Read Online The Devil and the Detective by John Goldbach - Free Book Online Page B

boots, looking at its sole.
    â€˜Well?’ O’Meara said to him, and he said, ‘It’s a definite match.’
    â€˜All right, cuff this motherfucker,’ and the officer was on me, with his knee in my spine and my hands pulled around my back and clasped in handcuffs. The cuffs drew blood.
    â€˜You have nothing linking me to her death,’ I said.
    â€˜Rick, you were the last person to be seen with her, one; two, we took plaster casts of the footprints in the Andrewses’ backyard and guess what, buddy? That’s right – your boots are a match!’
    â€˜I never set foot in the Andrewses’ backyard.’
    â€˜You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.’
    â€˜Fuck you.’
    Someone punched me again in my kidney, and again I fell. ‘Listen, you sick fuck, you’re under arrest and you’re going to rot in jail,’ he said into my ear, both of us gritting our teeth, me in pain and him in anger, ‘and I’ll make sure you get bunked up with some twisted fuck who’s going to ream you out every morning, every afternoon and every evening, you fucking scum!’ My ear was wet with his spittle.
    â€˜You’re a fucking moron, O’Meara,’ I said, and then I was hit in the head with something hard and blacked out.
    When I came to I was cuffed to a chair in a dark interrogation room under a bright hot light. I heard voices, though I couldn’t see faces. ‘Who do you think you’re fooling?’ said a voice. ‘You’re transparent as all hell. We know. We all know.’
    â€˜I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said.
    â€˜Playing dumb won’t help you, Rick.’
    â€˜Hi, O’Meara.’
    â€˜Come clean, Rick.’
    â€˜Okay, I’ll come clean. I think you’re a fucking moron.’
    A fist emerged from the darkness and caught the edge of my jaw. I bit my tongue when my teeth snapped shut and immediately tasted blood.
    â€˜We know what you’re up to, psycho. There’s nothing mysterious about it, you sick lonely fuck.’
    I tried to talk but couldn’t form words. Blood and saliva ran down my chin. The disembodied voices kept talking but I could no longer follow.
    â€˜I bibn’t boo banybing,’ I said.
    â€˜I bibn’t boo banybing,’ said O’Meara, laughing in the dark. And then he said, ‘Work this degenerate over. We don’t need fucks like this walking the streets,’ and fists, many sets, emerged from the darkness and started pounding on my ribs, jaw and kidneys. My eyes shut tight, I gritted my teeth, and then I passed out from the pain.
    I woke up, in the dark, still cuffed to the chair. The bright interrogation light was off. I called out and no one answered. I was alone. Immediately I thought of Elaine and felt sick. I pictured her, gagged, hands restrained, like mine, dead from head trauma. She was found in a dumpster, I thought. How’d she get there? How’d someone get her out of the house without me or the officer out front knowing, without making a sound or leaving a single trace? I looked hard into the darkness. I could make out nothing, which wasn’t a surprise. I didn’t kill her, I thought. I said out loud, ‘I know I didn’t kill her.’ How could I? How could’ve I killed her, done away with the body, and made it back to inform the police? What was O’Meara thinking? A horrible buzz sounded and a red light flashed in the corner of the interrogation room. I stared up at it, frightened, and it kept sounding, over and over, and the light lit up again, and the room went red, then pitch-black, then red again, with the buzzing sound. I stared at the painted bulb. There was pounding at the door. ‘Open up, Rick,’ I heard, and the buzzing continued, now relentless, without pause, a solid grating sound, and the light stayed red, giving