Free Blessed Are Those Who Weep by Kristi Belcamino Page A

say.
    â€œIt was him, I swear. It was Joey Martin.”
    â€œHe’s in Iraq,” she says in a monotone.
    I have one chance left to convince her. Digging in my bag, I hand her the piece of metal.
    â€œHe dropped this when he was running away from the apartment. I know I’ve probably corrupted the chain of evidence, but if it has his prints on it, will you believe me?”
    She doesn’t answer, just puts on gloves and drops the metal stick in a plastic bag, which she seals.
    â€œThe fact that it was outside their apartment is not incriminating in itself. He did live there, right? It wouldn’t be unusual to find one of his possessions either in the apartment or outside it, right?”
    My excitement fades. She’s right.
    â€œBut he attacked me.”
    The look she gives me tells me she is not convinced.
    â€œYou’re lucky I believe you were attacked, because I hate to break this to you, but you’re not looking so squeaky clean yourself right now.”
    My eyes widen as I take in what she means. “What are you trying to say?”
    She clears her throat. “You found the bodies. You were in the apartment again tonight. You found some so-­called weapon. Your prints are all over the crime scene and now on a potential weapon.”
    Weapon?
    â€œThe only reason I’m entertaining any notion that you’re telling the truth is because you’re Sean Donovan’s girl and he did something for me once. I owe him—­and you get to benefit from that.”
    She pushes a stack of four-­by-­six photos toward me. “Prove you saw Joey Martin there.”
    All of the photos are of men in army uniforms. I find him immediately. The blood rushes to my face, and my fingers shake as I pick up a photo of a man with full lips and bushy eyebrows.
    â€œThis is the guy who attacked me.”
    She nods. She believes me.
    â€œHas anyone shown you a picture of him before?”
    My heart sinks. The wedding picture Mrs. Castillo loaned me is still in my bag.
    â€œYes.”
    She presses her lips tightly together. “I don’t know who you saw, but Joey Martin is in Iraq. He’s coming home a week from Friday on leave so he can get his child out of CPS care,” she says. “She’ll be with family again instead of strangers. You should be happy to hear that.”
    I shake my head. “He’s here. It’s been three days since the murders. He could have flown home by now. And if you ask his mother-­in-­law, she’ll tell you he was here at the time of the murders.”
    Her eyes narrow. “So you’re not only saying the U.S. military is lying to the San Francisco Police Department but that Joey Martin killed his entire family?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    We have a stare down. She squints, as if she can see into my soul, before leaning back in her chair and exhaling.
    â€œI’ll play devil’s advocate here for a second, and let’s suppose that you are right. Even if you are, there is nothing we can do about it. He’s heavily alibied. He was overseas. Iraq. The U.S. Army is vouching that he has been in Iraq since March.”
    â€œThe military is lying.” My voice is shaking.
    She studies me for a few minutes. I wonder if she’s remembering how I refused to turn over Lucy the first time we met. Does she think I’m too stubborn to listen to reason? Leaning forward, she shuffles some papers on her desk without looking away from me.
    â€œThe military is not going to lie about this, Ella.” I cringe at her using my nickname, reserved for family only. The look Khoury gives me is a combination of pity and condescension. It makes me wonder what she knows about me. What she’s heard. I stare at her until she speaks again. “I’m sorry. I know you personally want this case solved, but you can’t want it any more than I do.”
    â€œWhat if he was actually here during the murders,