Read Online Martin Misunderstood by Karin Slaughter - Free Book Online
Authors: Karin Slaughter
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toward the trash chute. Someone
reported hearing a giggle as the door squeaked
open, though that would have been the last noise
he made. Marty didn't even scream as he
careened down the chute, landing thirty-eight
floors down beside his wadded up lunch sack.
It wasn't until several hours later when the
driver of the garbage truck found the body that
someone actually read the note: 'Please give my
glasses to the Ancient Arabic Order of the Nobles
of the Mystic Shrine.'
'That's nice,' Martin's mother had said,
though she had been furious to learn that the
Shriners did not allow women to attend their
meetings. Martin had always assumed that
explained the giggle. His father had finally
managed to get the last word.
'Hooty-hoo!' someone heckled. There were
whistles and a few catcalls. Martin craned to see
around the legs of the men standing in front of
the cell bars. He saw a tennis shoe . . . a calf . . .
'Shut up, you cocksuckers,' An told the men
who were reaching toward her. 'Back the fuck off
before I Tase every one of you.'
Martin scrambled to stand, his heart thumping
at the sound of her voice. The crowd parted and
he walked forward, feeling the curious, if not
outright envious, stares of his fellow cellies.
An nodded to the policeman beside her and he
opened the cell door.
'This way,' she said, walking down the
hallway.
Martin stumbled over his own feet as he tried
to keep up with her. 'It was awful in there,' he
said. 'You don't know what it does to a man.
They're animals. I feel so—'
'You were in there for less than thirty minutes,'
she told him, punching a code into the keypad by
the door.
'Really?' he asked, surprised that it hadn't
been at least an hour. 'It felt like an eternity.
Thank you so much for . . .' Martin's brain
caught up with the moment. 'Hey, where are you
taking me?'
'I'm letting you out on your own recognizance.'
'What about the blood? What about my
fingerprints?'
'Are you trying to talk me out of this?'
'I just . . . I don't want you to get into
trouble,' he said, the truth coming out. His mind
flashed on the image of An in the interrogation
room. Was that concern he had seen on her
face as he threw up all over the table? It
wasn't revulsion – Martin had seen revulsion in
enough women by now to know what that
looked like.
She asked, 'Why would I get in trouble?'
'For letting me out,' he said. 'I mean, this is a
lot of circumstantial evidence we're talking
about.'
She stared at him. He saw that one of her
eyelids drooped more than the other. The circles
under her eyes were darker in the fluorescent
light of the corridor. He wanted to hold her in his
arms. He wanted to kiss the droopiness away. Or
kiss the droopiness in, because it seemed like it
would be easier to make an eyelid droop more by
pressing into it than it would be to remove the
droopiness; it was just simple physics.
'You need a better lawyer than the one you've
got.'
'Max seems like a nice guy.' He had actually
offered Martin some good advice about making
sure to align himself with the whites as soon as he
got into the cells. Had there been any white
people, he would have certainly done so.
'I'm letting you go because forensic tests
showed that Sandy's blood on the bumper dried
before yours did.'
'You can tell that?'
'Yes,' she told him, sounding tired. 'We can tell
that.'
Martin scratched his chin, wondering if he
would ever be able to trust Kay Scarpetta again.
'Your car is in the impound lot. Keep your
nose clean,' An warned him. 'You're still our
main suspect in this case.'
'Yes, I can see why.'
'You also need to tell me what you were doing
between the time you dropped off your mother
and the time you came home.'
Martin pressed his lips together.
'Mr Reed—'
'I promise you that I would never hurt Sandy.
She teased me sometimes, but I know that she
cared about me. Sometimes, when people pick on
you, it's because, for them, that's the only way
they can show affection.' Martin shrugged. 'If
you look at it
reported hearing a giggle as the door squeaked
open, though that would have been the last noise
he made. Marty didn't even scream as he
careened down the chute, landing thirty-eight
floors down beside his wadded up lunch sack.
It wasn't until several hours later when the
driver of the garbage truck found the body that
someone actually read the note: 'Please give my
glasses to the Ancient Arabic Order of the Nobles
of the Mystic Shrine.'
'That's nice,' Martin's mother had said,
though she had been furious to learn that the
Shriners did not allow women to attend their
meetings. Martin had always assumed that
explained the giggle. His father had finally
managed to get the last word.
'Hooty-hoo!' someone heckled. There were
whistles and a few catcalls. Martin craned to see
around the legs of the men standing in front of
the cell bars. He saw a tennis shoe . . . a calf . . .
'Shut up, you cocksuckers,' An told the men
who were reaching toward her. 'Back the fuck off
before I Tase every one of you.'
Martin scrambled to stand, his heart thumping
at the sound of her voice. The crowd parted and
he walked forward, feeling the curious, if not
outright envious, stares of his fellow cellies.
An nodded to the policeman beside her and he
opened the cell door.
'This way,' she said, walking down the
hallway.
Martin stumbled over his own feet as he tried
to keep up with her. 'It was awful in there,' he
said. 'You don't know what it does to a man.
They're animals. I feel so—'
'You were in there for less than thirty minutes,'
she told him, punching a code into the keypad by
the door.
'Really?' he asked, surprised that it hadn't
been at least an hour. 'It felt like an eternity.
Thank you so much for . . .' Martin's brain
caught up with the moment. 'Hey, where are you
taking me?'
'I'm letting you out on your own recognizance.'
'What about the blood? What about my
fingerprints?'
'Are you trying to talk me out of this?'
'I just . . . I don't want you to get into
trouble,' he said, the truth coming out. His mind
flashed on the image of An in the interrogation
room. Was that concern he had seen on her
face as he threw up all over the table? It
wasn't revulsion – Martin had seen revulsion in
enough women by now to know what that
looked like.
She asked, 'Why would I get in trouble?'
'For letting me out,' he said. 'I mean, this is a
lot of circumstantial evidence we're talking
about.'
She stared at him. He saw that one of her
eyelids drooped more than the other. The circles
under her eyes were darker in the fluorescent
light of the corridor. He wanted to hold her in his
arms. He wanted to kiss the droopiness away. Or
kiss the droopiness in, because it seemed like it
would be easier to make an eyelid droop more by
pressing into it than it would be to remove the
droopiness; it was just simple physics.
'You need a better lawyer than the one you've
got.'
'Max seems like a nice guy.' He had actually
offered Martin some good advice about making
sure to align himself with the whites as soon as he
got into the cells. Had there been any white
people, he would have certainly done so.
'I'm letting you go because forensic tests
showed that Sandy's blood on the bumper dried
before yours did.'
'You can tell that?'
'Yes,' she told him, sounding tired. 'We can tell
that.'
Martin scratched his chin, wondering if he
would ever be able to trust Kay Scarpetta again.
'Your car is in the impound lot. Keep your
nose clean,' An warned him. 'You're still our
main suspect in this case.'
'Yes, I can see why.'
'You also need to tell me what you were doing
between the time you dropped off your mother
and the time you came home.'
Martin pressed his lips together.
'Mr Reed—'
'I promise you that I would never hurt Sandy.
She teased me sometimes, but I know that she
cared about me. Sometimes, when people pick on
you, it's because, for them, that's the only way
they can show affection.' Martin shrugged. 'If
you look at it