Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

“What do I need help with?”

“Think about it, Doyle.”

“I’m thinking I don’t need help.”

“Why’d you go back?”

“It’s my place, that’s all.”

“Your place?”

“My job. I know it better than anyone.”

“Exactly,” said Milo.

“Huh?”

“What strikes me, Doyle, is that doing a murder there would be tough for someone who wasn’t familiar with the place. It gets real dark at night, that rear staircase is hidden away. You’d have to know where to find it, be super-careful walking up those wooden stairs without being heard. Though your shoes do look pretty quiet.”

“They’re okay. Only I never did nothing. And no matter any shoes, I’da been heard.”

“Why?”

“My leg’s fucked up, it drags.”

“Even with those quiet shoes?”

“They got soft soles,” said Bryczinski, “but also steel arches, real heavy to lift.”

Milo eyed the soda can. “If you’re thirsty, feel free.”

“I’m okay.”

“Let’s go back to the night of the murders and where you were.”

“Zactly what I told you.”

“Sleeping and taking care of your mother.”

“Buying the diapers for my mom. This time I got the receipt.” Pulling a scrap from his shirt pocket. “Nine forty-eight, like I told you, I’m at the CVS.”

Milo examined the date. “You found the receipt because you’ve been working on an alibi, Doyle?”

“You asked me all those questions the first time,” said Bryczinski. “So I looked for the receipt. Now you got it.”

Milo waved the paper. “This is okay, as far as it goes, Doyle, but it really doesn’t mean much. You coulda gone home, driven back.”

“Maybe coulda, but didn’t.” Bryczinski’s eyes remained calm.

“Monte,” said Milo.

“What?”

“Who’s Monte, Doyle?”

“Ain’t that a card game?”

“It’s also a man’s name.”

“Not any man I know.”

“Why the cutters, Doyle?”

“What I said, an emergency.”

“It’s a crime scene, Doyle.”

“It’s a crime scene now, but it’s not gonna be a crime scene forever. You don’t give me the key to that chain, I got to get in.”

“Emergency,” said Milo. “Like the place burns down.”

“What I said was just in case the place burns down. I need the job, want to do it right.”

“You think of it as your place.”

“I know it better than anyone. They didn’t.”

“Who?”

“Those two. Look what happened to them,” said Bryczinski. Reaching for the soda can, he took a long, slow sip.

“Their fault?”

“I’m not saying that, I’m saying it was stupid to go in there at night.”

“What’s your theory about the murders, Doyle?”

“They went up there to fool around, I dunno, maybe some psycho crashed the party. That’s my point: Way the chain was before, anyone could get in.”

“So you should be happy I put on a new one.”

“Leave the key, I’ll say thank you. Now I need to get back there. Can I have that ride?”

“Happy to arrange it, Doyle. If you take a polygraph before you leave.”

Bryczinski’s eyes widened. “Company gave me a poly when they hired me. I passed with honors, ask ’em for a copy.”

“So you wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

Bryczinski thought. “Hell, why not? If it don’t take too long.”

Detective Three Delano Hardy was the closet to a polygraph specialist the day shift had going. He hadn’t administered the test in over a year, wasn’t even sure where the gear was, but he agreed to look for it.

Ninety minutes later, the procedure was over and Hardy stepped out of the room, shaking his head. “A little jumpy on baseline, but I’m not seeing deception, not even close, sorry.”

Milo took the printout. “Thanks for trying, amigo.”

Milo and Del had partnered a long time ago, until Del ’s devout wife had objected to her husband working with a homosexual.

Del said, “No sweat, Big Guy. Good luck.”

A uniform drove Bryczinski back to Borodi. I scanned the poly results.

Milo said, “You see something?”

“Nothing but truth,” I said. “Especially given the anxious baseline. He’s not a cold psychopath able to fake the machine.”

Milo said, “But he is overinvolved with that site. Him and Charlie Rutger.”

“Must be the edifice complex.”

We returned to his office, where he picked up a fresh message slip. “Well, well, well, Professor Ned Holman wants to talk.”

He returned the call. “Professor? Lieutenant Sturgis… yes, sir, of course I remember… that so? No prob, I can be at your house in-all right, yes, I know where it is. An hour would be fine.”

Dropping the receiver in its cradle, he said, “First time we met him, he was all mellow. Now just the opposite, definitely something on his mind. Wonder what his baseline is.”

Ned Holman had chosen to meet at a public parking lot in Playa Del Rey, the westernmost tip of the district where the neighborhood turns to a village and the ocean washes past dreamily.

Just a few miles past the Bird Marsh, where the bodies of four women had shown up last year, minus right hands, and facing east. Milo and Moe Reed had closed that case, solved two other homicides in the process.

Not a word about it as we sped past. Like a lot of driven people, he prefers the agony of living in the moment.

Holman’s van was pulling into a handicapped slot just as we arrived. Other than us, no other vehicles. The van’s door glided back, a ramp slid out. By the time we were out of the unmarked, Holman had rolled down in his chair and was watching the breakers.

He wore gray sweats that accentuated the heft of his upper body and tried to do the same for wasted legs. His beard was neatly trimmed, his hair plastered down hard, to resist the breeze.

We positioned ourselves between his chair and the sand.

“Thanks for coming, gentlemen. This is a place I go to relax.”

“What’s on your mind, Professor?”

Holman watched a solitary beachcomber parallel the tideline, fishing through sand with a metal detector. Stopping to inspect something shiny, the man tossed it back.

Holman said, “I see them out here all the time. No one ever finds anything.” Smiling. “Maybe everything’s already been discovered.”

“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” said Milo. “My job, I’m learning new stuff all the time.”

“Good for you.” Holman licked his lips. “This is extremely difficult, but I feel I need to.”

Thick fingers drummed the wheels of his chair. “I want to be clear, at the outset: I love my wife. She takes good care of me.”

Tightening up on the last three words. “Why should I complain if she has needs?” Holman’s barrel chest heaved. “Like many people in our situation, Marjie and I engage in mutual deception. She pretends not to miss what we had, I pretend not to know she’s pretending.” Inhaling. “Thirty-eight years has cemented our relationship.”

“Makes sense,” said Milo.

“So I don’t blame her,” said Holman. “I won’t claim it doesn’t bother me, but I’m not tormented.”

The beachcomber picked up something else. Held it to the light. Discarded it.

Holman watched with satisfaction. Grew grim. “The ones that peeved me were so-called friends of mine, and even there, I know I’m being irrational. Two guys, in particular, part of our social group. After my accident, my relationship with them changed because it had been based on tennis, basketball, squash, all that good stuff.”

A heron soared west. Needle-nosed, blue-gray pterodactyl with a six-foot wingspread. Stalking my koi pond, the bird would be the enemy. Out here, a magnificent creature.