Free Burners by J.A. Konrath, Henry Perez Page A

it.
    Lipscomb stood and began.
    “Please state your name and occupation.”
    “Nicholas James, Officer with the Birch Grove Police Department.”
    “Can you describe the events that occurred during the afternoon of the Laserquick fire?”
    “My partner, Emmanuel Lewis, and I responded to a 206 called in by an anonymous tipster at the address in question. When we arrived on the scene in the alley behind it, at approximately five-ten p.m., we found the establishment to be on fire. As we pulled up I noticed a male in jeans and a red T-shirt, carrying a duffel bag, fleeing from the scene. We met Fire Chief Homer Davis on the scene, and he and another firefighter proceeded to break through the front door and enter the establishment. Two minutes later, the firefighters reappeared, dragging the corpse of the victim, Dennis Braun.”
     I was certain Officer James had said more stuff after revealing that his partner was named Emanuel Lewis. I knew this because I saw his lips moving. But I was fixated on the image of the little dude from
Webster
starting a new career as a suburban cop. How had Duane Wormley, the
Record
’s fluff piece maven, missed this human interest story? I scanned the courtroom for Emmanuel and settled on the only African American in the gallery.
    Damn. Webster got big.
    I semi-heard Lipscomb ask, “What happened next?”
    “I was scanning the gathered crowd. It is often the case that an arsonist will stick around to watch the result of his efforts. So when I spotted a male in a red T-shirt, carrying a duffel bag, I alerted my partner. As I covered him, my partner rushed across the street, and proceeded to take down and arrest Mr. Beniquez on suspicion of arson and murder.”
    “You read him his rights?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Did you then check the contents of his duffel bag?”
    “We did.”
    “What did you find?”
    “Two empty gasoline cans.”
    The gallery, and the jurors around me, began to murmur. Bob looked back at me and whispered, “This is getting good, isn’t it?”
    I didn’t respond, but it was.
    “Are the cans you found in the possession of Mr. Beniquez the ones entered as Exhibit A?” Lipscomb continued.
    “Yes, they are.”
    More rumbles from the crowd. I looked over at Jack, who was sitting in the back of the courtroom, arms crossed. Then I turned my attention to the defendant’s father, who had stood up from his seat. I wasn’t sure whether the judge or prosecutor had noticed, because they didn’t say anything as Carlos Beniquez walked forward, crouched when he reached the railing that separated the folks in the gallery from the main players, and removed a wooden panel about the size of a cutting board.
    Now everyone was watching the self-made, hard-working carpenter as he stood and flashed a handgun he’d produced from the gaping hole where the panel used to be.
    He was trembling just a little.
    “Your gun,” he said, pointing his weapon evenly at the surprised bailiff. “Take it out and put it on the floor, or I start shooting.” He cleared his throat, and spoke again, louder this time. “If anyone tries to leave, I will shoot them.”
    The bailiff took his gun from its holster, his withered hands shaking, as he placed it on the floor.
    Carlos walked over, picked up the gun, and shoved it into the waistband of his slacks.
    I saw Jack instinctively reach for a weapon that wasn’t under her armpit and come back with an empty hand.
    No one tried to leave the courtroom.

   

R ather than fear, the first thing I felt was astonishment.
    The defendant’s father was pointing his gun at the jury, doing a slow, steady sweep.
    But how did he get a weapon? How could he have stashed it in court?
    I glanced first at Officer James on the stand, then at Officer Lewis in the gallery, both unarmed, probably because shoulder holsters would ruin the lines of their expensive, tailored suits.
    Fail. But not as big a fail as me asking Phin to stay outside. While the arresting