me too, just before I’d gone into the interview room. “We need this.” He’d stretched to whisper in my ear. I’d just nodded. The code was clear: he was sure, intuitively or whatever, this was the guy, but there might not be enough evidence to convict him without a good confession.
He said something else, just before he left. “We’ll be down the hall. Out of earshot.”
The suspect knew what that meant, too.
We had more modern interview rooms, but this called for old school: scarred metal table, cold metal chair, outdated equipment. I started the interview a little differently, fiddling with the recording equipment and then saying, “Ah, the hell with it.” When I turned back to the guy, he knew. We weren’t recording this session. I just looked at him for a long minute, watching sweat appear on his balding forehead. He wiped his mouth, looking up at me from the edge of the chair. “You were there,” I said. He shook his head. “You think we don’t know, just because you wiped the place clean? That shows what a pro you are. You weren’t so careful when you hit another apartment in the same building a month ago. And somebody saw you there last week.”
That wasn’t in the report, but I figured it was the detail most likely to get a reaction, and I was right. His eyes got big as open windows. “I was just there looking at an empty apartment. To rent. Felons gotta live someplace too.”
I just let him think about that bad story while I began writing his confession. He looked over my shoulder. “I didn’t. I didn’t hit her. She hit her head on the countertop.” I backtracked in the confession to say she’d slipped, smiling inside. Hit head on the table edge. The burglar wasn’t contradicting anything now. I slipped in the perfect details: lavendar panties, the gold watch from her jewelry drawer.
Owsley came in to take it from me. Looked at the blank signature line, then at me. I just looked back. The guy was pressed back against the wall now that there were two cops in the room. He’d sign.
Owsley nodded as he read. “Table edge. Good detail. He said countertop, but you’re right, it was the table edge. We found blood. Sure you didn’t know her? That’s funny, because I saw the two of you at lunch one day. Little out-of-the-way Mexican place. I started to come over and say hi, but it looked like you were having a pretty intense discussion.”
I sensed people on the other side of the mirrored glass. Started thinking, didn’t say anything.
“So I thought of you, especially after I saw the gift she’d bought. It was in the bedroom. Did you not get that far?” His partner came in, handed him a large gift box, kept his eyes on me. Owsley opened it. A robe. Plush. Burgundy. I looked down at it, rubbed the rich texture of the fabric, and saw my initials on the pocket.
“Nice robe,” Owsley said. “Must have set her back half a week’s pay. A girl trying to hold on to her man, when he was ready to dump her. Or wanting more than he was willing to give her, breaking up his marriage and costing him half his pension.”
Owsley sighed. “Or maybe she just loved him and wanted to do something nice for him. The initials weren’t enough. Neither was the table set for two. She was expecting somebody, not a burglar. But now we’ve got enough, I think. Details that weren’t in the report. The table edge. The fact the watch was gold. The report doesn’t mention either of those.”
I was the biggest guy in the room, but there were two of them. Now three, counting the burglar. And we were on DVD. Now that I was paying attention, I could hear the faint hum of the backup system.
Lieutenant Owsley draped the robe over my shoulders. She must’ve gotten it at a big and tall men’s shop, because it hung nicely on my shoulders and fell almost to my ankles.
“Nice fit,” Owsley said.
Jay Brandon is the award-winning author of
Fade the Heat, Executive Privilege,
the Chris Sinclair series of legal
He said something else, just before he left. “We’ll be down the hall. Out of earshot.”
The suspect knew what that meant, too.
We had more modern interview rooms, but this called for old school: scarred metal table, cold metal chair, outdated equipment. I started the interview a little differently, fiddling with the recording equipment and then saying, “Ah, the hell with it.” When I turned back to the guy, he knew. We weren’t recording this session. I just looked at him for a long minute, watching sweat appear on his balding forehead. He wiped his mouth, looking up at me from the edge of the chair. “You were there,” I said. He shook his head. “You think we don’t know, just because you wiped the place clean? That shows what a pro you are. You weren’t so careful when you hit another apartment in the same building a month ago. And somebody saw you there last week.”
That wasn’t in the report, but I figured it was the detail most likely to get a reaction, and I was right. His eyes got big as open windows. “I was just there looking at an empty apartment. To rent. Felons gotta live someplace too.”
I just let him think about that bad story while I began writing his confession. He looked over my shoulder. “I didn’t. I didn’t hit her. She hit her head on the countertop.” I backtracked in the confession to say she’d slipped, smiling inside. Hit head on the table edge. The burglar wasn’t contradicting anything now. I slipped in the perfect details: lavendar panties, the gold watch from her jewelry drawer.
Owsley came in to take it from me. Looked at the blank signature line, then at me. I just looked back. The guy was pressed back against the wall now that there were two cops in the room. He’d sign.
Owsley nodded as he read. “Table edge. Good detail. He said countertop, but you’re right, it was the table edge. We found blood. Sure you didn’t know her? That’s funny, because I saw the two of you at lunch one day. Little out-of-the-way Mexican place. I started to come over and say hi, but it looked like you were having a pretty intense discussion.”
I sensed people on the other side of the mirrored glass. Started thinking, didn’t say anything.
“So I thought of you, especially after I saw the gift she’d bought. It was in the bedroom. Did you not get that far?” His partner came in, handed him a large gift box, kept his eyes on me. Owsley opened it. A robe. Plush. Burgundy. I looked down at it, rubbed the rich texture of the fabric, and saw my initials on the pocket.
“Nice robe,” Owsley said. “Must have set her back half a week’s pay. A girl trying to hold on to her man, when he was ready to dump her. Or wanting more than he was willing to give her, breaking up his marriage and costing him half his pension.”
Owsley sighed. “Or maybe she just loved him and wanted to do something nice for him. The initials weren’t enough. Neither was the table set for two. She was expecting somebody, not a burglar. But now we’ve got enough, I think. Details that weren’t in the report. The table edge. The fact the watch was gold. The report doesn’t mention either of those.”
I was the biggest guy in the room, but there were two of them. Now three, counting the burglar. And we were on DVD. Now that I was paying attention, I could hear the faint hum of the backup system.
Lieutenant Owsley draped the robe over my shoulders. She must’ve gotten it at a big and tall men’s shop, because it hung nicely on my shoulders and fell almost to my ankles.
“Nice fit,” Owsley said.
Jay Brandon is the award-winning author of
Fade the Heat, Executive Privilege,
the Chris Sinclair series of legal
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