Read Online 2 Grand Delusion by Matt Witten - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Matt Witten
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baseball. I tried to relax and pretend I was there on a social call. After all, this whole thing was just a silly little mix-up. It shouldn't be all that hard to clear up.
Chief Walsh was smiling at me. It was a warm smile. The chief had a thin white mustache and distinguished silver hair and he reminded me of someone; I wasn't sure who but it was someone good. I immediately wanted him to like me.
"Coffee?" he asked.
"Thank you, sir," I replied.
The chief nodded to Foxwell, then added, "Oh, and could you turn on the videocamera before you go?"
Foxwell pushed a button on the wall and left, and the chief turned back to me. "You've been treated well, I hope?" he asked.
I started to tell him about the spitting and eyeball-gouging, but then decided to let it go. Why make waves? "Yes, thank you," I said.
"Excellent." The chief beamed with satisfaction. "I'm glad to hear that. And I hope someone has adequately explained to you that anything you say may be used against you, and you're entitled—"
"Yes, sir. No need to do it again unless you feel it's important." Mr. Agreeable.
"Okay, good, I'm glad we got that all squared away. Now if you just want to sign this card for us . . ."
"No problem." I signed the Miranda card.
Foxwell returned with two cups of coffee, then left again as the chief reached into a mini-refrigerator behind his desk. "Cream or sugar?"
"No, thanks. Black is fine."
He nodded approvingly. "Cowboy style, huh? That's how I drink it myself. I grew up out in cowboy country."
"Oh, really?" I asked politely.
"Wallace, Idaho. Ever been there?"
"I drove through once. Big lead refinery."
He grinned knowingly. "Stunk pretty bad, didn't it?"
I grinned back. "I can still smell it."
He rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it." Then he leaned forward and gave me a solemn look. "Actually, what I'd really like you to tell me about, unless you feel more comfortable waiting for a lawyer, is what happened tonight."
I had nothing to hide—well, almost nothing—so what the heck, I told him. About the car door (doors?) slamming, and the shrieks, and the gunshot. About Pop's arm jerking at my face, and his dying words. I told the chief everything.
Almost.
Desperate though I was, I still kept little Tony out of the story.
When I finished, Chief Walsh tented his fingers thoughtfully. "You know," he said, "I believe you."
I had to fight to keep from crying. I would have kissed his feet, except they were under the desk. "Thank you, sir," I breathed. "Thank you."
"The only thing that screws it up a little," he said unhappily, "is this whole crazy business that happened in the hall upstairs, where you and Pop were really going at each other."
"Oh, that," I said hurriedly, waving my arm. "That really wasn't such a big deal." And this time I did tell him everything: about the late-night noise, the drug dealing, the zoning hearing, the North Korean pressure-point torture . . .
Chief Walsh nodded sympathetically. Finally, someone who got it. "I totally understand," he said. "Listen, I'm aware that Pop was not always a . . . shall we say, model policeman. So here you were, already feeling upset because of the neighbors, and not being able to sleep for a couple of weeks—"
"More like two months. It's been a nightmare."
"I'm sure it has been. And then to add insult to injury, this guy pinches you in a sneaky, vicious way, so you were quite legitimately angry at him."
"Yeah, I was furious." I shrugged self-deprecatingly. "I guess I kind of lost it there. I went a little wild."
"Uh huh," the chief said, and looked at me over those tented fingers. Then he gave one of his little smiles.
But this time I didn't smile back. Instead I looked at him in horror.
Because it finally hit me—too late—what had just happened. I had just handed Chief Walsh a murder motive, all neatly gift-wrapped for his convenience.
The cops had the what, where, and how . . . and now, thanks to me, they had the why.
I stared at Chief Walsh, and
Chief Walsh was smiling at me. It was a warm smile. The chief had a thin white mustache and distinguished silver hair and he reminded me of someone; I wasn't sure who but it was someone good. I immediately wanted him to like me.
"Coffee?" he asked.
"Thank you, sir," I replied.
The chief nodded to Foxwell, then added, "Oh, and could you turn on the videocamera before you go?"
Foxwell pushed a button on the wall and left, and the chief turned back to me. "You've been treated well, I hope?" he asked.
I started to tell him about the spitting and eyeball-gouging, but then decided to let it go. Why make waves? "Yes, thank you," I said.
"Excellent." The chief beamed with satisfaction. "I'm glad to hear that. And I hope someone has adequately explained to you that anything you say may be used against you, and you're entitled—"
"Yes, sir. No need to do it again unless you feel it's important." Mr. Agreeable.
"Okay, good, I'm glad we got that all squared away. Now if you just want to sign this card for us . . ."
"No problem." I signed the Miranda card.
Foxwell returned with two cups of coffee, then left again as the chief reached into a mini-refrigerator behind his desk. "Cream or sugar?"
"No, thanks. Black is fine."
He nodded approvingly. "Cowboy style, huh? That's how I drink it myself. I grew up out in cowboy country."
"Oh, really?" I asked politely.
"Wallace, Idaho. Ever been there?"
"I drove through once. Big lead refinery."
He grinned knowingly. "Stunk pretty bad, didn't it?"
I grinned back. "I can still smell it."
He rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it." Then he leaned forward and gave me a solemn look. "Actually, what I'd really like you to tell me about, unless you feel more comfortable waiting for a lawyer, is what happened tonight."
I had nothing to hide—well, almost nothing—so what the heck, I told him. About the car door (doors?) slamming, and the shrieks, and the gunshot. About Pop's arm jerking at my face, and his dying words. I told the chief everything.
Almost.
Desperate though I was, I still kept little Tony out of the story.
When I finished, Chief Walsh tented his fingers thoughtfully. "You know," he said, "I believe you."
I had to fight to keep from crying. I would have kissed his feet, except they were under the desk. "Thank you, sir," I breathed. "Thank you."
"The only thing that screws it up a little," he said unhappily, "is this whole crazy business that happened in the hall upstairs, where you and Pop were really going at each other."
"Oh, that," I said hurriedly, waving my arm. "That really wasn't such a big deal." And this time I did tell him everything: about the late-night noise, the drug dealing, the zoning hearing, the North Korean pressure-point torture . . .
Chief Walsh nodded sympathetically. Finally, someone who got it. "I totally understand," he said. "Listen, I'm aware that Pop was not always a . . . shall we say, model policeman. So here you were, already feeling upset because of the neighbors, and not being able to sleep for a couple of weeks—"
"More like two months. It's been a nightmare."
"I'm sure it has been. And then to add insult to injury, this guy pinches you in a sneaky, vicious way, so you were quite legitimately angry at him."
"Yeah, I was furious." I shrugged self-deprecatingly. "I guess I kind of lost it there. I went a little wild."
"Uh huh," the chief said, and looked at me over those tented fingers. Then he gave one of his little smiles.
But this time I didn't smile back. Instead I looked at him in horror.
Because it finally hit me—too late—what had just happened. I had just handed Chief Walsh a murder motive, all neatly gift-wrapped for his convenience.
The cops had the what, where, and how . . . and now, thanks to me, they had the why.
I stared at Chief Walsh, and
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