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But I really wasn’t looking.”
    Scott closed his notebook and clipped his ballpoint in his shirt pocket. “Okay, Mr. Claxton, we’re done for now. I’m going to need you to come downtown today for a formal statement.” He handed me a card then glanced over at Picsasso and Detective Jones, who were heading out the gate. Picasso’s shoulders were slumped, his face ashen. “You know we have to take Mr. Baxter in for further processing.”
    â€œOf course you do,” I said. “If you have further questions for him, I plan to sit in.”
    Scott raised his eyebrows. “You’re a witness to this crime.”
    â€œHe and I both are, lieutenant.”
    At this point, we heard the thwop, thwop, thwop of an incoming news helicopter. Scott looked up, shaded his eyes and said under his breath, “Just don’t crash in my friggin’ crime scene.”
    I was going to make a quip about “if it bleeds it leads” but thought better of it.
    As we were leaving I noticed the two ME technicians re-enacting the murder at the edge of the pool, where I’d seen the blood spatter. One technician was standing where Conyers had stood, facing the pool. The other, who was behind him, raised his right hand and simulated a blow to the head. Then the man playing Conyers spun around, and the other man smiled and nodded.
    I stopped dead when I saw that hand come up to strike the blow, that right hand. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? Conyers’ wound was above his right ear. If his assailant was directly behind him when he struck the blow, then he was most likely right handed.
    Scott turned and gave me an impatient look as I stood there watching.
    I felt a twinge of hope, maybe even vindication, and suppressed an urge to smile.

Chapter Ten
    â€œLook, gentlemen,” I said, allowing an edge of irritation in my voice, “Mr. Baxter’s a witness to this crime, and he is more than happy to discuss what he observed at the Conyers’ residence. He is not willing to join you in a fishing expedition. Now, if we can’t move on, I’m going to advise my client to terminate this voluntary interview.” We were downtown, in the middle of Picasso’s second round of questioning. Scott and Jones kept coming back to the altercation between Picasso and Conyers at Nicole Baxter’s memorial, and I’d heard enough of that. I guess they knew I wasn’t bluffing, because after exchanging a glance, they moved on to another line of questioning.
    They held us until about nine thirty that night, at which time we were informed they had a warrant to search Picasso’s cabin at Dignity Village. The search was intrusive, owing to the flood lights that were brought in, and just about every person living in the village was milling around, trying to get a peek at the action. There was a lot of grumbling and more than a few choice epithets were shouted by the residents, who saw the cops, to a person, as the enemy. I turned around to say something to Picasso and noticed he was gone. I found him a few minutes later kneeling down next to his neighbor, Joey, the Iraq war veteran. Joey sat outside his shed with his head in his hands, sobbing.
    â€œâ€”It’s okay, big fella,” Picasso said in a low voice. “Nobody’s hurt. Everything’s cool. The cops are just looking around in my place. No big deal.” He reached into Joey’s shirt pocket and extracted a pack of Camels and a chrome plated lighter. “Here, man, have a smoke.” Joey wiped his eyes with his forearm and took a cigarette. I turned around before Picasso could see me watching and blended back into the crowd.
    Picasso had so few belongings that the search was over in less than an hour. I figured they were holding off on arresting him, hoping to find something more incriminating in the search. When this didn’t happen, Jones, Scott, and the search team left unceremoniously