Free Matters of Doubt by Warren C Easley Page A

After giving her my cell phone number, we went to her office where I took her through yesterday’s events.
    When I finished explaining my theory that Picasso was being set up, she raised a hand to her mouth and said, “My God, that has to be it. I know I told you Picasso was carrying around a lot of rage, but he would never hurt anyone.” She said it with a matter-of-fact assurance I found comforting, although her conviction seemed to rest more on a judgment of Picasso’s character than logic and evidence. I believed in him, too, but that small voice in my head would need proof, as well.
    She continued, “Frankly, I’m amazed the police didn’t arrest him. I mean, with all the hysteria about crimes committed by the homeless—”
    â€œOh, they wanted to arrest him, alright, but they had no murder weapon, and my story tended to corroborate his. But, there’s more to come, I’m afraid.”
    Anna sighed and brushed back a lock of hair. Her eyes were the blue of glacial ice, but now they had warmth I could feel down to the soles of my feet. “Thanks for standing up for him, Cal. Most people either see these kids as a threat or a pitiful lost cause.”
    I mumbled something about her being welcome then added, “Uh, mind if I look around in the storeroom where Picasso keeps his computer?”
    She raised her eyebrows in a question, pulled a ring of keys from her smock and, holding the key in question, handed the ring to me. “It’s this one.”
    I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but it was the only other place I knew of besides his cabin that Picasso stored things. My gut said to check it out. I hated nasty surprises.
    The storage room was at the end of the hall, next to the back door. Shelves covering one wall were crammed with general supplies for the clinic. A mop in a bucket, a push broom, and a wooden stepladder spattered with paint were propped in the corner. Picasso’s computer sat on a narrow bench along with the backpack I’d seen in his place. At the back of the bench, eight or ten unopened cans of acrylic paint were lined up next to a jar of brushes.
    I took a quick look in his backpack. The main pouch contained his sketchbook, a half dozen pencils, a Philip K. Dick paperback, an apple, and the hammer I’d seen him use outside. In a smaller compartment, I found a pair of pliers, a pocket knife, a measuring tape, and a Phillips head screwdriver. His computer would be of great interest to Scott and Jones, so I disconnected it from the charger and put them both under my arm. God knows what he had on that machine.
    I handed the computer to Anna and told her to only give it up if it was specifically asked for. I stepped outside just as Picasso rode up on his bike. I glanced at my watch. “I’d like you to take a quick look in the store room before the law arrives. I already removed your computer. Doc has it in her office.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThe cops don’t need to see it.”
    He shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
    â€œGood,” I answered, “but they still don’t need to see it.” As he followed me around to the back of the building, I said, “I want to know if anything’s there that shouldn’t be or if anything’s missing.”
    He entered the room ahead of me, looked around for a few moments and shrugged. “Looks cool to me. What’s the big deal?”
    â€œSee anything out of the ordinary?”
    He glanced around again, half-heartedly. “Nothing.”
    I nodded in the direction of his backpack. “Those tools in your backpack, are they all there?”
    He took a cursory look. “Yeah.”
    â€œYou don’t have something to open your paint cans with?”
    His eyes might have flared ever so slightly, but I wasn’t sure. “Yeah. It’s probably back at the village. I’ve got more sketching to do before I start