“So if they were working together after hours, they kept the fact well disguised,” I said.
“Right.”
“Here’s the problem, then. We have no real reason to keep Staples in custody. Yeah, technically, he committed a couple of crimes by being in the school. But he caused no damage that we’re aware of, and no harm to another person.”
Archer nodded. Ron Schroeder leaned forward. “What Bill needs, Glenn, is for you to sign a formal complaint against Richard Staples. That way, he’s got cause to hold the young man until a preliminary arraignment with the magistrate. Granted, that will only take a few hours, or even less…but it might give these folks enough time to make some connections.”
The idea clearly made Glenn Archer uncomfortable. “And if I don’t? I mean, as you say, there isn’t much cause.”
“Well, that’s not really true,” the district attorney said. “We can hold him for questioning, especially since we’re investigating two capital crimes, and there is some probable cause to believe Staples is involved, however tangentially. It’s just that with a formal, signed complaint from you, any problems down the road are ruled out.”
“And think of it this way, Glenn,” I said. “If we’re right, and Richard Staples was hiding from someone else, his being in our custody might well keep him alive.”
Archer nodded. “Let’s find out what’s going on.”
29
Marianna Perna was one cheerleader who wasn’t in our corner. As far as she was concerned, little Dicky Staples could do no wrong, which explained for me why the kid was in the fix he was.
“Now I want to know what you people think you’re doing,” she said, and her body English, massive in itself, told me she was going to block the hallway until she got an answer.
Sheriff Martin Holman started to hem and haw and I stepped forward to fix Mrs. Perna with my best Marine Corps gunnery sergeant’s glare. “We know exactly what we’re doing, Mrs. Perna. Let me explain something to you.” It wasn’t lost on either of us that Linda Rael was standing quietly in the corner behind Deputy Tony Abeyta, who was taking a turn at dispatch. Linda was holding a small tape recorder.
“We’re up to here,” and I tapped one of the wattles under my chin, “in a murder investigation…a double homicide. We have reliable information that Richard Staples may be aware of some evidence critical to this investigation. And I’ll repeat that for you…may be aware.”
She started to squawk and I held up a hand and frowned. “We also have information that Richard Staples may be involved in some way with at least one residential burglary.”
“Now I want to know-” Mrs. Perna began.
“First you need to listen, Mrs. Perna. Detective Reyes-Guzman and I visited your apartment today in order to talk with Richard Staples. Our intent was to seek information only. He could have opened the door, chatted with me for five minutes, and that might have been that. But he chose not to do that. For whatever reason, Richard Staples illegally entered the high school gymnasium, using a master key that he had in his possession.” Mrs. Perna looked more puzzled than brazen when she heard that.
“As an employee of the village, you know full well that a master key in the wrong hands is a problem indeed. Young Staples has no business with that key. The conclusion I would reach is one of two: Either he stole the key from someone, or the key was given to him by someone who in turn stole it. It really doesn’t matter at the moment. At any rate, Richard Staples entered the school and was observed by a law enforcement officer looking out of one of the windows.
“We apprehended him in the basement of the school and took him into custody. That, ma’am, is what is going on.”
Mrs. Perna counted to ten and switched targets from us to Richard Staples. “I want to talk with that young man. I’ll find out what he thinks he’s doing.”
She turned and looked down the hall as if that were the direction of the holding pen.
“No, ma’am, you may not talk with Mr. Staples. He is in our custody and will remain so until his preliminary arraignment this evening before Justice Emilio Gutierrez.”
“I have a right to talk with my nephew, and I want to talk with him right now.”
I looked at Mrs. Perna with considerable exasperation, tinged with just a little admiration.
“Sorry, Mrs. Perna. Number one, and you can check with the district attorney if you feel I’m wrong, you don’t have any right to see your nephew just now. He’s no longer a minor and he’s under arrest.” I glanced at my watch. “We’re due at arraignment at six-fifteen. That’s an hour and a half from now. If you would like to wait, you’ll have a chance to see Richard for a few moments while he’s being transported to Justice Gutierrez’s. Beyond that, you’ll just have to be patient. And now, if you’ll excuse me, we have a great deal to do.” I gestured at the two vinyl-covered chairs between the file cabinets. “You’re welcome to wait there if you like.”
Mrs. Perna looked at me and then at Sheriff Holman, who hadn’t said squat during the entire exchange.
Holman nodded and frowned. “You’re welcome to wait out here,” he said. “Excuse us.”
I turned and beckoned Deputy Torrez and Estelle Reyes-Guzman to follow.
The stairway up to the cells was steep, the wood deeply cupped in spots from decades of traffic. On one side of the upstairs hallway were six small, dismal jail cells. About all that could be said for them was that they were secure. In twenty-three years, I could remember no time when all six had been full.
Across the hall were a storage room, a photographic dark room, and the conference room. District Attorney Ron Schroeder, with other fish to fry who probably paid fifty bucks an hour, begged off.
“Lemme know what you need, Bill,” he said. “I’ll be in my office.”
“And miss all the fun?” I asked.
“Such fun,” he said. “I’ll pass.”
Deputy Torrez went down to cell six and after much clanking and door-slamming returned with a somber Richard Staples. I pointed to the straight ladder-backed chair on one side of the oak table.
“Sit there, Richard,” I said. Torrez escorted him to his seat and then joined Estelle and me opposite Staples. After considerable obvious indecision, Sheriff Holman sat at the end of the table, like father at dinner.
I gestured at the tape recorder in the center of the table.
“This interview is being recorded,” I said as I punched the two buttons down. “Has Deputy Torrez advised you of your rights?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to speak louder, Richard.”
“Yes, he advised me,” Staples said and I saw the VU meter on the recorder jump. His former bravado had evaporated. An hour in the dungeon had been the right medicine.
“Richard, I want to make sure you know all the people present.” I pointed at each person in turn. “On my left is Deputy Robert Torrez. This is Deputy Estelle Reyes-Guzman from the Isidro County sheriff’s department.” I saw a flicker in Staples’s expression. Maybe he was wondering what the hell he’d done up north to pull the cops down on him from there. Maybe he was too stupid to know where Isidro County was.
“And this is Sheriff Martin Holman. I’m Undersheriff William Gastner. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Richard, do you know why you’re here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me.”
“For breakin’ into the gym.”
“Can you think of any other reason?”
“No.” His tone was sullen again, and I noticed I wasn’t “sir” any more.
“Why were you in the basement, Richard?” Estelle asked. Her voice was soft and silky, and the VU barely twitched.
We waited a full minute while Richard Staples examined the cuticle of his left index finger. A little sound that might have been a sniffle or just a noisy inhale told me that he hadn’t fallen asleep.