Read Online Whisper Death by John Lawrence Reynolds - Free Book Online

to the rear.
    McGuire couldn’t imagine a sharper contrast in architecture than the granite mausoleum lines of Boston Police Headquarters and the airy openness of its Palm Springs counterpart. One was cold and vertical, the other warm and horizontal. Where tarnished brass and cracked marble dominated in Boston, open-grain wood and natural fabrics set the tone in Palm Springs.
    Beyond the office area, the three men entered a foyer with wide stairs leading down to the basement lock-up area. At the bottom of the stairs, Bonnar led the way into an interrogation room where a large two-way mirror provided a view from an adjoining observation area. A microphone was installed in the centre of a large, round wooden table to record conversations, and the oversized clock on the wall would be included in videotaped scenes as protection against editing.
    Bonnar showed McGuire and Innes the coffee machine just outside the door and left to retrieve Crawford from his cell.
    â€œI could handle police work in a place like this,” McGuire said, when he had settled in a chair at the interrogation table.
    Ralph Innes grunted, crossed his legs and stared into a far corner.
    â€œRalph, what’s chewing your ass anyway?” McGuire demanded.
    Innes turned his head slowly and looked at McGuire as though he were a stranger. “You didn’t have to come back, Joe,” he said. There was no anger in his voice. Only sadness.
    â€œWell, it’s too late now,” McGuire said with annoyance. “I’m back and that’s that. Relax, damn it. I’m just putting in time. I’m not interested in screwing your career.”
    The other man closed his eyes for a moment and let a small smile pull at the corners of his mouth. “It’s not my career I’m worried about,” he said.
    And McGuire knew. He had known it from the expression on Ralph’s face that morning at the airport in Boston.
    â€œI didn’t come back for Janet either,” he said. “So get that out of your head. We had something once and now it’s over.”
    Innes continued to look at him, the smile fixed. You’re lying, the expression said.
    The door behind McGuire opened and two Palm Springs officers entered the room, dressed in the starched khaki uniforms favoured by southern police forces that always reminded McGuire of Boy Scout troops. Each was holding tightly to one of Bunker Crawford’s arms.
    Crawford was taller than McGuire had expected, but even so he looked like a shrunken man. His skin hung loosely in folds from his face and he had less hair than in the police photograph. His eyes were dull and avoided those of the others; they moved, unhurried, from object to object, alighting on the microphone, the clock, the table, an empty corner, never connecting with another face. One of Crawford’s hands shook as though it were palsied.
    â€œYou guys okay in here?” Bonnar leaned through the open doorway behind Crawford and the two young police officers, still gripping their prisoner by his upper arms.
    McGuire nodded. “Take the cuffs off him,” he instructed. When Crawford was free, McGuire motioned him to sit down and nodded to the two officers, who stepped quietly into the corridor.
    A small red light beneath the clock glowed, and McGuire knew someone was in the room beyond the two-way mirror, taping the proceedings.
    â€œBunker, can I get you a coffee?” McGuire offered.
    Crawford shook his head and examined his fingernails.
    â€œAre they treating you all right here?”
    A slight nod.
    â€œBunker, we’re from the Boston Police Department,” McGuire said. He spoke gently. Crawford looked pathetic, his mouth hanging slackly open, his face unshaven. “My name is McGuire, and that’s Sergeant Innes behind you. You don’t have to talk to us without your lawyer present, but we would like to ask you a few questions. . . .”
    â€œNot here.”