Powers of Arrest - страница 23

“That ‘somebody’ again,” Brooks said.

“Noah,” Cheryl Beth said, “When you three were together, were you alone in the gardens? Did you notice anyone else?”

He hung his head, shaking it slowly. “I don’t remember.”

His story seemed implausible. But Cheryl Beth also knew that many of the behaviors Noah exhibited, from the loss of focus, impaired attention, and even paranoia were after-effects of Ecstasy, otherwise known as MDMA.

She turned to Brooks: “Did you notice any marks on the grass as if he’d been dragged?”

Brooks glared at her.

“Has anyone examined the back of his head?” she asked.

“This is bullshit,” Brooks said,

“May I?” She stood. “I’m an R.N.”

The deputy seemed unsure.

“Go ahead,” Brooks said. “What the hell.”

She walked behind Noah and felt above his neck into his hair. There was no bleeding but a noticeable lump. “There is a hematoma there,” she said. “A big bruise. A blow from the back could have made it. He needs to be checked for a concussion.”

“That’s what I’m telling you.” Noah said.

“It could also have come from the arrest,” Brooks said. “Or maybe you fell. Killers are stupid that way.” He stood and walked to the door.

“I’ll see you in the lobby, Cheryl Beth. You,” he pointed at Noah. “You and I are going to have more talks.”

After the door shut, Cheryl Beth faced Noah. His face was wet with tears. He didn’t dare raise his hands to wipe them away.

“Why did you ask for me?”

“I don’t have anybody,” he said. “You seem kind.”

She watched him carefully. Was he manipulating her? She couldn’t be sure. He seemed sincere. “Who can I call for you? Parents? Brothers or sisters?”

He shook his head. “I don’t have anybody.”

She thought about bringing up Corbin, but didn’t. The place held too many ghosts and heartbreaks. That he was from there unsettled her further. She made herself look him in the eye. “I don’t know how to help you. I could ask around about lawyers.

“I don’t have any money. I’m over my head with student loans. You’ve got to believe me. I didn’t kill them.” After a long pause, he spoke again. “Do you believe me?”

“Yes.” Cheryl Beth felt the lie burning her throat.

The press conference began at five minutes after four at Cincinnati police headquarters on Ezzard Charles Drive. The city was under a tornado watch. When Will had reached the station two hours earlier to brief the brass, the air was thick with humidity and enormous thunderheads were advancing over the Western Hills. Kristen Gruber’s parents had retired to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and the chief had called them personally, hoping to reach them before they heard about the murder from the media. Now the briefing room was bright with television lights whatever the sky outside had to say. All the local stations were there, plus a crew from Indianapolis and a freelance team. Half the room seemed to be sneezing and sniffling. Sinus Valley.

The chief stood at the center of the podium flanked by the lieutenant colonels that commanded different bureaus in the department. All wore black mourning bands on their badges. All were in full uniform, including the dark dress jacket. This was a good thing in Will’s mind, not only because the white uniform shirts of CPD overly reflected light and drove the television people crazy, but also because they made the cops look like ice-cream men. That, at least, had been Cindy’s joke. Will’s ex-wife had disapproved of his career choice with increasing intensity as their marriage went on.

White shirts and television lights. Will had learned about such arcana when he was sent to a special school for law-enforcement media officers. He had been drilled in how to handle the parry and thrust of difficult press conferences. Still, he felt ill at ease before the cameras, and today especially he was happy to stand off to the side of the brass, the only one in a suit. He gripped the edge of a chair with his right hand, subtly he hoped. His body was exhausted from the day and standing now was taking all his effort. Chest up, shoulders back, lats pulled down, diaphragm tight, all the things he had been taught. Still, his left leg was reliably thumping every eighteen seconds. You could set a stopwatch by it. He desperately wanted to hyper-extend the leg and let all the pent-up energy out, but he had learned the hard way that doing this would cause him to be in danger of falling down from the resulting spasm. So he put weight on it hoping the leg would calm itself.