“Did she go home with you?”
“You know she did. But I thought it was for real.”
Bascombe nods. “You thought she was moving back in with you. Things were getting back on track.”
“Exactly. She spent the night.”
“You had intercourse.”
He nods. “I remember waking up and thinking, Everything’s gonna be fine now. But in the morning she’s already made breakfast, and on the table there’s my checkbook and she’s already filling out the amount. It’s just sitting there, waiting for my signature. I got what I wanted, she said, and now it was her turn.”
“Those were her exact words?”
“Pretty much.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t believe it.”
“And what happened then?”
“We got into it then. She called me some names and I called her some, too. She said I was trying to cheat her. She said we had a deal. I was incredulous. I said if she thought I was paying her ten grand for last night, she had too high an opinion of herself. But it’s her mother that puts these ideas in her head. Before she let Candace back in her life, things were different. Her new landlord didn’t help things, either. She was filling Simone’s head with all this girl power stupidity, be an independent woman, stand up for yourself. The thing is, Simone did have some things in her past, and people assume if that’s the case, that you’re gonna instinctively choose abusive men. So in her eyes, the professor’s, the fact that Simone chose to marry me meant I was like that.”
“But you’re not like that,” Bascombe says.
“Of course not.”
The lieutenant gets up. “Look, Jason, this is really helpful. We need to take a quick break, all right, and confer on some of this. Can I bring you anything while you’re waiting?”
The interruption surprises me, but I take it in stride and start gathering my papers. Bascombe puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t worry about that, March. Let me talk to you outside a minute.”
It goes against the grain, leaving everything out, but I follow him anyway, pulling the door shut after us.
“All the paperwork’s in there,” I say. “I don’t want him looking through it.”
“Come with me.”
We head down to the monitoring room, where Aguilar is on observation duty. On-screen, Young sits frozen, eyes fixed on the stacks of paper across the table. But he makes no move toward them.
“I want to see what he does,” Bascombe says. “He’s putting on a pretty good show in there, don’t you think? Question is, if you leave an innocent man alone with all that paper, does he let it be or does he take a peek? I say he looks, because more than anything he’s curious what’s going on.”
“If he’s guilty, he’ll look to see how much we’ve got on him.”
“Yeah, but if he’s guilty, he’ll also know we’re watching him.”
My patience for interview room tricks runs out fast, but I know it’s the lieutenant’s thing. In a situation like this, he’s looking at physiology and behavior, none of which is admissible in court, though if you’re a good reader of signs, it might lead you toward some truth. Personally I believe in the story. You lock them in, then you trip them up. That takes time, though, and attention to detail.
“We need to lock him into a timeline for yesterday,” I say. “According to Sheila Green, the killing went down sometime between four in the afternoon and when the call came in at quarter to nine. I want an explanation for the injuries to his face, too.”
“And his movements this morning,” Aguilar adds. “Was he on his way to the scene or not?”
“It’s interesting, though, isn’t it?” Bascombe says, ignoring us both. “Is he concealing something or not? He hasn’t tripped up yet as far as your victim is concerned. He hasn’t even let on that he knows she’s dead. When you brought him in here, he did see the sign on the door, right? He knows this is Homicide.”
“It’s not like I pointed it out to him or anything. But yeah, he’d have to be pretty self-absorbed not to realize.”
“Or pretty convinced he knows what’s going on.”
“Meaning what, you’re buying his story? He thinks he’s in here on a rape charge?”
“Maybe,” Bascombe says. “Or maybe he’s really good. Maybe we’re not dealing with your garden variety domestic here. You’re assuming he killed her in a crime of passion scenario, then tried to make the scene look like something else, a sex murder. What if this guy’s the real thing? He just happens to be starting in his own backyard.”
“That’s what you’re getting off him?” I ask. It seems like a stretch to me.
“I’m not getting nothing off him, that’s my point. Here’s what we need to do. Go back in there and get what you need-an explanation for the injuries, a full timeline-but do something else first. He’s sticking to this rape story, so let’s run with that. Whatever happened between them, it was at his apartment. He gave us that. So tell him we want consent to search.”
“He’s not going to give it.”
“Try him. I think he just might.”
“Meanwhile,” I say, “how about those other homicides? I can handle this if you want to catch yourself up on one of those.”
He sees through me and answers with a knowing smile. “Am I cramping your style, Detective? I’m sorry about that. I just like to see the way you work.” He turns to Aguilar. “Get this Reverend Blunt on the phone, too. Let’s get started on Jason’s alibi, such as it is.”
If Jason Young is surprised that I’ve returned alone, he gives no clue. My papers remain untouched where I left them. When I sit, he slumps a little, like he’s relieved the temptation to reach for them is at an end. I slip a hand inside my briefcase and place my trump card on the table, watching his expression the whole time.
He glances at the book just long enough to see what it is, then loses all interest. Either he’s unfamiliar with The Kingwood Killing or he’s a better actor than even Bascombe is giving him credit for. I flip through the book for good measure, trying to bait him.
“So is this still break time or have we started already?”
The flash of attitude makes me smile. I close the book but leave it out on the table. “Here’s the problem, Jason. You said it yourself. We have two versions of the story, and I could see it playing out either way. No offense, I just don’t know you. I can’t tell which version to believe. But I’ll tell you one thing: I can respect what you’re doing. Holding down these jobs, getting your life straightened out. Taking responsibility.”
“Thanks,” he says in a grudging tone.
“If it was your story plus something else, you’d be all right. But the way the courts work, if it’s you against her, I think you know who’s going to win. In every other type of crime, the system is weighted toward the defendant, but here it works the opposite way. Basically all she has to do is say you’re guilty, and then the burden’s on you.”
As I deliver this slanted take on the legal system, Young deflates more and more, until his forehead’s practically touching the table and his hands clutch the back of his neck. I’m talking not to his face but to the top of his head.
“What do you mean, my story plus something else?”
“Well,” I say. “One thing would be if we took a look at the scene and there was no evidence to support the other side.”
“The scene?” He looks up. “You mean my bedroom?”
“The bedroom. The apartment.”
“It’s been weeks, though. I mean, if there was any evidence, I’m not so stupid that I wouldn’t have tidied up.”
A charge goes up my spine. In a different context, that could sound like an admission, considering whoever killed Simone certainly did tidy up.
“The point is, it would help corroborate. And if we were to drop this thing, the first question the judge is gonna ask is whether we checked the apartment. If the answer’s no, then we’re back to square one.”