his car.”
“I figured as much,” Mike said. He removed a still photograph from a file folder on the table and laid it in front of Corbett. “That’s the picture they showed on Channel Twelve tonight. That right there is obviously you”—he pointed at Corbett’s face—“but right here on the side is another guy’s jean jacket. And on the video, it looks like he’s running next to you. Problem is, we can’t see his face. If you’re going to tell me it’s not your bat, you need to tell me whose it is. Otherwise, you take all the blame and you’re still a liar.”
“You never said anything about giving anyone else up.”
“That was before you told me the bat was someone else’s. And what did I say about coming clean?”
Corbett paused again, perhaps simply to comfort himself that he had at least hesitated before naming names. “It was Trevor’s.”
“Last name?”
“Hanks. Trevor Hanks. He lives near me, over on a hundred-fourth and Knight.”
Mike scratched the name down in his notebook, then stood again. “Anyone else?”
Corbett shook his head. “Nope. Just me and Trevor. There were plenty of other people acting crazy up there, but I don’t know who they were.”
“You’re not holding back on me, are you?”
“No, man.” Mike believed him. “I told you. We were totally fucked up. I don’t even remember half of what happened, but I know who I was with.”
Chuck called Ray Johnson to pass on the new name. He had already put together a throw-down including Corbett’s DMV photo. The plan was to show it to the superintendent who’d seen the men in the parking lot before the murder. They’d create another array now for Hanks, pasting his photograph next to those of five similar-looking men.
“Has Johnson found the super yet?” I asked.
“No luck,” Chuck said, flipping his phone shut. “He’s not home. Ray tried his pager number, but nothing yet. Reminds me why I left apartment life behind. Can never find a super when you need one.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and smiled.
“Yeah, I thought that’s all it was,” I said, smiling back.
Back inside the box, Todd Corbett had the erroneous impression he was going home. “So, are we done here?” he asked Mike, reaching for his ball cap.
“Actually, Todd, we’re in a bit of a jam.” After all Mike’s talk about honesty, he sounded genuinely disappointed in Corbett. “Here’s the problem. I’ve got a dead body on Hillside, bashed in with a baseball bat, only a few blocks from where you just told me you were going to town with—guess what? A baseball bat. I really can’t ignore that, you know what I’m saying?”
Corbett looked like a train had just come barreling out at him from the inside of a sink drain. Mike’s intentionally schizophrenic questioning was probably unsettling enough, but Corbett had undoubtedly confessed to the property crimes only because he was convinced that the police hadn’t connected those to Percy’s murder. His body slumped in the chair as he realized his mistake.
“You hearing me, Todd? You see my predicament?”
“What about that crap you said about the ticket and your word and all?”
“But that’s not what I’m not talking about. We’re done with that subject, and I’m still giving you a cite. No booking. But you see the spot I’m in on this killing, don’t you?”
“I don’t know nothing about that. You never said nothing about a murder.”
“Sure, but you also said you didn’t know anything about all the broken windows on Twenty-third. And you’re probably going to tell me you don’t know anything about these poor people who got walloped at random walking down the street that night, even though I got pictures of that too.”
“I told you what you wanted to know about the shit on Twenty-third. But I’m telling you, I didn’t kill nobody.”
“You’re going to have to come up with something better than that, Todd. I mean, what else
“I figured as much,” Mike said. He removed a still photograph from a file folder on the table and laid it in front of Corbett. “That’s the picture they showed on Channel Twelve tonight. That right there is obviously you”—he pointed at Corbett’s face—“but right here on the side is another guy’s jean jacket. And on the video, it looks like he’s running next to you. Problem is, we can’t see his face. If you’re going to tell me it’s not your bat, you need to tell me whose it is. Otherwise, you take all the blame and you’re still a liar.”
“You never said anything about giving anyone else up.”
“That was before you told me the bat was someone else’s. And what did I say about coming clean?”
Corbett paused again, perhaps simply to comfort himself that he had at least hesitated before naming names. “It was Trevor’s.”
“Last name?”
“Hanks. Trevor Hanks. He lives near me, over on a hundred-fourth and Knight.”
Mike scratched the name down in his notebook, then stood again. “Anyone else?”
Corbett shook his head. “Nope. Just me and Trevor. There were plenty of other people acting crazy up there, but I don’t know who they were.”
“You’re not holding back on me, are you?”
“No, man.” Mike believed him. “I told you. We were totally fucked up. I don’t even remember half of what happened, but I know who I was with.”
Chuck called Ray Johnson to pass on the new name. He had already put together a throw-down including Corbett’s DMV photo. The plan was to show it to the superintendent who’d seen the men in the parking lot before the murder. They’d create another array now for Hanks, pasting his photograph next to those of five similar-looking men.
“Has Johnson found the super yet?” I asked.
“No luck,” Chuck said, flipping his phone shut. “He’s not home. Ray tried his pager number, but nothing yet. Reminds me why I left apartment life behind. Can never find a super when you need one.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and smiled.
“Yeah, I thought that’s all it was,” I said, smiling back.
Back inside the box, Todd Corbett had the erroneous impression he was going home. “So, are we done here?” he asked Mike, reaching for his ball cap.
“Actually, Todd, we’re in a bit of a jam.” After all Mike’s talk about honesty, he sounded genuinely disappointed in Corbett. “Here’s the problem. I’ve got a dead body on Hillside, bashed in with a baseball bat, only a few blocks from where you just told me you were going to town with—guess what? A baseball bat. I really can’t ignore that, you know what I’m saying?”
Corbett looked like a train had just come barreling out at him from the inside of a sink drain. Mike’s intentionally schizophrenic questioning was probably unsettling enough, but Corbett had undoubtedly confessed to the property crimes only because he was convinced that the police hadn’t connected those to Percy’s murder. His body slumped in the chair as he realized his mistake.
“You hearing me, Todd? You see my predicament?”
“What about that crap you said about the ticket and your word and all?”
“But that’s not what I’m not talking about. We’re done with that subject, and I’m still giving you a cite. No booking. But you see the spot I’m in on this killing, don’t you?”
“I don’t know nothing about that. You never said nothing about a murder.”
“Sure, but you also said you didn’t know anything about all the broken windows on Twenty-third. And you’re probably going to tell me you don’t know anything about these poor people who got walloped at random walking down the street that night, even though I got pictures of that too.”
“I told you what you wanted to know about the shit on Twenty-third. But I’m telling you, I didn’t kill nobody.”
“You’re going to have to come up with something better than that, Todd. I mean, what else
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