right.
Bill Kaden, looking none too affable, advanced on the table, and I opened my mouth to offer a shaky admission of I-knew-not-what when like a thunderbolt a realization rocketed down, straightening my spine, jerking my fists against the pitted wood.
“The camcorder!” I cried. “I recorded myself sleeping!”
10
T hey kept me alone in that interrogation room for an hour and forty-five minutes. For the first while, I sat on the chair with the crime-scene photo, which they’d thoughtfully left behind to keep me company. On the back was printed Kasey Broach, 1/22, 2:07 A.M. The detectives had wasted no time in getting to me. When I couldn’t take the gruesome picture any longer, I had little to do but stare at my warped reflection in the mirror. The distortion amplified the way my hair bristled above the scar line, or maybe that was how it really looked.
My camcorder was digital, with a 120-hour memory, which meant that it had been recording seamlessly since I’d set it up, capturing me snoozing, changing, gargling. For better or worse, it would hold the answer. Me, dozing peacefully. Or sleepwalking into a murder.
After a while I moved the table and chair back to the middle of the room. As I paced, I caught myself inadvertently running the pads of my fingers along the line of my hidden scar. At the hour mark, I told the mirror that I was going to urinate in the corner if someone didn’t take me to a bathroom. A moment later the door popped open and a sullen rookie led me down the hall, then brought me back.
Kaden and Delveckio finally returned, carrying chairs and looking dyspeptic. At least Kaden did; from what I knew of Delveckio, that was just his normal expression. Reading their faces, I felt nothing short of elation. Wudn’t me. Wudn’t me.
They sat opposite. The folder in Kaden’s lap carried a sweat mark from his hand.
“We saw the footage,” Kaden said. “The lab seems to believe it wasn’t doctored. No glitches in the continuity.”
I blew out a breath that kept going. The relief was so intense it made me light-headed.
Kaden was talking. “But you could’ve had an accomplice. Or maybe the coroner’s time of death was inaccurate. You were off the tape for just about all of the afternoon and the early part of the night.”
“I have alibis. I was at a friend’s for the afternoon, then my editor came over.”
“This still doesn’t play right,” Kaden said. “Why’s an innocent guy—an innocent guy that all the evidence at the crime scene just weirdly happens to nail—set up an airtight alibi?”
“Because I thought I might have chopped my own foot in my sleep, and I was worried I was losing my mind.”
Kaden laughed. “‘Losing’?”
“Let’s start this over.” I extended my hand. “Drew.”
Kaden stared at my hand like he was about to spit on it, but after a moment he nodded. Delveckio grudgingly followed suit.
“Okay. You don’t like me, and I’m not particularly fond of you guys.” I glanced at Delveckio. “Especially you.”
“Why especially me?”
“That insult-to-injury thing was lame. Kaden may posture more, but he cuts a more impressive swath, so I figure he’s entitled to it. But”—I paused for effect—“you’ve both got a case weighing on you. Maybe two. I’m stuck in this investigation. Uniquely so. I’m here, and I’m not lawyered up. So take advantage of the situation.”
“You know what I like even more than smart-ass Hollywood types?” Kaden asked. “Reopening cases I already closed.”
“If my case is closed, who killed Kasey Broach?”
My using her name set him back a moment, but then his eyes pulled to the crime-scene photo between us. “I don’t know, Danner—someone who has your exact hair, exact blood, and uses your trash can. So guess who we’re coming after when we figure out this digicorder crap and have probable cause again?”
Probably not the guy who framed me.
I stared at Kasey Broach’s corpse, wondering
Bill Kaden, looking none too affable, advanced on the table, and I opened my mouth to offer a shaky admission of I-knew-not-what when like a thunderbolt a realization rocketed down, straightening my spine, jerking my fists against the pitted wood.
“The camcorder!” I cried. “I recorded myself sleeping!”
10
T hey kept me alone in that interrogation room for an hour and forty-five minutes. For the first while, I sat on the chair with the crime-scene photo, which they’d thoughtfully left behind to keep me company. On the back was printed Kasey Broach, 1/22, 2:07 A.M. The detectives had wasted no time in getting to me. When I couldn’t take the gruesome picture any longer, I had little to do but stare at my warped reflection in the mirror. The distortion amplified the way my hair bristled above the scar line, or maybe that was how it really looked.
My camcorder was digital, with a 120-hour memory, which meant that it had been recording seamlessly since I’d set it up, capturing me snoozing, changing, gargling. For better or worse, it would hold the answer. Me, dozing peacefully. Or sleepwalking into a murder.
After a while I moved the table and chair back to the middle of the room. As I paced, I caught myself inadvertently running the pads of my fingers along the line of my hidden scar. At the hour mark, I told the mirror that I was going to urinate in the corner if someone didn’t take me to a bathroom. A moment later the door popped open and a sullen rookie led me down the hall, then brought me back.
Kaden and Delveckio finally returned, carrying chairs and looking dyspeptic. At least Kaden did; from what I knew of Delveckio, that was just his normal expression. Reading their faces, I felt nothing short of elation. Wudn’t me. Wudn’t me.
They sat opposite. The folder in Kaden’s lap carried a sweat mark from his hand.
“We saw the footage,” Kaden said. “The lab seems to believe it wasn’t doctored. No glitches in the continuity.”
I blew out a breath that kept going. The relief was so intense it made me light-headed.
Kaden was talking. “But you could’ve had an accomplice. Or maybe the coroner’s time of death was inaccurate. You were off the tape for just about all of the afternoon and the early part of the night.”
“I have alibis. I was at a friend’s for the afternoon, then my editor came over.”
“This still doesn’t play right,” Kaden said. “Why’s an innocent guy—an innocent guy that all the evidence at the crime scene just weirdly happens to nail—set up an airtight alibi?”
“Because I thought I might have chopped my own foot in my sleep, and I was worried I was losing my mind.”
Kaden laughed. “‘Losing’?”
“Let’s start this over.” I extended my hand. “Drew.”
Kaden stared at my hand like he was about to spit on it, but after a moment he nodded. Delveckio grudgingly followed suit.
“Okay. You don’t like me, and I’m not particularly fond of you guys.” I glanced at Delveckio. “Especially you.”
“Why especially me?”
“That insult-to-injury thing was lame. Kaden may posture more, but he cuts a more impressive swath, so I figure he’s entitled to it. But”—I paused for effect—“you’ve both got a case weighing on you. Maybe two. I’m stuck in this investigation. Uniquely so. I’m here, and I’m not lawyered up. So take advantage of the situation.”
“You know what I like even more than smart-ass Hollywood types?” Kaden asked. “Reopening cases I already closed.”
“If my case is closed, who killed Kasey Broach?”
My using her name set him back a moment, but then his eyes pulled to the crime-scene photo between us. “I don’t know, Danner—someone who has your exact hair, exact blood, and uses your trash can. So guess who we’re coming after when we figure out this digicorder crap and have probable cause again?”
Probably not the guy who framed me.
I stared at Kasey Broach’s corpse, wondering
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