not waited until I got here. There probably is a witness, and that witness probably did provide a good enough description that led to all this, but the witness couldn’t identify me in a photo array, so now they’re reaching, trying to okeydoke my ass, like I’m some fucking rookie. Whatever it is they have is circumstantial at best, but I’ve seen good cases made with less, so I’m still more than a little concerned.
“Next time you want to play my ass, at least do it in the comfort of my own home. That’s where I’ll be if your so-called witness pops me in the array. I’m fucking out of here.”
I start walking toward the door.
Davidson is the only one to follow me, but he doesn’t try to stop me. That’s when I know I’m safe.
“Are you sure you want to walk out like this?” he asks.
I stop when I turn to walk down the hall and we’re out of the others’ line of sight.
I face him and ask, “What the fuck are you thinking, Scott? How could you think I’d have anything to do with that kid’s murder?”
“Listen, man, I know you can be heavy-handed at times, but I also know you had nothing to do with the murder. You wouldn’t be walking out of here if I thought otherwise. But we both know you talked to Soto. You might’ve been the last person to talk to him. I just don’t understand why you won’t share whatever it is you talked about.”
“You want something from me, Scott, try asking.”
“Okay, then. Was it you who the witness saw with the decedent?”
“No.”
I hear a door open behind us. I look over my shoulder, and out walks Deputy Chief Garrett Wightman, the last person I’d want to see right now.
“Now I’m beginning to understand,” I tell Davidson.
Fifty-one
Wightman has always had this walk as if he’s approaching a microphone on a stage before a large audience. He’s wearing a uniform. White shirt and tailored pants, cut just right. The gold badge on the left side of his chest shimmers under the bright fluorescent lights. The right side of his chest is stacked with award bars and special tour bars. And, of course, he’s got the hat on his head. That’s his pet peeve when it comes to patrol. He had an officer written up once for not wearing his hat after a long foot chase with a robbery suspect.
He sees me right away, and doesn’t acknowledge me. It looks like he might even try to walk right through me, but he veers to the right a bit so he’s closer to Davidson.
“I’ll let him out, Detective. I’d like to have a chat with him first. And I’ll need a write-up from you before you leave, so I can brief the chief in the morning.”
“Copy that, Chief,” Davidson says, looks at me briefly, as if he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, then turns and walks back to the main room.
Wightman turns and looks at me with an empty stare.
“You have a special monitoring room in there, Chief?”
He steps closer, like he’s ready to slap my face and challenge me to a duel.
“So you’re a private investigator,” he says, enunciating “private” and “investigator” so it sounds patronizing.
The hall is narrow; the only way to the door is through him, and I’m not about to try that. He’d have me on assault with intent to nudge or some shit like that. So I mentally prepare, because he’s a man who loves to hear himself talk.
“I know you’re crooked, Marr. You always were. They should have let me fire you when I had the chance. You shouldn’t have been allowed to retire like a regular officer.”
“You got a fucking point, Garrett?”