Free Supreme Justice by Max Allan Collins Page B

a trailer.
    Rogers entered the interview room, her eyes unreadable, her mouth a straight line. She tossed a folder onto the table before sitting opposite the suspect. She opened the folder, glanced at its contents, letting Granger know she was going over his rap sheet. Then she closed the file, placed both her hands flat on the table, and just looked at him, as if waiting for him to start the conversation.
    Good ,Reeder thought.
    Granger tried to hold her gaze, but his defiance wilted, and he looked away.
    Finally, in a voice as casual as a bored waitress taking an order, Rogers said, “You do know you’re screwed here, Charlie, don’t you?”
    Granger was trembling, just a little, his mouth twitching. Just a little.
    “Never mind repeat offender,” she said. “We’re talking murder . . .”
    Granger straightened, his eyes flaring, as he reflexively drew his shackled arm closer, rattling the cuff chain.
    “. . . and a Supreme Court justice at that. We’re talking a very special kind of screwed.”
    “Wait, what?” Granger said, as alert as a deer about to get splattered by a truck.
    Reading this guy’s surprise and alarm didn’t take kinesics training.
    “You mean that shit on TV?” Granger asked. “Okay, that was a tavern stickup, but I didn’t have diddly to do with that one. Must be one of them copycats.”
    Reeder smiled. This was a tacit admission that Granger was part of the two-man crew hitting bars in a multistate area.
    “Okay, Charlie,” Rogers said. “If you had nothing to do with the Verdict robbery, you must have an alibi, right?”
    “When . . . when was that?”
    “Two nights ago.”
    “. . . Home watching TV with my mom.”
    “That’s what you want to go with? Your mom as your alibi?”
    He raised the hand attached to the shackled wrist. “As God is my witness, it’s the goddamn honest truth, so help me God.”
    That was a hell of a lot of God s.
    But Rogers clearly didn’t buy it. Still, Reeder had been impressed by the relatively quick, confident way the suspect produced his for-shit alibi.
    Hearing the observation booth door open, Reeder turned as Sloan and a shaft of light came in.
    “Anything?” Sloan asked, letting the door close, returning Reeder to darkness as the SAIC took position next to him.
    “Says he’s innocent,” Reeder said.
    Sloan snorted a laugh. “Till we prove him guilty, he is.”
    Rogers was saying, “No one else saw you that night? Just your mother?”
    Glumly, Granger nodded.
    Sloan said, “His mother is his alibi.”
    Reeder wasn’t sure if that was a statement or a question.
    “Yup,” Reeder said. “Bishop and Pellin get anything from her?”
    “Old girl had the same story as her baby boy. They were watching Forrest Gump on TCM. Mom can barely get out of bed by herself. But Charlie is really a great, great help.”
    “Our DC Homicide contingent get anything out of the visit, besides a worthless alibi?”
    Sloan grinned that very white smile of his. “How about an AK-47 in a closet? Mom said Charlie must be holding it for a friend. Couldn’t possibly be his—he’s such a good boy. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
    “You sure they weren’t watching Psycho on TCM?” Reeder laughed, once. “I wonder if she thought he was a good boy when he went to juvie, or later, when he went to jail?”
    The rhetorical question drew half a smile from Sloan. “Oh, she blames the bad crowd Charlie got in with for her boy’s troubles. That’s his only fault, you know—too trusting.”
    “Ah,” Reeder said. “Her dog’s name is Yanni, but she called out for Butch. Do we know who that is?”
    Sloan replenished his smile. “Mrs. Granger claims you heard her wrong. Says she never said ‘Butch.’ ”
    “Gee, maybe it was my imagination. And Patti’s.”
    “I’ve already turned Miguel Altuve loose on Granger’s known associates, cell mates, and so on to see if there’s a Butch in the mix.”
    As if she’d been psychically eavesdropping on