Moment Of Truth

'Fool,' Brinkley said, smiling in spite of himself, then finished his furniture drawing. He drew the coffee table to fill in his feet-on-the-table theory, noticing that its surface glistened where it hadn't been dusted. When had it been polished last? He made a note, then realized something. There were no photos on the table. He looked around. None in the whole room, not a single one. Not even of

the kid, who was a model? 'Kovich, you got kids,' he said, as he sketched.

'Last time I checked.'

'You got pictures of 'em in the living room?'

'Sure. Katie, she puts ' em around. From school.'

'No pictures in this living room.'

'So what?'

'I'm glad you're here, Kovich. Renews my faith in law enforcement.' Brinkley finished his drawing of the table, and Kovich peered over his shoulder.

'That's prettier than mine, Mick. I think I'm in love.'

'Fuck you,' Brinkley said, without rancor, and strode into the dining room. He had heard the body was in there but would have known anyway. The room had already started to smell, not from decomposition, way too soon for that, but from blood. The air carried the distinctive scent; fresh blood had a sweet aroma before it coagulated and grew stale. He ignored it, surveyed the dining room, and started to draw.

Another big room, another craggy fireplace, a costly mahogany table, lengthwise, with eight high-backed chairs. Two place settings at the table: husband and wife. Two tall champagne flutes next to pristine white china. Appetizer on a fancy platter. Otherwise nothing. No books, photos, clutter. No bills piled up, no newspapers. Nothing to tell Brinkley anything. Maybe its absence told him something. There was no life in this house. There hadn't been, even before the dead body.

'Mick, we should move along,' Kovich said, finishing another page of notes. 'The M.E. and Davis are with the stiff.'

'Gimme a minute.' Brinkley ignored the term, which everybody in law enforcement used. He'd been saving the body for last. He made careful drawings of everything; the table oriented east-west and the high ceiling, white and clean. The walls covered with a light pink cloth, shiny in wavy lines. It had a name. Sheree would know what it was called. Brinkley made a mental note to ask her, then remembered she didn't live there anymore.

'Mick? You done yet?' Kovich asked again, and Brinkley nodded. He stepped forward but couldn't see the body because the D.A. and the M.E. blocked the view. Crime techs buzzed around the chalk silhouette of the body, measuring, photographing, and vacuuming the rug. Brinkley got everybody's attention by standing there in tall, dark silence. The techs edged away, the D.A. rose to his feet, and the M.E. closed his bag and stood up.

Davis shook Brinkley's hand over the dead body. 'Reg, we having fun yet?' he asked with a grin.

'You tell me, Dwight.'

The D.A.'s rep tie was loosened and a legal pad rested in the crook of his arm like a newborn baby. 'Heard you did a first-rate job with the hubby.'

Brinkley couldn't tell if it was sarcasm. 'He didn't sign.'

'I'm not jerkin' you, you guys did great work as usual. I don't need a signature. He confessed and we got the video. I don't need a picture of him doing it.' Davis nodded at both detectives. 'You wanna fill me in on what hubby said?'

Brinkley shut up, and Kovich launched into the blow-by-blow of what happened. Davis took notes and nodded the whole time, getting happier and happier, and Brinkley thought he had never seen anybody so goddamn happy to wear a white hat. Kovich finished the story, and Davis flipped his pad closed. 'Sounds good, gentlemen,' he said. 'I got plenty to work with. Thanks.'

'Let's go home then, eh?' It was the M.E., Aaron Hamburg, who turned and squinted through his trifocals. Hamburg was one of the better M.E.s on rotation, a wizened, balding man near retirement. He got along with Brinkley, but right now he looked tired. He wanted to get on with it already. Have Brinkley examine the body so he could tag it, bag it, and slice a bloodless F into its chest.

'Sorry I'm late, Aaron/ Brinkley said, meaning it.

'I understand, I'm just grumpy.' Hamburg was a graying head shorter than Brinkley and wore a rumpled grey suit, dark tie, and a blue yarmulke hanging by a tenacious bobby pin. 'I know you had to talk to the husband first. Strike while the iron is hot, eh?'

Kovich nodded in agreement, and Brinkley gestured to the chalk line around the body. He hated it when some knuckle-head chalked a body. It could contaminate or move trace evidence. 'Who chalked her?'

Hamburg snorted. 'It was Dodgett. It's always Dodgett. Makes him feel like a cop.'

Brinkley couldn't smile. 'When I see that asshole I'll tell him where to stick his chalk. Now, what'd you find, Aaron?'

'You got lucky this job, it's cut-and-dried. I'll tell you what I told Davis. Unofficially, cause of death is multiple stab wounds. I'll clean her up later but it looks to be about five of 'em. The lethal wound bisected the pulmonary artery. From the temp and lividity, time of death is probably between six-thirty and eight-thirty. Easy case.' Hamburg clapped Brinkley on the arm, but given their height difference it fell at the detective's elbow. 'You live right, my friend.'

'Did you see anything unusual?' Brinkley asked, and Davis looked at him with a frown.

'Why you ask, Brinkley? You got a question?' Davis looked concerned. 'Lemme know.'

Brinkley sighed inwardly. He didn't like talking about his doubts. Actually, he didn't like talking to anyone but Kovich and sometimes he didn't even like talking to Kovich. 'I don't know about Newlin, is all.'

'Why not?' Davis cocked his head. Behind him, crime techs completed their tasks. The party was winding down. 'He confessed, right? On the scene, and to you?'

'Confession ain't a home run.'

'Since when? I mean, like they say in the essay tests, "Explain your answer."' Davis grinned, and Kovich laughed.

'I always hated that,' Kovich joined in. '"Explain your answer." "Compare and contrast." I hated that shit.'

Davis was still grinning. '"Show your work." "Elaborate."'

Brinkley ignored the byplay. He could never forget the body on the floor. Even at wakes, he never joked around or made small talk. Respect for life; respect for death. 'It's too soon to tell. His story didn't sit right.'

'How so?'

'I don't believe him, maybe that.' Brinkley hated being on the spot. 'I think Newlin might be lying.'

For real?' Davis folded his arms, hugging the pad to his chest. 'Why would hubby lie?'

'I don't know, it's just a feeling. He seemed like he was lying. Could be he's protecting someone, I don't know who.'

'You got any evidence of that? Anything to support it?'

'None, but it's early.' Brinkley could feel Kovich looking down at his feet. He was too loyal a partner to laugh.

Hamburg was squinting skeptically. 'I'm only the M.E., but I don't see anything out of line here, boys. She's got stab wounds, most of the bleeding internal. Some defensive wounds on the fingers. I'd say she grabbed the knife at some point, but she wouldn't put up much of a fight. She was drunk as a skunk. It's coming through the skin.' Hamburg winced. A religious man, he disapproved. 'I'll know for sure at the post, but I think we lucked out, boys. Sometimes you get the bear.'

'Sometimes the bear gets you,' Brinkley said, but Davis clapped him on the arm with the pad.

'Cheer up, man. You got it covered. I say it's a duck, but I hear you. If you get anything concrete, lemme know. I'll study the videotape to make sure. I'll have somebody pick up a copy tonight.'

Brinkley thought Davis made the videotape sound like film from the big game. Lawyers. I'll work on it.'