Authors: John Gilstrap
He should turn himself in, evidence be damned. He was innocent-certainly, in his heart, if not by the letter of the law. Certainly, the police and the judge and jury would see that. And once proclaimed innocent, he'd get his life back, right? But what kind of life would it be? He'd lose his job, that was for sure. Benton and Arbrosi would never tolerate the hint of scandal-or felonies-from one of their senior account managers, and neither would any of their competitors. Like it or not, an arrest for murder would forever be the lead sentence in Bobby's biography, and no one would ever read as far as the phrase "not guilty." With his job would go the house, under the shame of foreclosure. The press would have a field day with it all, thrilling in the collapse of yet another successful baby boomer. It was the kind of story that Dateline and 60 Minutes loved to do. Even if found innocent, he'd be lucky to find a sales job at a CompUSA, let alone at another prestigious software firm.
And that was the good scenario. God only knew what could happen with a few unlucky turns. Death row, he supposed, was the very worst. Or maybe life without parole. He'd never given any of it much thought before, but right at this moment, he couldn't decide which of those two options was truly the worst.
Bobby sat heavily on the blue tapestry sofa in the family room and eased his head back onto the cushions as he tried to figure out his next step. It had long been a counterproductive trait of his to retreat from difficult life decisions; to bury himself in work or merely to go take a walk or play a computer game instead of facing tough issues straight on. Experience had proven that most crises, if left alone, resolved themselves. But this one was different. This problem only got worse with each passing second.
His emotional pendulum had swung, and for the time being, turning himself in was out of the question. There had to be another way. There had to be.
Their first problem was the baby. Specifically, where to deposit him. With luck, a set of parents out there were frantic with worry over the loss of their little boy, and recovering him would make everything all right again. Unless, of course, the kid's father was a cop who just happened to be lying dead in the middle of the West Virginia woods. Either way, they needed to get this kid back to where he belonged.
Bobby liked the idea of dropping him off in a church. The more he stewed on it, the more reasonable it sounded. He'd have to time it just right, of course, waiting until nightfall and then just letting the boy loose inside the church until someone found him. Yeah, that could work just fine, couldn't it?
Until the kid decides to wander off somewhere.
An image of the sweet-faced little boy stepping out into traffic flashed into Bobby's head and made him shiver. What would be the legal liability then?
Jesus, Bobby, what are you thinking? What the hell difference did it make what the legal liability was? How could he even think in those terms?
Wherever they decided, it had to be someplace where they could keep an eye on him until a successful handoff could be made.
What about in a department store? A crowded one, where someone was bound to notice a lost boy wandering through the aisles. Another good possibility, except for the security cameras they had everywhere. Bobby could just see it now: The evening news showing grainy videotape of someone who looked just like Bobby entering the store with a little boy in tow, then leaving without one. He could hear the news anchor's commentary as he called on viewers to help identify this mysterious person who could be so irresponsible with his child.
Every time his brain churned up an alternative, he quickly shot it own again, either because it was too risky for the child or because it as too risky for Bobby. How the hell could anyone possibly lose a child? he wondered. If you couldn't find a way to do it on purpose, how could so many people have it happen accidentally?
The telephone rang, and the sound of it went through Bobby like a hot. He jerked up from the sofa, dashed to the kitchen, and lifted the receiver in the middle of the fourth ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Bobby, it's me," Susan said cheerfully. "I just realized that I'd forgotten to leave a note, and I wanted you to know that Steven and I are okay, and that we'll be out for the better part of the afternoon."
A chill raked Bobby's back, like fingernails from an invisible hand. Steven?" He tried to say it lightly, but hearing the name in the present tense made his stomach flip.
She gave a naughty little giggle. "That's what I decided to call him. I've always liked the name Steven."
He leaned against the edge of the counter and switched the phone to the other ear as he struggled to control his breathing. "I like the name, too. That's why we were going to name the baby that."
"And now I have." Bobby could see her beaming smile as she spoke. "God, he's so beautiful."
Beautiful. Right. They'd discussed this. "Look, honey, where are you? We need to talk about some things."
"I'm at the mall. I thought we said we'd talk about them later."
"The mall!" he shouted. "Are you crazy? What if somebody sees you?"
Susan laughed. "I'm at Buckingham. I wouldn't go anywhere we might know anyone. Give me credit for some brains, will you?"
"But why, Susan? Why would you do that?"
"You should see how Steven interacts with people, Bobby. He's such a charmer. I just love being with him."
Bobby's heart pounded a timpani beat against his breastbone. This was bad. He didn't understand exactly what was going on, but this was really, really bad. "Just stay where you are, okay, Sue? I'll get in the car and come and join you."
"Oh, no, that's okay. We're having a terrific time. Besides, I'm not sure how long I'm going to be here."
"No. No, honey, I can be there in what, forty-five minutes? It'll be fun."
"Bobby, you need to rest. You must be exhausted."
"No, really, I'm fine. Just give me a little while-"
"No, Bobby." This time, her tone was unequivocal, harsh. "We don't need you here. This is our special outing, okay?"
Okay? Hell, no, it's not okay! Thoughts raced at a million miles an hour, tracing a tight circle around his brain. He couldn't think of what to do next. He needed her home. He needed the boy home. Now. "Honey, listen-"
"Time to go. Steven's getting antsy in his stroller. I love you, Bobby."
Those words came all in a rush, almost uninterpretable, and before he could take a breath to argue, he heard the line go dead.
"Shit!" He yelled it loudly enough to echo through the house that he suddenly hated more than he'd ever hated anything in his life-the place that weighted his life like an anchor. He slammed the receiver
into its cradle on the wall, then picked it up again and smashed it into the granite countertop, launching a shower of plastic shrapnel across their shiny kitchen floor.
Detective Tom Stipton rubbed his temples. Sooner or later the teasing would stop. He was sure of it. Problem was, with only twelve years to go before retirement, it probably wouldn't happen while he was still young enough to enjoy the break.
It had been five whole hours now since he'd found out that he'd been shot to death in West Virginia, and all things considered, he felt pretty good about it. He had to smile as he thought about the telephone call from the state police. As luck would have it, Tom was at his desk when the shift commander, Captain Mason, fielded the call and transferred it to his desk.
"Hey, Tom, there's a West Virginia state trooper on line three that wants to talk to you about somebody you know." From the leaden tone in the captain's voice, Tom knew that something was terribly wrong.
"What's the problem?"
"Just take the call. But steel yourself. I'm afraid it's not good involved in a murder couldn't help. He could hear the wheels spinning inside the heads of the Internal Affairs dicks: Was Stipton involved in a plot to get his badge "accidentally" stolen so that criminals somewhere would have an easier time committing a crime?
As part of his administrative punishment, he'd already been removed from the homicide division and placed on the petty crimes unit-the repository for fuckups and those who were so close to retirement that the department didn't want them in harm's way anymore.
He liked to think of it as the humiliation that kept on giving.
Tom glanced across the squad room and saw his next case arriving. She appeared tall for a woman-five-ten-and she looked like shit in her bloodstained secondhand clothes. An enormous bandage all but obscured her left eye. The effect of it all was particularly startling given her obviously pregnant belly. Her head hung low as the uniformed officers on either side led her to an interrogation room, where they removed her handcuffs and ushered her to a chair.
Tom met the officers as they were on their way out. "Is this our armed robber?"
Sergeant Sammy Feitner was the oldest of the two officers, and at six-eight, the tallest in the whole department. "This is her. Hasn't said a word to us since we picked her up."
"Looks more like a victim than a perp. That bandage on her head your doing?"
Feitner scowled. "Not my style, Tom. One of the security guards got a little carried away. A kid named Brandon. Turns out he's the high school home-run king for this district."
Tom winced at the thought of having one's head smacked out of the park. "Ouch. She been to the hospital?"
The big sergeant shook his head. "Refused treatment."
"Is she okay?"
"As far as I can tell, yeah. But you know, it's been a while since I was in medical school."
Ah, station-house sarcasm. How could Tom live without it? "How about her sheet? Did you pull it?"
Feitner pulled a computer printout from his back pocket. "Not much there. A possession arrest a few years ago, but she walked on it."
Scanning the sheet, the first thing Tom noticed was her address in The Pines. That in itself was nearly as good as a conviction.
"Here are the statements from the store security folks," the second officer said, handing over another set of papers, along with a Macy's shopping bag. "And here's a copy of the video from the security cameras."
Tom signed the chain-of-custody slip and accepted the gifts. "And she's said nothing?"
"Not even a sigh."
"No request for a lawyer?"
Feitner shook his head.
"Well, thank you, gentlemen, for a job well done." Tom said it with exaggerated officiousness that brought a smile from the others.
"You been workin' too much, Tom," Feitner said laughing. "It's starting to get to you."
Oh, if only he knew.
April didn't bother to look up as Tom pulled the door open and walked to the table, helping himself to the chair opposite hers.
"Ms. Simpson, I'm Detective Stipton with the Pittsburgh Police Department. Can I get you anything? A soda? Cup of coffee?"
April didn't move.
Tom nodded. He had infinite patience at times like these. Truth be told, given the case they had against her, keeping silent wasn't a bad strategy. "Okay, well, I'm sure that the arresting officers already read you your rights, but let me do it again, just to make sure all the T's are crossed."
He withdrew his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a laminated card with the Miranda warnings printed out word for word. This was such an important moment for bloodsucking defence attorneys that he forced himself to read what any fan of N.Y.P.D. Blue could have recited from memory. As the words spilled out, he noted how they seemed to hammer his prisoner farther into her chair, each syllable making her shoulders sag a little more. When he finished, her chin was touching her chest. He paused long enough to tuck the card away, then leaned his arms heavily on the table.
"Hey, April," he said softly. "Could you look at me, please?"
She hesitated, then led with her eyes as her head rocked up to full height. Beneath the bruises and the swelling, she was a beautiful woman.
"That's a nasty knock you got on your head there. Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor?"
Clearly, movement hurt as she shook her head, and her fingers gently stroked the lump of gauze that had been taped over the wound. Tom noticed the manicure.
"Can you tell me how that happened?" You always opened with questions you already knew the answers to. "Was it one of our people
who did it?"
"Does that matter?" At its face, the question might have been combative, but its delivery seemed genuine.
"Well, I think it does," Tom answered with a shrug. "I don't like the notion of my officers out there beating on civilians."
She considered not answering, but in the end shook her head again, ever so gently. "I don't think so, no. I think it was one of the rent-a-cops at the mall."
Tom pulled a reporter's notebook from his inside jacket pocket and made a note. "Would you like to consider filing charges?" This was the get-to-know-each-other phase of their relationship, and it never hurt for a suspect to enjoy the illusion that you were on her side.
April scowled, then smiled, as if she suddenly understood a punch line. "Maybe I will. I'll have to think about it."