Steeled for Murder (4 page)

The dim light caught florescent letters on the backs of their vests. All I could make out from here were “PO…”

Had to be saying, “Police.”

The cold of the night invaded my guts. I closed my eyes. As if not seeing them would make the cops not be there. My brothers were in that house.

A cacophony of disjointed sounds reached me. Battering ram shattering the door. A barking dog. Shouts. Gun shots.

Silence.

Then sirens.

Feet pounded down the walkway toward me. I opened my eyes. Two hooded gray figures ran at me.

Denny shoved some plastic bags into my hands. “Here. Take this.”

“Run!” Will gasped. “Don’t follow us!” He gave me a shove, and they were gone.

I juggled the bags. Something hot in one of the bags burned my hand. I caught an oily, smoky scent. Surely they hadn’t dumped a burning blunt in there, had they?

I stumbled, almost dropping the bags into a puddle. I grabbed for them, willing myself not to think about the vile smells emanating from that particular puddle. I felt something sharp slice into my palm. Warm, sticky dampness spread across my hand and between my fingers.

The bags were slimy. They threatened to slip from my hands again.

Clutching them to my chest, I slid out of the walkway and started toward home.

A bright light swept past, paused, and returned until it held me at its center.

“Stop.”

I took another step.

“You’ll be tased. And there’s a dog coming.”

I’d seen people tased before. No desire to experience it myself. I stopped.

“Drop what you’re carrying and turn to face the wall.”

I had no good choices. I complied.

“Lace your fingers behind your head. Spread your feet apart.”

A different voice said from beyond the edge of the light, “Watch out for the blood.”

I didn’t think he was talking to me.

A gloved hand grabbed one of my hands and pulled it behind my back. Cold metal clamped down my wrist. The other hand followed. Practiced hands frisked me through my clothes and then spun me around.

The piercing light shone in my eyes. I looked down. The bags lay at my feet. They were covered with dark red stains. So was the front of my hoodie.

Someone grabbed me by the hair, jerking my head up. My eyes closed against the bright light in my face.

“Huh. Younger than I thought. But definitely one of the two guys who were in the apartment. Better send the dog after the other one.”

The grip on my hair released, but the hand moved to grasp my upper arm. I would have bruises where the fingers dug in.

“Mirandize him. Right away, before he says anything.”

A voice droned on, reading me my rights. I didn’t listen. I didn’t have much to say. Besides, it wouldn’t matter. Miranda rights didn’t count in juvenile court.

The bags were dragged away from my feet to another circle of light. Gloved hands exposed their contents. Little taped-up packages. The old man’s heroin. Tiny plastic bags with bits of white. Crack rocks. Lots of both. More than enough for a solid distribution charge.

Something long and metallic. A knife. And a gun.

“Do you understand your rights?”

I nodded.

The hand gripping my arm squeezed hard. “Answer out loud, please.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to answer any questions?”

“No.”

“Do you want a lawyer?”

“Don’t matter. I’m sixteen.”

“It’ll matter when you end up in adult court.”

They were trying to scare me. No matter how much I was carrying, that wasn’t likely to happen with possession charges.

“We got witnesses, including a few of the SWAT team. And I’d be willing to bet that’s the weapon right there. First degree murder charges usually end up in adult court.”

Chapter 3

Here I was, twenty years later, shackled and detained again. Nothing to do but wait for someone else to decide what happens next. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be good.

A pair of boots stopped in front of me. I didn’t open my eyes.

“Damon. Stand up.”

I rose unsteadily to my feet.

“Detective Belkins wants to talk to you.” The guard unlocked the waistchain and yanked it free of the eyebolt. He slapped it around my waist and snicked the lock down.

Grabbing my elbow, he escorted me up a steep staircase. I’d never gotten used to climbing stairs while wearing leg irons. I stumbled and would have fallen if he hadn’t kept his grip. Down a long hallway to a dim interrogation room with a chair on either side of a battered wooden table. I sat where he indicated. Much more comfortable than the bench. But now my nose itched, and I couldn’t reach it. What was it about being chained up that made my extremities itch fiercely? They never did when I could scratch them.

I would still miss breakfast. My stomach growled.

I knew the routine. Sit and wait. Possibly for hours. No doubt that dark piece of glass in the wall was a one-way window. If I got out of the chair or fell asleep, someone would be in immediately. I had no way to tell how much time passed. An unsettling feeling. That was the whole point. I waited.

Eventually, Belkins and another man came into the room. A light switched on directly over my head. I blinked in the sudden harsh glare. Belkins loomed over me, an unlit cigar clenched in his teeth. The other man, his shaved head and chiseled face the color of mahogany, eased his lanky frame onto the edge of the table. He was dressed in a well-pressed navy suit with a red striped tie. He smelled of breath mints, aftershave, and shoe polish.

“I’m Detective Montgomery,” he said, his voice steady and smooth.

They were going to play good cop-bad cop. Guess which was which? Didn’t take much imagination.

“Can I get you something?” Montgomery asked. “Sorry, I can’t let you smoke. But how about a cup of coffee?”

That sounded really good, and I almost said yes. Then I remembered the waist chain. I would have to ask for one of my hands to be freed before I could drink it. Anytime I had to ask for something, I would feel like they had a little more control. They knew that.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.”

I nodded.

“Now, want to tell me about what happened last night?” Montgomery checked his watch. Substantial and gold. “Or, I guess, more like early this morning.”

Anything I said would be twisted and used against me. Although it hadn’t been mentioned, I was sure a recording of some sort was being made. The less I said, the better. But total silence would be construed as failure to cooperate. Reported to my parole officer.

“Not much to tell.” I stared at the scarred surface of the table. Was that irregular dark stain blood?

“Come on,” Montgomery urged. His dark face radiated false concern. “If you tell us what happened, maybe we can clear all this up quickly.”

And move on to charging me,
I thought. I shook my head.

“You report for work. Mitch gets all up in your face. Calls you a sex offender. We know that much from talking to other people. Let’s hear your side of it.” He leaned his face closer to mine. I could smell his minty breath.

I had nothing to add. “You know as much as I do. More, probably.”

“Must have made you mad,” Montgomery suggested.

“No, sir,” I replied.

“Aw, come on. Sex offender? Would have made anybody mad.”

“I can’t speak to that.” I leaned back in the chair. Might take a long time.

Montgomery leaned back, too. “You get to work. Guy with an attitude disses you. You get put to work on a plater. He’s the forklift driver; probably makes some remarks when he comes by. You get your break. What do you do? What would anybody do?”

He obviously wasn’t aware of the noise level in the plating room. Or how careful Hank had been to make sure Mitch didn’t get a chance to talk to me. I just sat there.

“What did you do on your break?” Montgomery repeated, examining the back of his hand. His fingers were long and elegant; his nails were neat and well trimmed.

“Took a leak and got a drink of water,” I said.

“And ran into Mitch.”

“Didn’t run into nobody.”

“How about lunch? That’s longer.” Montgomery smoothed the sleeves of his suit jacket over his starched cuffs. French cuffs, they were. With cufflinks.

“Ate lunch. Took a leak. Got a drink of water.”

“Where did you go to eat lunch?”

Belkins reached down and grabbed the front of my flannel shirt. With his other hand, he tore the cigar out of his mouth and threw it on the table. He hauled me half out of the chair. “He’s not going to tell us a damn thing, are you, Damon? Just sit there with that smug look on your face and not say anything.” His sour breath was hot on my face.

Still gripping my shirt, he raised his other hand.

“Belkins.” Montgomery’s velvet voice was even. “This is being taped.”

“So?” Belkins snarled. He slapped the side of my face. Hard. His ring caught the corner of my eye. I tasted blood. “This’ll be a piece of tape we won’t be able to use.”

“Not in the face, Belkins. What’s the matter with you?” Montgomery folded his hands and glared at Belkins.

Belkins let go of my shirt. I fell back in the chair with a thud. The side of my face stung, and my eye blinked rapidly. I licked a drop of blood off my lip. But I knew damn well he could have hit me a lot harder.

Montgomery sat still, his handsome face expressionless. Belkins turned away from me, running his pudgy fingers through his greasy hair.

“Just lock him up for now,” Belkins said. “I’ll talk to him later.” He grabbed his cigar and stomped out of the interrogation room.

Montgomery looked at me. I stared down at the table.

He moved out of my line of vision. I felt my shoulders tense. “I don’t suppose there’s anything you want to tell me.”

I shook my head.

“Keep in mind that you’re on parole,” Montgomery said. Like maybe I’d forget?

“As of now,” he continued, “I can tell your PO that you’ve been very cooperative. Hate to have to change that report.”

No doubt in my mind what he was he was getting at. “I got no complaints about how I been treated,” I said.

“And what happened to your face?”

Reluctantly, I gave him the answer I knew he was looking for. “Ran into a cell door. On my own.”

“Good. Nasty bruise; must have hit it hard. Let’s get you into a holding cell.” Montgomery opened the door and called for a guard to come get me.

I had the holding cell to myself. It was chilly, but at least the too-tight restraints had been removed. I paced, flexing my hands to get circulation going.

I was in time for lunch. A paper bag with a bologna and cheese sandwich, an apple, and a carton of milk. I scarfed it down. Maybe not gourmet dining, but I was glad to get it.

I lay on the narrow bench, cradling my head with my arms. I tried to make sense of what was happening and figure out what options I had. If any.

I was pretty sure Belkins would try to arrange for another interrogation session. Without being taped. And it might go on for hours. He’d probably wait until Montgomery was off duty. Then it would be just him and me. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to that.

When did Belkins go off duty? He had to sleep sometime. If he was the detective in charge of investigating Mitch’s death, he had been on duty last night. I knew detectives worked long and sporadic hours when they had a hot case, but he couldn’t work completely around the clock. Could he?

Belkins seemed awfully anxious to pin this on me. I had to admit I looked like a pretty good initial suspect. But couldn’t Hank and the other plater operators vouch for where I was most of the time? Just that break and the lunch. Belkins should have been working other leads, too. Maybe that’s where he was now.

Was he just lazy, or did he have some other reason for wanting to see me locked up again? The way he was treating me felt like a personal vendetta. I had never seen the man before this morning.

Maybe I was getting paranoid.

I was tired. In spite of everything, I dozed off.

“Damon. Get up.”

The cell door slid open. I started awake and scrambled to my feet, feeling the cold concrete through my socks.

“Come on.” A guard stood outside the door, eyeing me.

I stood where I was, waiting for him to bring out the shackles.

“You don’t want to stay here, do you?” he asked, shoving the door open wider.

Uncertain, I stepped forward. Had Belkins told them to leave me unshackled? Nothing sounds so bad to a police review board as hearing that a prisoner had been beaten while he was restrained. The way around that, of course, is to leave off the handcuffs and leg irons.

I fought the panic rising in my chest. “Where are you taking me?”