The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(43)

Stoll said, “May I?” Without waiting for an answer, he took the phone from Wilson and gave the screen a good long look. Then he handed it back.

“I don’t recognize him, at least not from that angle. I can’t swear he wasn’t one of the three thousand enlisted men I trained or served with. But this I know: when you check my rifle, you’ll see it hasn’t been fired. You checked my hands for GSR, so you know I haven’t fired a weapon. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” said Richards. “Where were you at six thirty this morning?”

“Is that when that guy in the park bought it?”

“Where were you, Lieutenant Stoll?”

“I was at the South Blue Island Avenue bus depot having coffee and joking around with three other drivers and my supervisor, Jesse Kruse. We cleaned the buses, and I started my route at seven. Picked up thirty-six little kids and took them all to school. Drove nowhere near the Riverwalk. I got more eyewitnesses to my whereabouts than you got time in a week to interview.

“And now I have a question for you,” said Stoll. “Are we done? If not, I’m through talking without a lawyer. If so, I’ll take my gun and go about my business.”

Richards said, “Remember when I read you your rights?”

“I remember. But this is ridiculous. You didn’t arrest me. I thought you just wanted me to tell you what I saw from the bridge.”

The confident body language was gone. Stoll was getting exercised. It wasn’t going to do him any good. My partner and I looked at each other, brought our eyes back to the screen as Richards said, “Stoll. You’re a person of interest in a homicide. We’re holding you in custody until we check out your alibi, and if you’ve been honest with us, we’re gonna clear you. Understand? We have to do that, if it takes a week, or longer.”

Richards continued, “Furthermore, now that you said you want a lawyer, we have to stop talking to you.”

“Fuck that. I waive my rights.”

“Good thinking,” Richards said almost kindly. He pushed a pad of paper and a pen across the table.

“After you sign the waiver, we’re gonna need names of all the people who can vouch for your whereabouts during the hours before we brought you in.”





CHAPTER 63





SITTING BESIDE ME, Conklin exhaled loudly and ran his hands through his hair.

He said, “Is Stoll innocent, arrogant, or dumb and dumber? It’s hard to know.”

Stoll signed the waiver. Richards signed it. Wilson signed it, too, and sat with Stoll as Richards took the waiver out of the room. He returned a minute later, took his seat, asked Richards if he wanted anything—soft drink, coffee?

Stoll shook his head no.

Richards said to Stoll, “Explain the rifle.”

“I was going out to DeKalb County to shoot at tin cans. It’s my brother’s land, and I have permission.”

“So I don’t get what you were doing on the bridge.”

“I was taking in the view. It was looking to be a gorgeous day. Man, when I’m wrong, I’m really wrong.”

Detective Wilson asked Stoll for his brother’s name, contact information, location of the property. She also took the number of Stoll’s supervisor. Then she left the room to run down Stoll’s alibis.

Richards said, “Stoll, have you ever heard of a website called Moving Targets?”

“No. Oh. It’s a video game, right? A buddy of mine used to play. Compete, you know. I didn’t find it very challenging. Not for someone trained like me.”

“Is there more to it than a game? In your opinion, could Moving Targets be a front for targeted hits on drug dealers?”

“What? Where’d you get that? That’s nuts. If we’re talking about the same thing, it’s like a kids’ game. Anyone saying otherwise is just full of crap.”

Richards drilled down, asking the same questions in different ways, taking his time, playing up to Stoll’s military expertise, asking Stoll’s opinion, looking for Stoll to contradict himself.

But Stoll was consistent.

Richards returned to the subject of Moving Targets, saying, “That website has come up during our investigation. I’d like to talk to your buddy. Ask him about how the game works.”

“I’d like to talk to him, too. Name is Sid Bernadine. He’s dead. Stroked out two or three years ago. I miss the hell out of Sid.”

Stoll looked empty. Like he’d given up everything he had to give. Richards had done a good job. I don’t know anyone who could have gotten more or better out of Stoll—not me, or Conklin, or Brady or Jacobi.

Wilson returned to the room with another cop.

Stoll said, “So what’s this now?”

Richards said, “I told you, Stoll. We’re gonna make you comfortable here while we check your alibis and your gun. You get a phone call. You want to do this nice? Or should we go ahead and cuff you?”

Richards put his hands in his pant pockets, and that opened his jacket. I caught a flash of yellow, the handle of his Taser gun.

“I’ll take that phone call now.”

The room emptied and our screen went black.





CHAPTER 64





HENRY TYLER HAD been breaking news at the Chronicle since before Willie Brown was mayor.