Free The Best American Mystery Stories, Volume 17 by Lisa Scottoline

headquarters.
    â€œWho’s the duty judge?”
    â€œJoe Sayzo.”
    â€œDammit.”
    Sayzo was as anti-police as they came. Better known as “Lack of PC Sayzo,” the man rarely saw enough probable cause in officers testifying at preliminary hearings, forcing the DA to produce fact witnesses, who were hard enough to get to court for a trial, much less a hearing. Sayzo saw even less probable cause in most warrants.
    â€œI don’t have enough for an arrest warrant,” Savary said. “I was thinking I have enough for a search warrant. I’ll go talk to the suspect, case he wants to cop out.”
    â€œYeah. Right.”
    Neither had to mention the fact that Judge Marcus Summers was next up as duty judge. That would be tomorrow. A retired state trooper, Summers understood probable cause for what it was, “a reasonable belief that an individual committed a specific crime.” Far from the “beyond a reasonable doubt” necessary for conviction, PC was what every cop strived for. It was up to the DA to present a case “beyond a reasonable doubt.”
    Damn attorneys. Shakespeare had it right. First, kill all the lawyers.
    Â 
    Two sheriff’s deputies brought Oris Lamont, who was young and thin, like the killer in the video, into the small, stuffy interview room at Orleans Parish Prison where Detective Joseph Savary sat behind the small table with a Miranda rights form. He’d filled out the pertinent details of name, address, date, and time.
    Lamont sat in the chair across the table from Savary and reached for the mini digital tape recorder next to Savary’s hand.
    â€œDon’t touch it,” Savary said. He introduced himself and asked, “You have a lawyer?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    Savary started reading Lamont his rights.
    â€œI know them,” Lamont interrupted.
    Savary continued until he reached the waiver portion and read, “I understand what my rights are. No pressure or coercion of any kind was used against me to waive my rights. At this time, I am willing to answer questions without a lawyer present.”
    â€œWhat’s this about?”
    â€œIt’s not about any chicken-shit drug charge.”
    Lamont’s dark brown eyes went wide. He leaned back in the folding chair. He tried smiling. Savary pulled a crime-scene photo from his briefcase, a photo of the exterior of Jeanfreau’s from the afternoon of the murder. Lamont looked at it but his eyes revealed nothing, not even recognition of a place he must have passed hundreds of times in his short life.
    â€œI don’t know nothin’ ’bout no murder.”
    â€œWho said anything about a murder? I could be a robbery detective for all you know.”
    â€œYou got a cigarette?”
    â€œI don’t smoke.” Savary pushed the waiver forward. “You’ll have to sign the waiver to talk with me.”
    Lamont folded his arms. Savary shrugged, picked up the waiver form, and said, “You can go back inside then. With your padnas.”
    â€œI got no padnas.” Lamont reached for the form, signed it, said, “I want you to tell the judge I cooperated. Damn drug charge.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you were in Jeanfreau’s?”
    â€œMan, I don’t know. It’s been a while. A year or so.”
    â€œReally? You know there’s video inside. You sure you didn’t drop in, get a cold drink?”
    â€œNope. I mean yeah. I ain’t been inside.”
    â€œYou remember Mr. Hudson, don’t you?”
    â€œI ain’t talkin’ ’bout that old man or any charge he put against me.”
    â€œI’m not here to talk about shoplifting.”
    Savary tried different tacks. What had Lamont heard about the murder? Was he outside when it happened, maybe saw something? Oris Lamont insisted he hadn’t been at Jeanfreau’s for a year. Savary turned on the tape recorder, read Lamont his rights again, and