Middle Of Nowhere

   Daphne continued, "This is the man who would like you alone for a few minutes. The handcuffs off. One on one. We discussed it on the way over. He won't get that chance, of course. But he takes solace in the fact that he's been on the force long enough to know everybody and anybody, long enough to know which of the arrests in lockup enjoy the . . . services . . . of other men. Solace in the fact that you'll be raped night after night, anally, orally—raped until you bleed, raped until you can't swallow even a sip of water. You'll be sent to the infirmary, where the male nurses will know what you did to little Leanne—and they'll make sure you get proper treatment. At which point, of course, you'll be sent back into the jail's population for another trip down honeymoon lane. And this is all before you get to the big house, where you will spend the remainder of your natural life—not likely to be too long, given that child rapists tend to have a short life span—behind bars."

   The suspect said nothing. Daphne had a way of reaching out to her clients. She'd knocked the wind out of him. Knocked the glib comments out as well.

   Boldt leaned his arms against the table, so that he craned over the suspect, face to face. He dropped two five-by-seven glossies in front of the kid. Both showed a woman's wrists bound with knotted shoelaces. He said, "Last Tuesday night." He waited. "We have a pretty good idea where you were, but we'd like some confirmation."

   The suspect tried to pretend he didn't care about Boldt, but the attempt failed. He finally broke off eye contact and glanced down at the photos. "These that girl?"

   "These are Tuesday night," Boldt answered.

   The kid squinted. "Tuesday?" He shuffled the photos back and forth. "You found her Saturday. I watched from across the street. Did you know that?" Boldt reared back and raised his hand.

   "Lou!" Daphne stopped him. Perhaps with that one blow, Boldt might have killed the kid. Whatever the case, she saved him a review with her reprimand.

   Boldt repeated, "Tuesday night. You want to identify the location for us?"

   "What is this shit about Tuesday?" he said, having difficulty with the pictures, given the handcuffs.

   Boldt asked, "Where were you last Tuesday night?"

   "Tuesday night?" the kid repeated, some light spark

ing across his freakish eyes. "Mariners' night game. Preseason. It went extra innings. Junior pounded one down the third-base foul line in the twelfth and drove in the winning run."

   "You have the ticket stub?" Boldt asked quickly. "Were you with anyone? Can you put a time on it?"

   "Time?"

   "I need a time and a place for you on Tuesday night," Boldt said. "I need you to write it all down."

   "Not happening."

   Boldt slapped the table so loudly that even Matthews jumped. The kid looked good and frightened. Boldt placed four more photos on the table. "Take a good look." Boldt pointed out what the lab had showed him only a few hours earlier. "Shoelaces. Knots. Tuesday night knots." He pointed out the other two photos—not giving him Sanchez's name. "You going to deny it?"

   Studying the photos closely, the kid said, "So you already know it wasn't me who done these. Is that right?"

   "I don't know anything about these until and unless you tell me. Educated guesses—I've got a few of those. Expert opinions—never a shortage there, not in government work. But witnesses? I think I'm looking at him."

   "The hell you are."

   "You've got to write it down. And try starting with the truth. Little Leanne Carmichael, then Tuesday night—"

   "I was at the ball game," the kid interrupted. Pointing to the photos he said, "You can see right here this wasn't me. These are granny knots. They can pull out. I use square knots. Made it to first class in the Scouts. You were at Carmichael!" he reminded Boldt, who wanted nothing to do with that horrific image. "Tied with square knots. Check it out, you'll see I'm right." He repeated, "Tuesday night was the ballgame."

   Boldt glanced over at Daphne.

   She said to the kid, "Write it down."

   "Why should I?" the kid protested. "You're only gonna screw me. You say I did something Tuesday night? What? Another girl? Sure, I did it. There! You happy now?"

   She explained calmly, "You care because on Tuesday he made mistakes. Because this one will go into your column and it's a loose job, a lousy job. A middleaged woman. A cop. Which shoves it hook, line and sinker into maximum security's F wing. Twenty-threehour lockup. No chance of early parole. You want to grow old there?"

   "Old?" the kid asked sarcastically. "Like your age or something?" He eyed her and looked repulsed. "Not interested."

   Boldt slammed his weight against the table, smacking the kid in the chest, and tipping him back in his chair so that his head struck the concrete block wall with pronounced contact. Boldt said, "Slipped. Sorry about that." He came around the table—the kid shied— and he violently stood that chair back up, driving the kid's chest into the edge of the table for a second time. "There," Boldt said. "That's better."