somewhere to put his gloves. There were two small tables where he could’ve put them, but he seemed a little flustered. Not felony flustered, but rather not used to talking to police flustered.
‘May we come in?’ Jessica asked.
The man returned to the moment. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. He opened the gate. ‘Please, please.’
Jessica and Byrne walked a few feet across the back patio, and into the house. Like many row houses of this type, they entered a small kitchen, which gave way to a short hallway leading to the dining room and living room beyond. They gathered in the living room.
‘May I ask your full name, sir?’ Jessica asked.
‘James Delacroix,’ the man said.
‘Is there a middle name?’
‘Sorry. It’s Charles,’ he said. ‘I rarely use it.’
Jessica made a note, underlined it. JCD.
‘Mr Delacroix, are you acquainted with a man named Robert Freitag?’ As she asked the question, Jessica watched the man for some tic of recognition. She saw none.
‘I’m sorry,’ Delacroix said, ‘could you repeat that name for me, please?’
‘Freitag,’ Jessica said. ‘Robert Freitag.’ She spelled the last name for him.
Delacroix looked up and slightly to the right. It was an indicator that he really was thinking about his answer, not trying to cook one.
‘No,’ he said. ‘That name is not familiar to me.’
‘May I ask where you are employed, Mr Delacroix?’
‘I work at the FlexPro Group.’
‘What is your position there?’
‘I work in Quality and Compliance.’
‘Have you ever worked for, or with, a company called CycleLife?’
Again, a look at the ceiling, and to the right. He shook his head.
‘Sorry, that doesn’t ring a bell either.’ He leaned against the wall, but instead of crossing his arms – a classic signal of shutting down – he put his hands into his pockets. Backing off, but not shutting down. ‘I think this is the part in every cop show ever made where the guy asks what this is all about,’ he said with a nervous smile. ‘Am I allowed to ask what this is about?’
Jessica returned the smile. Half of it anyway. ‘Mr Delacroix, we’re with the homicide division, and we’re investigating a murder.’
The word reached him like a low-level electrical shock.
‘A murder?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Of this Robert…’
‘Freitag,’ Jessica said. ‘Yes, Mr Delacroix. Robert Freitag was murdered in February.’
‘Why would you think I would know anything about this? I’ve never heard of the man.’
‘We’re getting to that, sir,’ Jessica said. ‘So, once again, the name CycleLife means nothing to you?’
‘No.’
‘Might you have run across CycleLife in your job at FlexPro? I understand your company is in the pharmaceutical business.’
With this, the repeat of the question he had answered earlier, he began to shut down. He crossed his arms.
‘I am abso
lutely
certain.’
Jessica believed him. While she was questioning Delacroix, Jessica saw Byrne looking around the living room. She caught his eye, and saw that he wanted to jump in. It was standard procedure for them. When a witness, even a potential witness, began to retreat, they tag-teamed him.
Byrne gestured to the photographs over the couch. They were large, professionally matted and framed black-and-white photographs, grouped into two rows of four. Jessica recognized most of the photographs as Philadelphia landmarks, shot at unique angles.
‘These are very good,’ Byrne said. ‘Are you the photographer?’
Jessica glanced at Delacroix. He kept his arms crossed, but she could see him begin to soften.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I dabble. A little.’
Byrne crossed the living room to get a closer look at the photographs. ‘These are much better than dabbling,’ he said. He pointed to the photograph in the upper right-hand corner, a low-angle shot of what looked like a pyramid. ‘Is this Beth Sholom?’
Delacroix uncrossed his arms. ‘Yes it is,’ he said. ‘You know the
‘May we come in?’ Jessica asked.
The man returned to the moment. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. He opened the gate. ‘Please, please.’
Jessica and Byrne walked a few feet across the back patio, and into the house. Like many row houses of this type, they entered a small kitchen, which gave way to a short hallway leading to the dining room and living room beyond. They gathered in the living room.
‘May I ask your full name, sir?’ Jessica asked.
‘James Delacroix,’ the man said.
‘Is there a middle name?’
‘Sorry. It’s Charles,’ he said. ‘I rarely use it.’
Jessica made a note, underlined it. JCD.
‘Mr Delacroix, are you acquainted with a man named Robert Freitag?’ As she asked the question, Jessica watched the man for some tic of recognition. She saw none.
‘I’m sorry,’ Delacroix said, ‘could you repeat that name for me, please?’
‘Freitag,’ Jessica said. ‘Robert Freitag.’ She spelled the last name for him.
Delacroix looked up and slightly to the right. It was an indicator that he really was thinking about his answer, not trying to cook one.
‘No,’ he said. ‘That name is not familiar to me.’
‘May I ask where you are employed, Mr Delacroix?’
‘I work at the FlexPro Group.’
‘What is your position there?’
‘I work in Quality and Compliance.’
‘Have you ever worked for, or with, a company called CycleLife?’
Again, a look at the ceiling, and to the right. He shook his head.
‘Sorry, that doesn’t ring a bell either.’ He leaned against the wall, but instead of crossing his arms – a classic signal of shutting down – he put his hands into his pockets. Backing off, but not shutting down. ‘I think this is the part in every cop show ever made where the guy asks what this is all about,’ he said with a nervous smile. ‘Am I allowed to ask what this is about?’
Jessica returned the smile. Half of it anyway. ‘Mr Delacroix, we’re with the homicide division, and we’re investigating a murder.’
The word reached him like a low-level electrical shock.
‘A murder?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Of this Robert…’
‘Freitag,’ Jessica said. ‘Yes, Mr Delacroix. Robert Freitag was murdered in February.’
‘Why would you think I would know anything about this? I’ve never heard of the man.’
‘We’re getting to that, sir,’ Jessica said. ‘So, once again, the name CycleLife means nothing to you?’
‘No.’
‘Might you have run across CycleLife in your job at FlexPro? I understand your company is in the pharmaceutical business.’
With this, the repeat of the question he had answered earlier, he began to shut down. He crossed his arms.
‘I am abso
lutely
certain.’
Jessica believed him. While she was questioning Delacroix, Jessica saw Byrne looking around the living room. She caught his eye, and saw that he wanted to jump in. It was standard procedure for them. When a witness, even a potential witness, began to retreat, they tag-teamed him.
Byrne gestured to the photographs over the couch. They were large, professionally matted and framed black-and-white photographs, grouped into two rows of four. Jessica recognized most of the photographs as Philadelphia landmarks, shot at unique angles.
‘These are very good,’ Byrne said. ‘Are you the photographer?’
Jessica glanced at Delacroix. He kept his arms crossed, but she could see him begin to soften.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I dabble. A little.’
Byrne crossed the living room to get a closer look at the photographs. ‘These are much better than dabbling,’ he said. He pointed to the photograph in the upper right-hand corner, a low-angle shot of what looked like a pyramid. ‘Is this Beth Sholom?’
Delacroix uncrossed his arms. ‘Yes it is,’ he said. ‘You know the
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