Shattered (Michael Bennett #14)(43)

Each office had one or two people in it. Most were in some sort of serious discussion. I figured there were already some district commanders and certainly a public information officer or two formulating some kind of press release. After all, the story of Emily’s murder had been on the news.

A tubby man wearing a tan, short-sleeved shirt with a brown, checked tie greeted Bobby. Bobby didn’t bother to introduce us. All I caught was his first name, Perry. He had the burned-out look of a longtime homicide detective. A quick haircut without care for the lines of his head. A gut that hung over his belt from too many fast-food meals thrown down while reading reports. And a slight limp from a torn MCL that he was too busy to have anyone look at. I guess homicide detectives in every city are about the same.

I listened as he and Bobby started talking about the case.

The detective, Perry, said, “This guy lives in some bushes exactly on the route your agent used to run from the Whole Foods. We were canvassing the area for about the tenth time. We started from the Whole Foods where she left her car and worked toward the river. Then we noticed a brand-new Fitbit on this guy’s wrist. That’s what started it. It didn’t take long to confirm that it was Emily Parker’s Fitbit. I’d say we’re looking at a pretty solid case.”

I couldn’t contain it anymore. I blurted out, “Are you kidding me?”





Chapter 55



Bobby tried to brush by my comment. An old-school homicide detective like Perry wasn’t going to let it go.

Perry used his bulk to shove past Bobby. “What d’you mean, am I kidding you? Hell no, I’m not kidding anyone.”

Bobby tried to redirect the detective’s attention. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”

The detective ignored him. He broke into my personal space and raised his voice. “What do you mean? How many goddamn homicides have you worked?” It was just under a shout, and his face was turning red. A scary shade of red.

I knew not to say Calm down. That never helps when someone is upset. I think whoever started saying it, maybe back in the Middle Ages, meant it ironically.

Instead, I said, “I’ve worked a few homicides.”

The burly detective lowered his voice and said, “You don’t think he’s a good suspect?”

“I’d like to talk to him. Having someone’s Fitbit doesn’t mean you killed them. What else have you got? There’s gotta be something.”

The detective just stared at me.

I asked the next logical question: “Did he confess?”

That froze the detective in place. He looked at me and said, “He’s answered in the affirmative to questions about grabbing the FBI agent.”

I wanted to call bullshit. But I kept my mouth shut. No matter how hard it was.

The detective said, “The suspect has three arrests for violent crime. That counts for something.”

“Unless he didn’t do it. Then it doesn’t count for shit.”

The detective’s face flushed again, but he didn’t say anything.

Bobby chatted in a low voice with the detective, then said, “Can we talk to him for a minute?”

The detective hesitated. “I might need to clear this with one of the bosses.”

Bobby kept an even tone. “We’re not trying to steal your case. But I have to be able to brief my bosses. We just want to get in and ask him a couple of questions. Obviously, you can stay with us the whole time.”

It was too reasonable of an argument to ignore.

The detective led us through a narrow hallway to an interview room. The room was small. Maybe ten feet by ten feet. The ceiling tiles were almost low enough to touch. I wondered if that was intentional. To give people a claustrophobic feeling. There was a camera in each corner. Perry gave us a briefing sheet with the man’s name, age, and criminal record. As soon as we stepped in, a young female detective stood up. She was in the corner, and the suspect was cuffed in the middle.

The tall, skinny man of about fifty-five looked to be six three and probably didn’t break a buck forty. He was mostly bald, but the rim of gray, messy hair still on his head was long and uncombed. He had a ruddy face made tough by years of living in the sun.

We slid into the seats across from him. Bobby had already warned me that he was going to ask the questions.

Bobby said, “Are you Jason Hagensick?”

The man had a wide grin. Several of the teeth in his lower jaw popped past his lips, giving him the look of a bulldog. All he said was “Yep.” His eyes were focused on something on the far wall. When he turned and looked at me, I noted that his eyes looked clear. I didn’t detect any drug use.

“You know why you’re here, right?”

“Yep.”

I started to have an uneasy feeling. I looked down at the briefing sheet and saw that he had been arrested twice in the early nineties for some kind of fighting. He’d had another arrest a couple of years later for stalking. I couldn’t contain myself and said, “Did you see a woman running near where you live in the bushes?”

“Yep.”

Bobby cut in. “Did you hurt her?”

“Yep.”

Now I raised my hand to stop everyone. The young female detective was still standing in the corner. The lead detective, who had tried to sell us on this guy’s guilt, stood by the door.