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“Shanae Jackson was going to seek additional child support from him, based on income he supposedly wasn’t reporting to the IRS. Wouldn’t that make him a pretty likely suspect?”
Ray stared off at a spot over my shoulder. “He’d have to be one cold-ass father. To beat his child’s mother to death, then leave the bat at the scene to set her up. His own daughter? Why wouldn’t he just shoot Shanae and ditch the gun?”
Well, some people can be pretty cold. About a lot of things. I forced myself to stay on point and respond in a businesslike manner.
“Maybe he didn’t plan it. Maybe he came over and they argued and it just happened.”
He frowned. “I suppose it’s possible, but what about the fingerprints?”
“It was Tina’s softball bat. Of course her prints were on it. The killer probably wore gloves.”
“That sounds like planning to me. This looks unplanned—like a crime committed in the heat of rage. And it’s hard to argue with the forensic evidence. Even if it was her bat, there were no other prints on it, except Shanae’s. Oh, and there’s a witness—”
“Yes, the argument on the day Shanae Jackson died. Ellen told me the neighbor overheard.”
“Did she tell you that same neighbor saw someone she thought might be Tina leaving the house around the time of the murder?”
My heart sank, but I managed to keep my expression neutral. Was this another small detail Tina had lied to me about? “Really? What time was that, by the way?”
“The ME tells me she was probably killed between six and eight that night. Here.” He handed me some papers. I shuffled through them. They included Tina’s intake papers (essentially, a juvenile version of an arrest report), a preliminary autopsy report, and the neighbor’s statement.
“It was dark, of course,” Ray said. “So the neighbor didn’t get a good look at the face, but s
he could see it was a light-skinned black kid, very thin and about Tina’s height.”
“So it wasn’t a positive ID,” I said.
“Right now, we have Tina’s fingerprints on the murder weapon, no forced entry by the killer and someone who looked a lot like Tina leaving the house around the time of the killing.” He stood up. “That, plus the history of bad blood and neglect and possible gang associations make Tina look good for this, I’m afraid.” He glanced at his watch and turned toward the door.
“Wait!” I called, jumping to my feet and walking toward him.
He looked at me, and I could feel my heart melt. He must have seen something in my eyes, because he shook his head as I approached him. I could feel the electricity running between us.
“Sam, we can’t—”
Before he could get the words out, I hauled off and hit him. I’d meant for it to be a slap, but somewhere along the line, my hand had balled into a fist.
The fist struck his nose and mouth so hard, we both yelped. I shook out my hand, pain coursing up my arm. Ray covered his nose with both hands, a wounded look in his eyes.
“You son of a bitch! That’s twice you’ve hurt me.” With that, I kicked him in the groin. Grimacing, he doubled over, fell to his knees and gasped.
I gathered my things and left without saying goodbye. I figured it went without saying.
As I strode down the hall, I realized how much my own actions supported his argument about how people act in the heat of anger. Anger I was forced to acknowledge now.
So much for keeping things businesslike.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I left the courthouse without running into anyone I knew (or, if I did, I never saw them) and returned to the office in a daze. The look on Ray’s face after I hit him and the satisfaction of bringing him to his knees ruled my thoughts. I felt vindicated, yet scolded myself for acting so impulsively.
Back in my office I made a to-do list: talk to the neighbor who saw the kid leave the house the night Shanae was killed; try to confirm Tina’s alibi; find out more about Shanae’s friend, Little D; file appeals and motions. I made a mental note to call Hirschbeck ten times a day, or until he would give us something on that damned audit and agree to check the computers. I still wanted to find out where Cooper was hiding in Philly. If he was, in fact, in Philly. Those tasks, plus various and sundry other matters, would keep my plate full for a while. Full enough to push Ray into the far recesses of my mind.
I picked up the phone, then punched in Duvall’s cell number. When he answered, I said, “How are the Carolinas?”
“Lovely, as always. I’d enjoy it more, if it weren’t for this family business we have to take care of.” He explained that they were cleaning out his mother’s house before she went into an assisted living facility. Mom wasn’t happy about it. I couldn’t blame her.
He sounded tired and frustrated. I listened to him grouse and inserted a supportive “uh huh” now and then. Listening to Duvall’s travails wore me out. I had my own shit to deal with.
