Free Stray Bullets by Robert Rotenberg Page A

for about ten minutes.
    “Let’s go,” he said at last. “Take the chair beside him. I’ll stand by the door. It will make him think I don’t care if he talks or not. Larkin’s a kid who needs attention.”
    Back in the room, Kennicott took the chair beside St. Clair. Greene propped himself against the wall by the door, his legs crossed. Relaxed, like a patient porter waiting for a train.
    “You need anything, Mr. St. Clair?” Greene’s voice was polite.
    St. Clair scowled but didn’t say anything.
    Greene flicked his head toward Kennicott. “Officer Kennicott’s here as my scribe. He’ll record everything you say. I’ve turned the video recorder back on. That okay with you?”
    St. Clair clamped his mouth shut.
    Kennicott got out his pad and pen.
    “We’ve seen you on the Tim Hortons video.” Greene looked down at his fingernails as he spoke.
    St. Clair’s jaw was so stiff it quivered.
    “Picture of you sticking the gun down your pants is clear.”
    It wasn’t, but Kennicott knew trickery like this was commonplace.
    “Next we’ll have the GSR tests.”
    St. Clair crossed his arms, burying his covered hands in his armpits. Even under the bulky jumpsuit, his forearms looked big. Prison-gym muscles. “I’m not saying shit.”
    “And twenty-two eyewitnesses. Including the baker from the Tim Hortons who was standing right behind you,” Greene said, his voice a flat monotone. No need to tell St. Clair the witnesses’ evidence was all over the map and only five were of any use, or that Jose was missing in action. “The guy saw everything.”
    “Take a look at that,” St. Clair said at last. He kicked his leg out at an envelope that was on the floor. “It’s from my lawyer, Nancy Parish. A love letter for you guys telling you I’m not saying shit.”
    Greene’s face showed no emotion. He walked over, picked up the envelope, read the letter, put it back in the envelope, bent down, and replaced it on the floor. He retreated back to his position on the wall by the door. The law was clear. St. Clair could keep silent, but that didn’t prevent the cops from questioning him. The key, Kennicott knew, was to keep him talking.
    “You sure you don’t want anything? Another Coke? Chips?” Greene asked again. He made no mention of the lawyer’s letter he’d just read.
    “How about you pick my nose?” Larkin held up his bagged hands, like a kid wearing winter mittens. “Want to do it for me?” He laughed.
    “We know your buddy Dewey got out of jail four days ago. You didn’t show up for your appointment with your probation officer the next day.”
    St. Clair whipped his head up. Greene had his attention now.
    For the first time since he’d come in the room, Greene stared back at St. Clair. He pointed a finger at him and raised his voice. “Just like old times, isn’t it. Dewey and Larkin back together.”
    Kennicott saw St. Clair’s body go rigid. Greene’s getting to him, he thought.
    “You got about five minutes to decide if you want to help us find Booth or not.” Greene was back to looking bored. Even checked his watch.
    “You read my lawyer’s letter. I’m not saying squat.”
    “Story we’ve got, Dewey’s the shooter,” Greene said, as if he hadn’t heard what St. Clair had just said. “You’re not the gun type.”
    St. Clair closed his eyes and turned his head skyward, like a blind man searching the air for sound.
    “I’m guessing Booth takes a few potshots at Jet, because he’s going out with his old girlfriend, passes the gun to you, and takes off,” Greene said.
    Kennicott knew what Greene was doing. Trying to feed St. Clair a story, with the hopes he’d latch on to it. If he said Booth was the shooter, then, when they arrested Booth, he might put the blame back on St. Clair. When two defendants point at each other, it’s known as a cutthroat defense, and it almost always backfired on both parties. A prosecutor’s dream, and a defense lawyer’s nightmare.
    St. Clair