11th hour

Chapter 91

Randall looked tired and irritated. Conklin and I pulled out chairs and sat across from a man who might have set a new record for murders by a cop.

I pushed a container of coffee toward him, waited for him to stir in his sugar, then said, “The more you cooperate, the faster this will go, Sergeant. Where were you for the last eight hours?”

“I arrived home after my shift at approximately six o’clock p.m. I was home all night, as my wife told you.”

“Do you have another car, Sergeant Randall?”

“No. My wife has a car.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“Department issue only. I don’t want guns in a house with kids and a father-in-law who has no short-term memory.”

“Did you drive your wife’s car or any car between the hours of six last night and one this morning?”

“No, I did not.”

“Did you fire a weapon in the last week?”

“I like how you ask me that with a straight face.”

“Did you?”

“Hell no. You tested my hands, Sergeant. Negative for GSR.”

That was true.

Randall’s hands had been negative for gunshot residue, although he could have washed up and probably had. We had had no warrant to search his house or bring in his clothes for analysis. I got up, walked around the room, came back to my chair, and leaned across the table.

“We have a witness who saw you at Zeus.”

“I guess he failed to identify me in the lineup.”

“Others may come forward. When the ME does her post on the body, when CSU finishes processing the alley, we’re going to find physical evidence. You can count on that.”

“Knock yourself out, Sergeant. I’m not worried.”

Conklin took his turn.

“Sergeant. Will. I don’t have to remind you, now is the time to tell us the truth. We’re going to be sympathetic. We’re going to go out of our way to help you. Your victims are criminals. You’ve got friends in high places.”

“I didn’t do it.”

I sighed, said, “Any idea who the shooter might be?”

“No idea in the world, but I admire the work he’s doing. He’s cutting through the red tape and putting the scumbags down.”

Randall looked at me as though daring me to confuse his attitude with an actual confession.

He said, “I’ve got nothing for you, Sergeant. My kids are scared. My wife is going crazy. Lock me up or let me go.”

We kept at it for another hour, Conklin and I taking turns, drilling down on his activities of the week before, going back over the same ground, but never tripping him up. Randall was smart and had as much interrogation experience as I had.

We’d done a good job and so had Randall. He hadn’t given us a crumb and I couldn’t think of anything else to ask him.

“You’re free to go,” I said. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

Randall stood up and put on his nylon windbreaker.

“I need a lift.”

Then, as an afterthought, he said, “You should be careful, Sergeant Boxer. You don’t want to take chances with your baby.”

I took it as a sincere remark.

Conklin walked Randall out, and when he came back, I was still in the interrogation room. I hadn’t moved.

“Did he do it?” I asked.

“I can’t tell.”

“You know what, Rich? I kind of like the son of a bitch.”

“He’s a hard-ass,” Conklin said. “Kind of reminds me of you.”