Richard Patterson - Conviction

Silent, Eddie clamped his jaw against his own fear and nausea.

On the spit of land where the road ended was a construction site, sand and gravel sitting in piles like burial mounds. To the left was a channel of brackish water. The wreck of an old barge was grounded there, next to a neglected wooden pier, which stuck from weeds and sand into the water. Across the channel was an outpost of the Port of San Francisco, the black skeletons of loading cranes towering above. Eddie heard no sounds at all.

"Get her out," Payton directed.

Eddie sat there like he was paralyzed. Only when Payton opened the car door and barked something more did Eddie force himself into the chill, toxic air.

Curtly, Payton nodded toward the trunk. He seemed to have come down off his high.

With renewed dread, Eddie opened the trunk.

The child was still curled stiffly, her posture frozen. "You do it," Payton told his brother.

To Eddie, the order carried the edge of reproof. In silence, Rennell lifted the dead child.

Payton angled his head toward the channel. "Out there."

Rennell started toward the water's edge. Following, Eddie thought his lumbering shape resembled that of a monster in a horror film. Their feet crunched stunted shrubbery.

They reached the sand at the edge of the channel. "Dump her in the water," Payton said.

Corpse cradled in his arms, Rennell walked to the pier, testing it with his weight.

The beams creaked. Shaking his head, Rennell backed off.

"In the water," Payton repeated. "We want her away from here."

Like an automaton, Rennell stepped out into the channel.

Right away, Eddie saw that its current was swift—Rennell staggered sideways, clutching at the nearest piling, the girl's body tucked beneath one massive arm. He righted himself, then began edging farther out, to where the ruined wood tumbled into the water.

Almost gently, he laid the body on the surface of the channel.

At once the current began sweeping her away. The last Eddie saw of Thuy Sen was strands of long black hair, swirling away in dark, moonlit water.

Surprising tears sprung to his eyes. "Let's get high," he heard Payton say.

* * *

"He was shook up," Fleet finished now. "Don't think he meant to do it. Don't even know if he did do it." He puffed his cheeks and exhaled. "Whatever, you got to feel sorry for her."

You're a real humanitarian, Monk thought. In his flattest voice, he asked, "The brothers like doing nine-year-olds?"

Fleet moved his shoulders. "They were high, man—do crazy things when you're high."

"That all you know?" Ainsworth asked.

Fleet turned to him. "It is," he said fervently. "I swear it."

"So you wouldn't mind taking a lie detector."

Fleet faced Monk again. "You want me to?" he asked.

Not really, Monk thought—they didn't need a murky polygraph. With a shrug, he said, "Up to you, Eddie."

Fleet seemed to consider this. "Yeah," he said finally, "I guess it's okay."

You just passed, Monk thought.

"Best to keep you around," he said. "You don't want to be out on the street."

* * *

The next thing Monk did was call the Coast Guard. Suppose, he asked, you dumped that nine-year-old girl at the foot of that tallow factory. Two days later might a floater end up on the rocks near Candlestick Park?

Sure, came the answer. That's how the current goes.

Monk put down the phone. "First Payton," he told Ainsworth. "Then Rennell."

TEN

"IT DOESN'T LOOK GOOD FOR YOU," MONK TOLD PAYTON. "No good at all."

Hands clasped in front of him, Payton said nothing. His eyes drilled Monk's from a tight, staring mask.

"We're willing to hear your side of the story," Ainsworth interjected. "But we know Thuy Sen died in your house. My friend and I keep wondering if you're covering for your brother."

Payton's grip on himself was so taut that Monk could see the tendons in his forearms straining. "Whatever you do," Monk said, "is fine with me. You can take your chances, or you can tell us what happened."

Payton's stare still locked Monk's, and then he slowly drew a breath. "Man," he answered with weary defiance, "I don't have to tell you shit."

"We know she was there," Monk said sadly. "We know it, and you know it."

Rennell shifted in his chair. His demeanor, silent and sullen and self-absorbed, reminded Monk of an adolescent being chastised for some minor offense.

"We found her fingerprints, Rennell. So tell me how they got there."

Rennell's gaze darted to a corner. Monk watched his fear grow like a living thing.

"She like your sound system?" Ainsworth asked.

Still Rennell did not answer. "Sometimes," Monk proposed, "like when you smoke crack, maybe things happen you didn't mean to happen. You think that's possible?"

Rennell's brow furrowed. "Sometimes," he responded to Monk's surprise.

"Is that what happened with Thuy Sen? Maybe 'cause you were smoking crack?"

Rennell stiffened, silent once again.

"Son," Monk said softly, "we know it was you who put her in the water."

Rennell looked up at him, mouth half open. "No way . . ."

"You carried her out," Monk continued. "Because the current was fast, and you were the strongest. And because your brother told you to."

Rennell's gaze broke. Eyes focused on the table, he shook his head with silent stubbornness.

"We know she was at your house," Monk said in a reproving tone, "and we know you dumped her body. It's time for you to say what happened in between."

Rennell was still now.

"I mean," Monk amended quietly, "what happened before you went to get Eddie Fleet."

The worry in Rennell's face was palpable. His gaze darted past Monk, as if searching the barren room for help.

"No one here but us, Rennell. No one but you can tell us why you did that with Thuy Sen. Not even Payton can tell us that."

Rennell shifted in his chair. At length he asked, "Payton, what he say?"

"Time for you to be a man, son. Time to tell us for yourself what happened."

Rennell crossed his arms, staring at the wall.

"You didn't want for her to die, did you?"

Still the big man did not respond. Then, slowly, he shook his head. "No."

Tense with anticipation, Monk prodded. "You just wanted her to make you feel good."

Rennell's eyes shut. In a dull monotone, he asked, "What Payton say?"

"Why does it matter?" Monk said coldly. "Was Payton the one who killed her?"

"No," Rennell answered with surprising swiftness. "No way."

"No," Monk agreed. "It was you. But you didn't mean for that to happen."

"No."

"I didn't think so," Monk said reassuringly. "You were holding her head down. When she started choking, you didn't know what to do."

Rennell bent forward. "I didn't do that little girl," he said with quiet vehemence. Then he just sat there, seeming gradually to detach himself, until Monk and Ainsworth left him alone.

* * *

"Did you begin to wonder," Terri asked sardonically, "if Rennell wasn't maybe a little slow?"

Over the rim of his second cup of espresso, Monk gave her a look of sour amusement. "How slow do you mean, counselor? So slow he couldn't remember what he'd done?" He put down the cup. "For sure Payton was what passed for the family brains. This boy wasn't swift, though mostly he was as scared as he had every right to be. But he knew what he'd done, and he sure as hell knew that 'doing that little girl' was a bad thing to admit to. Don't have to be Einstein to do murder."

* * *

"Let's pretend we're the defense," Lou Mauriani told Monk and Ainsworth. "Lay out what you've got."

It was their good fortune, Monk thought, that Mauriani was the Assistant D.A. tracking the case—gray-haired, round-faced, and congenitally affable, Mauriani had keen blue eyes and an equally keen sense of the absurd, coupled with lightning swiftness of thought and a deep seriousness about doing his work well. In twenty-seven murder prosecutions, Mauriani had never lost.