Baumhardt was a stocky man in his mid-forties with graying hair and a goatee. He was sitting on the edge of a table, reviewing a file. Porter offered him a hand. “Detective, thanks for allowing me access today.”
Baumhardt shook his hand. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through—it’s the least we can do.” He eyed Watson. “You are?”
“Paul Watson. I’m with the crime lab downtown. I’m assisting Detective Porter on another case.”
“The Four Monkey Killer?” Baumhardt whistled. “Ain’t that the shit. You’ve been chasing him for what? Five or six years? And he steps in front of a city bus. Saved the taxpayers all kinds of money. I hope the driver threw it in reverse and went back over that piece of shit.”
“He was thrown clear, but quite dead,” Watson said. “Not much more the driver could have done.”
“Ah, right,” Baumhardt replied, giving him a funny glance.
Porter nodded at the file in his hand. “So, where do we stand?”
Baumhardt motioned them back toward the table and spread the file across the top. “His name is Harnell Campbell. He walks into a 7-Eleven about a block from here last night at quarter past ten and shoves a .38 into the cashier’s face, demands the contents of the register and the safe. Same old bullshit, only his selection of venue is piss-poor. Half the force hits that store before and after their shift. It’s practically kitty-corner with the carpool lot. An off-duty officer was back at the beer cooler, he pulls a can of Coors Light from the six-pack he was about to purchase, shakes it up real good, then beams it across the store at the door. Our would-be robber turns toward the mess and gets caught up watching the exploding can just long enough for the officer to sneak up behind him and press his piece into the guy’s head. First takedown by beer I’ve ever heard of.”
“Don’t know if Coors Light is really considered beer.”
“Yeah, my wife calls it training beer,” said Baumhardt. “But it’s clearly got use as a tactical weapon. Anyway, we ran a slug from the .38, standard protocol, and got a match to—”
“The bullet that killed my wife,” Porter said.
Baumhardt nodded. “I went to the academy with your captain, so I called Dalton straightaway and told him what was going on.”
“I appreciate the chance to sit in. Thank you for that.”
A phone on the wall rang. Baumhardt picked up the handset and pressed it to his ear. “Baumhardt. Okay, send him in.”
A moment later the door to the observation room opened and Tareq was led inside. His face tightened when he saw Porter. Then he thrust out his hand. “I’m so sorry, Sammy. If I had thought the kid was going to really shoot, I would . . . I don’t know, have done something differently. They never shoot, though. They’re usually in and out. Christ, I . . . I’m so sorry . . .”
Plenty of guilt to go around, it seemed.
Porter shook his hand and squeezed his shoulder. “I don’t blame you, Tareq. They told me what you did, how you tried to help her. Thank you for being there for her. I take solace in the fact that the last face she saw was a friendly one. She didn’t die alone.”
Tareq nodded and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve.
Baumhardt came over and introduced himself, then explained what was about to happen. “We’re going to bring out six guys, they’re going to line up right out there, and each will be holding a number.” He glanced down at the paperwork on the table. “According to your statement, the guy who robbed you told you, ‘All the cash in a bag, now.’ I’m going to ask each of them to step forward and repeat that phrase. I need you to check out each person very carefully. Keep in mind the man who robbed you may not even be here, so don’t feel like you have to pick one. I want you to be one hundred percent sure we’ve got the right guy. If you have any doubts, if none of them look right, that’s okay, just tell me. Got it?”
Tareq nodded.
“They can’t see us, so don’t worry about that either. Don’t worry about anything but looking out for your guy,” Baumhardt instructed.
“Okay,” said Tareq.
Baumhardt pressed the intercom button on the wall. “Go ahead and bring them in.”
Porter stood at the back of the room. His hands were cold and clammy. He rubbed them on his pants. He could feel his heart throbbing at the side of his neck, hear the pulse behind his ears. Beside him, Watson stared into the white lineup room as a door swung open and six men were ushered inside by two uniforms.
“Number four,” Tareq said. “That’s him, I’m sure of it.”
Baumhardt glanced at Porter, then back to Tareq. “Do you need them to run the line? You’ve got to be certain for this to stand up.”
Tareq nodded. “I’ll never forget that kid’s face. That’s him.”
Porter stepped forward to get a better look.
A little shy of six feet tall, according to the height markers on the wall, he was a white kid barely out of his teens with a shaved head and multiple piercings lining both ears. His right arm was covered in a sleeve of tattoos ranging from a dragon at his shoulder to Tweety Bird on his forearm. His left arm was oddly bare. He stared back at them with a firm jaw and fixed eyes.
Baumhardt was sifting through the folder again. “You didn’t mention anything about tattoos in your statement.”
“He was wearing a jacket—I couldn’t see his arms,” Tareq replied. “He had a tattoo on his right ear, though. I remember that. I know I told the investigating officer.”
“You said he was shaking so bad he could barely hold the gun straight. He doesn’t seem very nervous now,” Baumhardt pointed out. “Looks stone cold right now.”
“That’s him. Check the ear.”
Baumhardt pressed the intercom button again. “Number four, please step forward and turn to your left.”
Porter swore he saw the kid smirk before doing what he was told, as if he was somehow enjoying this. As he turned, Porter spotted the dark text on his inner lobe. “There, I see it.”
“Where? I just see a shit-ton of piercings,” Baumhardt said.
“No, on the inside. Under the piercings, black ink.”
Baumhardt stepped closer to the glass and squinted. “Shit, you can see that? I can barely make it out.” He retrieved a booking sheet from the table. “According to this, the ink says Filter.”
Tareq turned to them. “That’s it! I told you that was him.”
Baumhardt let out a sigh.
Porter put a hand on Tareq’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
Tareq turned to him, his eyes sharp. “I wish there was something more I could have done.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
Any more than I blame myself.
Baumhardt motioned to one of the uniformed officers. “Put number four in an interview room. We’re about to have a very long talk.” Turning back to Tareq: “We’ll get you out of here as quickly as possible. We just need you to fill out some paperwork.”
Porter nudged Watson. “Let’s go see your uncle about that watch.”
Watson frowned. “You don’t want to witness the questioning?”
Porter shook his head. “My blood’s boiling right now. I can’t stay here. I thought I needed to see this, but I don’t. It’s better I go.”