The Unquiet

“Am I right?” Aimee said again.

Hansen nodded. He looked like a chastened schoolchild.

As I had guessed, it was a nice touch. Merrick had left the same kind of evidence at the scene that at one point might have been used to convict him. No court would now convict on that basis alone, but Merrick had still succeeded in muddying the waters.

“We can get a warrant,” said Hansen.

“Do that,” said Aimee.

“No.”

Aimee glared at me. Hansen and Conlough both looked up.

“You won’t need a warrant.”

“What are you-” began Aimee, but I stopped her by placing my hand on her arm.

“I’ll hand over the ammunition. Match away. He took my gun and used it to kill Demarcian, then left the casing and made the call so you’d come knocking on my door. It’s his idea of a joke. Merrick was facing a murder trial in Virginia on the basis of a bullet match and nothing more, but the case fell apart when the FBI started making panicked noises about the reliability of the tests. Even without that, the case probably wouldn’t have held up. Merrick did it to cause me trouble, and that’s all.”

“And why would be do that?” asked Conlough.

“You know the answer. You interviewed him in this room. His daughter disappeared while he was in jail. He wants to find out what happened to her. He felt I was getting in his way.”

“Why didn’t he just kill you?” asked Hansen. He sounded like he could have forgiven Merrick the impulse.

“It wouldn’t have been right, not in his eyes. He has a code, of sorts.”

“Not enough of a code to stop him from putting a bullet through Ricky Demarcian’s head, assuming you’re telling the truth,” said Hansen.

“Why would I want to kill Demarcian?” I asked. “I never even heard of him until this morning.”

Again, Conlough and Hansen exchanged glances. After a few seconds, Hansen let out a deep breath and made a “go ahead” gesture with his right hand. He already seemed on the verge of giving up. His earlier confidence was dissipating. The bruising, the tests to confirm the traces of chloroform, all had rattled him. Secretly, too, I think he knew I was telling the truth. He just didn’t want to believe it. It would have given him some pleasure to lock me up. I offended his sense of order. Still, however much he disliked me, he was enough of a by-the-book cop not to want to rig the evidence only to have the case explode in his face the first time it went before a judge.

“Demarcian’s trailer was packed to the gills with computer equipment,” said Conlough. “We think he had ties to organized crime in Boston. Seems like he took care of some escort Web sites.”

“For the Italians?”

Conlough shook his head. “Russians.”

“Not good people.”

“Nope. We heard talk that it wasn’t just older escorts either.”

“Kids?”

Conlough looked to Hansen again, but Hansen had retreated into a studied silence.

“Like I said, it was talk, but there was no evidence. Without evidence, we couldn’t get a warrant. We were working on it, trying to find a way onto Demarcian’s list, but it was slow.”

“Looks like your problem is solved,” I said.

“You sure you never heard of Demarcian?” asked Hansen. “He sounds like the kind of guy you’d have no problem shooting in the head.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t be the first time that gun of yours made a hole in someone. You might just have felt that Demarcian was a deserving cause.”

I felt Aimee’s hand touch my leg gently under the table, warning me not to be drawn out by Hansen.

“You want to charge me with something, go ahead,” I said. “Otherwise, you’re just using up good air.” I turned my attention back to Conlough. “Was the gunshot the only injury to Demarcian?”

Conlough didn’t answer. He couldn’t, I supposed, without giving away what little evidence they still had against me. I kept going.

“If Merrick tortured him first, then it could be that Demarcian told him something he could use before he died.”

“What would Demarcian know?” asked Conlough. The tone of the interview had altered. Perhaps Conlough hadn’t been convinced of my involvement right from the start, but now we had moved from an interrogation situation to two men thinking aloud. Unfortunately, Hansen didn’t care much for the new direction. He muttered something that sounded like “bullshit.” Even though Hansen was ostensibly in charge, Conlough glanced at him in warning, but the remains of the fire that had been lit in Hansen still glowed, and he wasn’t about to extinguish it unless he had no other choice. He gave it one last try.

“It’s bullshit,” he repeated. “It’s your gun. It’s your car the witness saw leaving the scene. It’s your finger-”

“Hey!” Conlough interrupted him. He stood and walked to the door, indicating that Hansen should follow him. Hansen threw back his chair and went. The door closed behind them.

“Not a fan of yours?” said Aimee.

“I’ve never met him properly before today. The state cops don’t care much for me as a rule, but he has a terminal beef.”

“I may have to juice up my rates. Nobody seems to like you.”

“Occupational hazard. How are we doing?”

“Okay, I think, apart from your inability to keep your mouth shut. Let’s assume Merrick used your gun to kill Demarcian. Let’s assume also that he made the call about your car. All they have is ballistic evidence, and no direct co

“Why would I leave my gun at the scene?”

“You know they won’t think that way. If it’s enough to hold you, then they’ll use it. We’ll wait and see. If they have the gun, they’ll spring it on us soon enough. My guess, though, from watching you and Detective Conlough bond over the table, is that the gun went with Merrick.”

She tapped her pen on the table.

“Conlough doesn’t seem to like Hansen much either.”

“Conlough’s okay, but I don’t think he’d put it past me to kill someone like Demarcian either. He just figures I’d do a better job of covering my tracks if I did kill him.”

“And you’d have waited until he had a gun in his hand,” added Aimee. “Jesus, it’s like the Wild West.”

The minutes ticked by. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty.

Aimee checked her watch. “What the hell are they doing out there?”

She was about to get up and find out what was going on when I heard a peculiar, yet familiar, sound. It was a dog barking. It sounded a lot like Walter.

“I think that’s my dog,” I said.

“They brought your dog in? As what, a witness?”

The door of the interrogation room opened and Conlough entered. He looked almost relieved.

“You’re off the hook,” he said. “We’ll need you to sign a statement, but otherwise you’re free to go.”

Aimee tried to hide her surprise, but failed. We followed Conlough outside. Bob and Shirley Johnson were in the reception area, Bob standing and holding Walter on the end of a leash, Shirley sitting on a hard plastic chair, her wheeled walker beside her.

“Seems the old lady doesn’t sleep so good,” said Conlough. “She likes to sit at her window when her joints hurt. She saw your guy leave the house at three a.m., then return at five. She swore a statement to say your car never left its garage, and you didn’t leave the house. The three-five window matches Demarcian’s time of death.” He smiled grimly. “Hansen’s pretty pissed. He liked you for the shooting.”