“And you don’t have any recollection of the night, nothing?”
“Not a thing, other than Kiki continually keeping my glass full, I think she poured a total of three drinks for me, at least that I remember, Jameson.”
“Water?”
“No, just a couple of ice cubes.”
“That’s how I’d take it,” Louie said absently, then pushed the top photo over and stared at the next one.
“Anyway,” I continued, “it was going to be a long night, we had sex, skipped dinner, more sex. Next thing I know, I wake up tied to the bed with the mother of all hangovers. I’m still trying to shake the headache.”
“Still?’
“Yeah.”
“That typical?”
“No, I’ve had some bad hangovers, but forty-eight hours later and still suffering? No, never.”
He made a note, then drummed his pen on the legal pad and seemed to be in deep thought.
“Big black space where the night should be?” he asked.
“Yeah, literally, no recollection.”
“Classic symptoms of date rape. Sounds like someone fed you Roofies, or some kind of shit, a pretty healthy serving. You take anything, ecstasy, whites, CFM’s?”
“I hardly even know what the hell you’re talking about. I don’t do drugs, at all.”
“I guess we’ll see when that toxicology report gets in. Tell me about this,” he said flicking through the photos and pushing one my way. It was Kiki, wrists tied to the bed and half rolled over on her side, clearly displaying a large reddish-purple bite mark on her ass. Along with her wrists tied, she had the leopard print gag stuffed in her mouth and a wild-eyed look on her face.
“Not much to tell. I don’t recall taking the photo or anything. I told that attorney, Daphne, all this yesterday, in fact I didn’t even know my phone took photos. Christ, I just make phone calls on the damn thing. Hey, I’m a guy, I even hate to text, not that I’m any good at it.”
“Tell me about it,” Louie said absently. “So, you’ve never taken photos with it before, your phone?”
“Never. I didn’t know the thing could do that.”
“The bite mark, that a usual or sometimes deal you’re into?”
“You mean bite her on the ass?”
“Yeah, her or any other partners for that matter.”
“No, not that I recall. I gotta be honest, I’m not into the whole pain thing. I’ve met some kinky gals in my day. But none of that, the pain deal never really turned my crank, you know?”
“And you state you didn’t know she was married to Thompson Barkwell over at K-R-A-Z the same fellow who hired and then fired you?” He asked flipping to another sheet of paper.
“Hired, fired and stiffed me on a part of my fee. No, I had no idea. I knew she was Farrell’s sister. In fact, she sort of gave them my name. They hired me for a couple of days, then got these idiotic, overweight, right wing nit-wits working for them and let me go.”
“So you were screwing the boss’s wife, right?”
“I never knew she was married to the guy. In fact I had been with her before I ever knew her brother or Thompson Barkwell even existed. I saw her in the office once or twice, K-R-A-Z. She never mentioned she was married, never did or said anything that I picked up on. First I heard of it was when one of the cops referred to her as Misses Barkwell, then that attorney Daphne mentioned it yesterday.”
“Yeah, Daft,” he said absently and drummed his pen some more on the legal pad.
“So?” I asked.
“So, let me be honest, right now it looks like you’re in pretty deep shit. But, things change. I don’t want you talking to anyone, unless I’m at your side. No one in the cell, no one in here, no one, anywhere. Got it?”
I nodded.
“Someone asks you how you want your eggs for breakfast you don’t answer unless I tell you. Okay?”
I nodded.
“I mean it, the least little thing you say, can and will be used against you. Sound familiar?”
I nodded.
“I’d say you were drugged. It’s got all the symptoms. I don’t know why? If it’s a set up, why? It’s not like you got funds they can blackmail you for, right?”
“Right, I don’t have any funds.”
“No Swiss bank accounts anything like that?”
“You kidding? I got three ex-wives who bleed me dry, a car that is in constant need of repair, a house I’m always late with the mortgage payment, and…”
“I get it. Three ex-wives, you’re a glutton for punishment.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Okay, toxicology report is our next step. Oh, I want to get a dental impression from you, too. I’ll send someone over later today.”
“A dental impression?”
He slid the image over of a bound and gagged Kiki with the bite mark on her ass.
“I got a funny feeling we blow that up, get some forensic geek to look at it and compare it to your dental impression we might just find it ain’t you.”
“But then who did it?”
“Well, we know she didn’t, you don’t think you did it. Who? That’s kind of the sixty thousand dollar question. That, and why in the hell you’re being set up? You involved in any other work? Another client that’s snakey or would rub this K-R-A-Z bunch the wrong way?”
“No, no one, and even if I was, I don’t know how they would possibly know about it.”
“Okay, well, as long as nothing else goes wrong, lets look at this as rock bottom and we’ll begin to climb our way out of the hole. Deal?”
“Yeah, Louie, thanks for believing me.”
There was a knock on the door, followed immediately by Detective Norris Manning, red faced, tie undone, striding in and looking very business like. My favorite arresting officer, Dixon Heller, the detective sergeant who wore the ill fitting brown suit at Kiki’s house followed behind him. This afternoon he wore an ill fitting light blue suit. My friend Aaron LaZelle, brought up the rear and looked very tired.
Manning stared at me with ice cold, blue eyes and attacked a piece of gum with his front teeth.
“Devlin Haskell, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Mister Thompson Barkwell. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will…”
I’d heard it all before, or most of it, the reading me my rights part. But, the Thompson Barkwell murder charge came out of left field.
“Don’t say a thing,” Louie commanded.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
At least with the murder charge I was guaranteed a cell all to myself. Not that it improved my sleep. The following afternoon we were on the fifth floor, in my favorite interrogation room. Detectives Manning, Heller and LaZelle seated across from me and my estimable attorney, Louie Laufen, dutifully at my side. Louie had to be wondering what in the hell he’d gotten himself into.
We’d been in the interrogation room for quite some time. Long enough for me to determine the city of St. Paul must have cornered the market on grey paint and the lowest bidder had won the contract for the air filtration system. The overhead fluorescent light flickered in perfect time to my throbbing headache.
“And you have no recollection of driving to Mister Barkwell’s home?” Manning asked for the umpteenth time.
I looked at Louie, just like I’d done all morning and most of this afternoon, before I answered.
Louie gave a slight nod.
“Look, I’ve told you guys a thousand times before. I have no recollection of the night. I sort of remember, maybe, a third drink, then it’s pretty blank up until the time your goons tasered me in the bathroom.”
“I think my client, Mister Haskell, has been fairly consistent on this point, he simply does not recall anything from the night in question,” Louie added.