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Authors: Robert Ellis
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just on our way in.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Randolph nodded at the backseat with a tuna sandwich in his hand. Frank hesitated a moment, but climbed in. As Grimes turned and leaned against the door to face him, Randolph began paging through a file until he found what he was looking for.
“We IDd the kid,” Randolph said, taking a last bite of his sandwich. “Sonny Stockwell. He had a record. He got picked up for burglary six months ago with a buddy of his.”
The detective passed an 8x10 photo over the seat. Frank eyed it carefully. It was a mug shot of the boy that he’d seen behind the building just twelve hours ago. Woody’s murderer, staring back at him with attitude.
“He looks young. How old was he?”
“Eighteen,” Grimes said. “On his way to twenty to life.”
Frank ignored him and turned back to Randolph. “What about his friend?”
“Alan Ingrams? He works at a Burger King. His boss says he was still punched in around the time Woody got shot.”
Frank passed the photo back, unable to hide his concern. Randolph must have known what was on his mind.
“Stop thinking it, Frank. The kid got Woody and Woody got the kid. It’s over. There’s no reason for anyone to come back.”
Randolph lit a cigarette and reached for his Coke. Frank sat back in the seat, noticing that he still held the key to the new lock in his hand.
“How do you think Stockwell got in?” he asked.
Randolph’s eyes flickered. Grimes’s stupid grin was back.
“It’s an office,” Grimes said. “He probably used the front door.”
“The door’s locked every night at six.”
“Maybe someone forgot,” Grimes shot back.
Frank dug inside his pocket for his key ring. This was Washington. No one forgot.
“We locked up early last night,” he said. “I had an edit and so did Linda. Then the president’s fund-raiser, Grimes.”
“He could’ve picked it.”
“I thought nothing was found on the body.”
Grimes curled his lip and then laughed. “We’ve got a wise guy here. This is why they call you guys spin doctors, right? Two plus two equals three or five depending on who you’re trying to screw?”
Frank opened the door and got out. He’d had enough of Grimes.
Randolph started the car, flashing a tired smile at him. “There a lot of ways he could’ve gotten in, Frank. It’s been a long night and this thing’s open and shut. Do us all a favor. Go back inside and leave it alone.”
Chapter 19
Ozzie Olson followed the guard down the hall to the judge’s chambers and knew that he had to make this quick. It would be difficult. He had a history with Judge Taylor. At one time, before Olson was destroyed and eaten up by the darkness, they had been friends.
The guard swung the door open, peeked inside, then nodded at Olson that it was okay to go in. Olson lumbered through the doorway and stopped, the judge studying him carefully from his desk. Judge Taylor had been at it for thirty years and was known for the poker face he spawned during trial. Today, his grizzled face clearly betrayed what he was thinking.
Olson already knew how bad he looked. Even worse from spending a drunken night in jail. The dark circles beneath his eyes were digging into his cheeks and had turned black. His skin had lost its color. He hadn’t seen the judge for several years. Olson had begun to gray since then and had gained considerable weight. Up seventy pounds from two-fifty. At only six feet one, Olson didn’t need to be reminded that he wasn’t carrying it well.
The guard left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Have a seat, Ozzie,” the judge said in an even voice.
Olson sat down before the judge’s desk, watching the man lean back in his chair and review his file. A lecture was coming. Maybe a second chance.
Judge Taylor began reading the charges aloud. “Driving while under the influence. Resisting arrest. Looks like shit.” The judge sat up, eyeing him again. “Someone
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Randolph nodded at the backseat with a tuna sandwich in his hand. Frank hesitated a moment, but climbed in. As Grimes turned and leaned against the door to face him, Randolph began paging through a file until he found what he was looking for.
“We IDd the kid,” Randolph said, taking a last bite of his sandwich. “Sonny Stockwell. He had a record. He got picked up for burglary six months ago with a buddy of his.”
The detective passed an 8x10 photo over the seat. Frank eyed it carefully. It was a mug shot of the boy that he’d seen behind the building just twelve hours ago. Woody’s murderer, staring back at him with attitude.
“He looks young. How old was he?”
“Eighteen,” Grimes said. “On his way to twenty to life.”
Frank ignored him and turned back to Randolph. “What about his friend?”
“Alan Ingrams? He works at a Burger King. His boss says he was still punched in around the time Woody got shot.”
Frank passed the photo back, unable to hide his concern. Randolph must have known what was on his mind.
“Stop thinking it, Frank. The kid got Woody and Woody got the kid. It’s over. There’s no reason for anyone to come back.”
Randolph lit a cigarette and reached for his Coke. Frank sat back in the seat, noticing that he still held the key to the new lock in his hand.
“How do you think Stockwell got in?” he asked.
Randolph’s eyes flickered. Grimes’s stupid grin was back.
“It’s an office,” Grimes said. “He probably used the front door.”
“The door’s locked every night at six.”
“Maybe someone forgot,” Grimes shot back.
Frank dug inside his pocket for his key ring. This was Washington. No one forgot.
“We locked up early last night,” he said. “I had an edit and so did Linda. Then the president’s fund-raiser, Grimes.”
“He could’ve picked it.”
“I thought nothing was found on the body.”
Grimes curled his lip and then laughed. “We’ve got a wise guy here. This is why they call you guys spin doctors, right? Two plus two equals three or five depending on who you’re trying to screw?”
Frank opened the door and got out. He’d had enough of Grimes.
Randolph started the car, flashing a tired smile at him. “There a lot of ways he could’ve gotten in, Frank. It’s been a long night and this thing’s open and shut. Do us all a favor. Go back inside and leave it alone.”
Chapter 19
Ozzie Olson followed the guard down the hall to the judge’s chambers and knew that he had to make this quick. It would be difficult. He had a history with Judge Taylor. At one time, before Olson was destroyed and eaten up by the darkness, they had been friends.
The guard swung the door open, peeked inside, then nodded at Olson that it was okay to go in. Olson lumbered through the doorway and stopped, the judge studying him carefully from his desk. Judge Taylor had been at it for thirty years and was known for the poker face he spawned during trial. Today, his grizzled face clearly betrayed what he was thinking.
Olson already knew how bad he looked. Even worse from spending a drunken night in jail. The dark circles beneath his eyes were digging into his cheeks and had turned black. His skin had lost its color. He hadn’t seen the judge for several years. Olson had begun to gray since then and had gained considerable weight. Up seventy pounds from two-fifty. At only six feet one, Olson didn’t need to be reminded that he wasn’t carrying it well.
The guard left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Have a seat, Ozzie,” the judge said in an even voice.
Olson sat down before the judge’s desk, watching the man lean back in his chair and review his file. A lecture was coming. Maybe a second chance.
Judge Taylor began reading the charges aloud. “Driving while under the influence. Resisting arrest. Looks like shit.” The judge sat up, eyeing him again. “Someone
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