J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

“Try him. I think he just might.”

“Meanwhile,” I say, “how about those other homicides? I can handle this if you want to catch yourself up on one of those.”

He sees through me and answers with a knowing smile. “Am I cramping your style, Detective? I’m sorry about that. I just like to see the way you work.” He turns to Aguilar. “Get this Reverend Blunt on the phone, too. Let’s get started on Jason’s alibi, such as it is.”

If Jason Young is surprised that I’ve returned alone, he gives no clue. My papers remain untouched where I left them. When I sit, he slumps a little, like he’s relieved the temptation to reach for them is at an end. I slip a hand inside my briefcase and place my trump card on the table, watching his expression the whole time.

He glances at the book just long enough to see what it is, then loses all interest. Either he’s unfamiliar with The Kingwood Killing or he’s a better actor than even Bascombe is giving him credit for. I flip through the book for good measure, trying to bait him.

“So is this still break time or have we started already?”

The flash of attitude makes me smile. I close the book but leave it out on the table. “Here’s the problem, Jason. You said it yourself. We have two versions of the story, and I could see it playing out either way. No offense, I just don’t know you. I can’t tell which version to believe. But I’ll tell you one thing: I can respect what you’re doing. Holding down these jobs, getting your life straightened out. Taking responsibility.”

“Thanks,” he says in a grudging tone.

“If it was your story plus something else, you’d be all right. But the way the courts work, if it’s you against her, I think you know who’s going to win. In every other type of crime, the system is weighted toward the defendant, but here it works the opposite way. Basically all she has to do is say you’re guilty, and then the burden’s on you.”

As I deliver this slanted take on the legal system, Young deflates more and more, until his forehead’s practically touching the table and his hands clutch the back of his neck. I’m talking not to his face but to the top of his head.

“What do you mean, my story plus something else?”

“Well,” I say. “One thing would be if we took a look at the scene and there was no evidence to support the other side.”

“The scene?” He looks up. “You mean my bedroom?”

“The bedroom. The apartment.”

“It’s been weeks, though. I mean, if there was any evidence, I’m not so stupid that I wouldn’t have tidied up.”

A charge goes up my spine. In a different context, that could sound like an admission, considering whoever killed Simone certainly did tidy up.

“The point is, it would help corroborate. And if we were to drop this thing, the first question the judge is gonna ask is whether we checked the apartment. If the answer’s no, then we’re back to square one.”

He sighs. “Do I have to sign something?”

“All you have to do is say you consent to the search.”

“I consent to the search. Do whatever. But when you come back, can you bring me some water or something? All this talking is doing my voice in.”

He expects me to get up and leave, but I ignore him and keep on writing. After a moment, Bascombe walks in and puts a couple of bottled waters on the table.

“Here you go, sport.”

Once he’s gone, I can feel Young’s eyes on me.

“Somebody’s watching all this,” he says.

I nod. “There are a couple of questions I still have to ask. Starting with what happened to your face.”

“This?” He touches the wound on his jaw. “It’s nothing.”

“I’m going to need a little more than that. Like: who did it, what did they hit you with, and when?”

“It was. . a couple of days ago. Monday, actually.”

“No, Jason,” I say, raising my pen. “That’s fresh. Trust me, I can tell.”

“It was Monday. I was in back at the Luggage Outlet, trying to get to a box on top of the shelves, and one of them fell and caught me in the face.”

“Were you hanging upside down?”

“What? No. I wasn’t hanging upside down.”

“Then you’re making this up, Jason, because the blow that made those marks came from underneath, swinging like this.” I pantomime the arc, clocking his jaw with an imaginary weapon. “Lying like that just makes you look guilty. You’re better off leveling with me.”

“It has nothing to do with this,” he says. “And anyway, I told you what happened. If you don’t believe me, I can’t help that.”

“Let’s go over what happened yesterday, then. That’s when I think you had your little accident.”

“Wrong,” he says.

“That’s fine. Just walk me through what really happened.”

“I went to work, like I said. Reverend Blunt came in sometime in the morning. He wanted to check on me because I hadn’t been in earlier.”

“Did he ask about your injury?”

“No.”

“That’s strange, don’t you think?” I let it slide, but the inference is clear: he didn’t ask because on Saturday morning it wasn’t there. “What did the reverend ask about, then?”

“Orders,” he says. “Work stuff.”

“And then he left? How long were you at the warehouse after that?”

“Until seven.”

“That’s a long time. Do you punch a card or something?”

“I keep track of my hours.”

“Okay. So you left at seven and went where?”

“Home.”

“Straight home? And then what?”

“Then nothing,” he says, his voice sharp. “I watched TV, went to bed, then got up in the morning for church.”

“Where we found you. And from the time you got home to the time you left this morning, you never went out?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

He meets my gaze, probably sensing this is important. But he doesn’t change his story: “Not at all.”

I dig through my paperwork for Aguilar’s notes from this morning, taking my time, letting him sweat a little.

“Mr. Young,” I say. “When you arrived at your residence this morning at 8:32 a.m., where were you coming from?”

“That’s not right. I left around then.”

“You left sixteen minutes later at 8:48 a.m.”

He stares at me. “What?”

“You just said you were home all night, but in fact you didn’t come home at all last night, did you? We already know your movements, Mr. Young. Why are you lying to me?”

“Why are you asking me this? It has nothing to do with what happened.”

“Tell me where you were last night.”

“You already know.”

“I need you to tell me.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand what’s going on here.”

“Mr. Young-”

“No, listen. I’ve tried to cooperate. I’ve told you everything I can about what really happened with Simone. You can search my apartment, fine. But I’m not going to talk about anything else. Whatever happened yesterday, it’s nobody’s business. You can tell her I said that, too. If you want the truth, I already gave it to you, but if you’re just out to crucify me, then forget about it.”

“If you’ll just answer a few more-”

“I’m not answering anything,” he says.

I can see what’s coming, too. He’s going to lawyer up. Before he gets there, I stand abruptly and start filling my briefcase. “No, you’re right, Mr. Young. You’ve bent over backward to be helpful. There’s a limit to what you can reasonably be expected to share. Just sit tight for a little while and we can wrap things up.”

“How long? I’ve been here for hours.”

“Not much longer,” I say, heading for the door.

Aguilar is alone in the monitoring room, telling me Bascombe grabbed some help and went to the apartment on Dunlap the moment Young gave his consent. He stifles a yawn. I drop into an empty chair and yawn myself. My limbs are heavy as lead. I close my eyes and melt into the seat cushions.