53

 

 

There was no way to know who drove my car from the Brassart’s to the investigative division, but whoever it was, it had been somebody tall and inconsiderate. I figured out the tall part because he had to ratchet my driver’s seat way back to the furthest notch in order to drive it. The inconsiderate part was obvious because the seat was still there.

I adjusted the seat forward and started the car. The drive home was a short one. As I rolled up the street, though, I spotted the vans for two different TV stations parked right in front of my apartment.

“Damn,” I muttered.

One of them was the same station that had arrived at the Brassart’s as I was leaving in the back of Norris’ police cruiser. After my experience with Stone, and to a lesser degree, with Strodtz, I definitely didn’t want to deal with the media on top of everything else.

I cruised past the parked vans. The driver’s door of one was propped open slightly while a bored cameraman smoked a cigarette and blew the smoke through the opening. In the passenger seat, a male reporter primped in the visor mirror.

Near the main entrance, the same cameraman and female reporter loitered. The large camera sat on the porch next to the cameraman. The reporter glanced at her watch while a microphone dangled from her other hand.

I slid past in my battered Toyota Celica without any of them noticing me.

 

 

Clell’s place was in a part of town everyone used to call “short north.” It wasn’t too accurate anymore, with all the northward urban sprawl, unless someone wanted to start calling it “shorter north.” He had a little two bedroom house on a nice block just north of the West Central neighborhood. His neighbors were pretty good, but they were all held hostage to the vagaries of the people who lived one block in either direction. Mostly poor whites who were either working or looking for work, there were a few who preyed upon their neighbors. Clell has been lucky enough to escape being victimized but we both knew that as long he lived on Spofford, it was only a matter of time.

“I’m holding out for gentrification,” Clell once said, but I didn’t think that was happening any time soon.

When I showed up on his doorstep, he seemed surprised, but let me in without a word. That’s how I ended up standing in his living room, trying to decide how to explain everything.

“You okay?” he asked.

I started to say yes, but the words stuck in my throat. I swallowed, and asked, “You think you could make us some coffee?”

“Sure,” he said, but he glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a couple of hours before I have to leave for work.”

I stood in his living room, looking out at the park across the street, while he brewed up some Maxwell House. The thick, heady aroma was comforting somehow. So was Clell’s tiny kitchen table, where we took a seat and sipped the dark brew.

“You wanna fill me in?” he asked after a while.

I started talking. Once I did, I didn’t stop. Clell didn’t interrupt a single time, and only moved once, rising from his chair to refill our cups. I told him everything and he listened without judgment.

When I’d finished, he was silent for a long time. I waited, lost in my own thoughts.

“Tough case,” he finally said.

“Yeah.”

He took a long sip of his coffee. Then he said, “Sounds like you solved it, though.”

I shook my head. “The thing is, I didn’t really do a damn thing. I made a few basic moves, but I didn’t break anything loose. At least, nothing of consequence.”

“From where I sit, you busted open the whole thing.”

“The cops would have got there eventually.”

“It didn’t sound like they were really looking. They seemed pretty focused on the guy’s wife from the beginning.”

I shrugged. “Maybe so. It’s hard to blame them, in a way. Things looked almost gift wrapped right from the jump.”

“Not to you.”

“All I did is approach it from a different angle. Maybe the detectives should have done the same.” I drank a mouthful of coffee and set the cup back down. “Sometimes it’s just about pulling at all the threads until something unravels. It isn’t anything spectacular, that’s for sure.”

“Well, you got the lawyer the answer he was looking for. Wasn’t that what you were hired to do?”

I considered that, then shrugged. “I guess you’re right.”

I thought he might offer something more, but he didn’t. I realized I didn’t care, either. Just listening was enough. That and the Maxwell House. We sat at his kitchen table, drinking coffee in an easy silence.

“I’m leaving for North Dakota tomorrow morning,” he eventually told me.

I raised my eyebrows questioningly.

“Family matter,” he said, uncharacteristically vague.

I thought about asking him more, but decided that if he wanted me to know, he would have told me already.

“All right. Something I can help with?”

He gave a short shake of his head. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. But you can stay here tonight, and longer if you need to.”

“Thanks. I hope I don’t need to.”

“Those news people can be pretty determined,” Clell said.

I shrugged. “Something else shiny will come along, and it’ll be the next hot thing for them to chase. I’ll be old news, if I end up being news at all. Maybe since they couldn’t get me at my apartment, that’ll be the end of it.”

Clell glanced at his watch. “Easy enough to find out.”

We rose and went into the living room. Clell turned on his TV, adjusting the rabbit ears on top to bring in the signal for Channel 5.

“Not these guys,” I grumbled. “They hate the police.”

“You’re not police,” Clell reminded me.

“I was. They probably still make that association.”

“I think,” Clell said, “that, if anything, they see you and the RCPD on opposite sides of the fence. Besides, this is the only channel that comes in.”

“You need to think about getting cable,” I muttered.

“Like you?” Clell gave me a lopsided grin.

I didn’t have an answer for that.

The last of the national news still had ten minutes to go. We sat quietly through the sports, weather, and a human interest story that wasn’t. The national anchor signed off, and the Action 5 News logo appeared on the screen.

“Maybe it won’t lead,” I said hopefully.

A cheap imitation of the national newsman filled the screen. “Tonight in River City,” he said, “She’s accused of murder…and may have struck again. One person is dead and the police aren’t revealing many details. Get the story here tonight, exclusively on Action 5 News.”

“So much for that hope,” Clell observed.

Dramatic music and a montage of news reporters and well-known local stories flashed across the screen before the camera returned to the local anchor.

“Good evening. I’m Richard Scarborough, and this is Action 5 News.” The camera angle switched, and Scarborough changed his facing along with it. “A man is dead and police are investigating. Kiley Patterson has more.”

The camera cut to the blonde reporter I’d seen from the back of Norris’ cruiser and again outside my apartment. She was still there, in fact, with the front door of my building in the background of her live shot.

“Uh-oh,” Clell said.

“Good evening, Richard,” Kiley said in her practiced delivery. “River City Police are investigating a homicide tonight in Namaste Estates at a home they are already familiar with: the residence of Marie Brassart.”

Another cutaway, this time with pre-recorded voiceover from Kiley.

“Police aren’t saying much,” she intoned while the video rolled on the Brassart home with the same yellow crime scene tape Cavender had lifted for us in the foreground. Forensics investigators milled around their vehicles, oblivious to the fact that they were being filmed. “But we have been able to establish that the death occurred inside the home of Marie Brassart. The identity of the victim is being withheld pending family notification, but police have confirmed that three people have been questioned in connection with this incident. One of them is Marie Brassart, the accused murderer of her husband, Henry Brassart.”

Kiley paused briefly for effect, then continued.

“You may recall that Henry Brassart was struck and killed by an unknown vehicle last year. His wife, Marie Brassart, has been charged with his death, but she is currently out on bail awaiting trial. As to who the victim is, Richard, police are remaining mum.”

The video switched to a slightly shaky segment of a police car approaching the same crime scene tape. I felt something like a cold, hard stone weigh down the pit of my stomach.

“Marie Brassart is certainly one of the people being questioned,” Kiley said, “but Action 5 News has exclusive footage of another of the persons of interest that police took into custody.”

“Shit,” I said.

The camera steadied, zooming in first on Norris, then shifting to back seat window. I stared at my own face staring back into the camera.

“Shit,” I said again.

“This man was transported from the home of Marie Brassart by RCPD. Now, officials refuse to comment on his identity or the reason for his arrest, but Action News 5 investigators have uncovered the truth.”

The video stopped, and my frozen visage stared out.

“This appears to be former police officer Stefan Kopriva,” Kiley said. “Longtime residents of River City may remember Officer Kopriva for engaging in a gun battle with the so-called Scarface Robber over thirteen years ago. More likely, however, you will remember him as the officer whose terrible mistake less than a year later cost a six-year-old girl her life.”

I sat mutely while Kiley Peterson narrated over stock footage from the Amy Dugger case. The obligatory crime scene shot was followed by a sound bite from the Chief at the time of the case. Next came a snippet from Amy’s mother, and then they ended with a picture of that perfect child before cutting back to the live feed of Kiley Patterson in front of my apartment.

“It is unclear what his exact role is in this current incident, but police confirm that all three persons of interest have since been released from custody. We attempted to contact Mr. Kopriva here at his home in the 1900 block of West Pacific, but either he is not home or he does not wish to speak with us. We’ll continue to follow this story as it develops. Richard?”

The scene cut back to the studio. An appropriately concerned Richard Scarborough leaned forward slightly and asked, “Kiley, with everyone initially taken into custody now released, do the police have any concern that a killer is still at large?”

Kiley stood blinking stupidly until the satellite delay caught up. “No, Richard. Lieutenant Crawford of the Major Crimes unit has refused to provide further details, but he did state that there are no outstanding suspects and that there is no cause for alarm within the community. For Action 5 News, I’m Kiley Patterson.”

Richard nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Kiley.” He took a moment to shake his head morosely, then focused on the teleprompter. “In other news –”

I tuned him out, leaning back and closing my eyes. I barely heard Clell rise from his seat and snap off the television. When I opened my eyes again, he was looking at me with a curious expression.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, but his tone said something different.

“If you’ve got something to say,” I began, but he held up his hand to cut me off.

“I don’t.” He pointed at the couch. “I have to go to work, but you’re welcome to stay. Just lock up in the morning, okay?”

I nodded.

Clell didn’t say another word. He went into the bedroom, changed into his security uniform, put on his coat, and nodded goodbye to me on his way out the door, leaving me alone with everything that had happened.