“You weren’t hiding from us, were you,” Estelle said. I half expected Staples to say, “Hell, who would?” but he didn’t. He raised his eyes from his cuticle to meet Estelle’s gaze.
“Richard, we need answers that the recorder can hear,” I prompted. Estelle had him locked in, but I wanted the kid to remember that there were other people in the room…and some of them nowhere near as kindly as the young lady.
“No, I wasn’t hidin’ from you,” he said finally.
“Who from, then?”
I saw his jaw tighten and he went back to his cuticle again.
“Has someone threatened you?” Estelle asked.
“I ain’t afraid of nobody,” Richard Staples said without hesitation.
“I wouldn’t think so,” Estelle said. “But you said you weren’t hiding from us. Will you tell us from whom, then?”
He lost interest in his finger and looked off toward the far corner of the ceiling. If he started counting ceiling tiles, we were going to be there all night.
“Richard, what can you tell us about the burglary at Wayne’s Farm Supply last week?” Deputy Torrez said. I tried hard not to grin. His timing was perfect, dropping another bomb in the kid’s lap just when he thought he could bore us more than we bored him.
Staples’s eyes shifted to the table in front of him and he blinked hard.
While he was waiting, Deputy Torrez reached down and lifted his briefcase to the table. He opened it and shuffled papers for a few seconds before selecting the one that had been on top all along. He read it over before laying it on the table in front of him.
“We have information that two male subjects entered the back of the Wayne Supply building sometime between six p.m. Tuesday night and eight a.m. Wednesday morning of last week.”
Torrez looked up and folded his large hands in front of him on the table like a priest about to say blessing for dinner. “We have evidence that tells us what size and brand of shoes one of the suspects wore. We have several sets of fingerprints lifted from the scene. We have a full inventory of goods taken from the scene. Several of the larger tools have not only serial numbers for identification but also the owner’s identification number.”
He paused a moment and regarded Richard Staples with interest. Staples squirmed in his chair and then turned slightly so he could rest his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand.
“We haven’t fingerprinted you yet, but we’ll have plenty of time for that after your arraignment,” Torrez continued. “You want to talk to us about that burglary?” Torrez asked.
“I thought this was about the school,” Staples said and even I almost felt sorry for the simple son of a bitch.
“Well, it could be about that too,” Robert said easily. “But what we’ve also got is a statement from another party that links you to that burglary. And we do know, Richard, that there are ties to other residential burglaries in the area as well. We’re talking eight or ten counts.”
Even Richard Staples could count from one to two to ten, and before he had a chance to add up his chances, I said, “Where did you get the school keys, Richard?”
He frowned, thinking hard and fast. “I found ’em,” he said without looking at me.
I nodded solemnly, as if I believed that yarn. I examined my little note pad for a full minute. “So tell me about Todd Sloan, Richard.”
The kid’s head snapped around to me so fast I thought I heard his bones pop.
“I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that,” he said, and damned if there wasn’t a hint of a quaver in his voice.
I leaned back in my chair and my hand fumbled around in my shirt pocket for the cigarette I didn’t have. “Nothing to do with what, Richard?”
“Nothin’ to do with him, I mean.”
“But you know who he is?”
“Course I do.”
“And you heard about what happened yesterday?”
“Yes. Everybody in town’s talking about it.”
“Richard,” I said, “We have information that you associated with Todd Sloan on a routine basis at school and outside of school as well.”
“That ain’t true,” Staples almost shouted. His right eye crinkled shut like he had dust in it. He rubbed it with his right index knuckle. “That ain’t true. I didn’t hang around with that little shit at all. There ain’t no way I had anything to do with him gettin’ killed.”
Martin Holman had been leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. He let his chair thump down and he leaned forward. I said a quick, silent prayer.
“Richard, you know, then, that we’re actually investigating a double homicide.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Holman knew that if we kept stacking, eventually Richard Staples’s shell would crack. Just like breaking down a customer until he bought the used Oldsmobile.
This time, it wasn’t a quaver in his voice. Staples’s eyes went wide with pure panic. Any eighteen-year-old fool knows how much of his life could be spent in prison on a double homicide rap.
“Now lookit. I didn’t have nothin’ to do with any of that,” he said.
“But you know who did,” Estelle said. Her black, smoldering eyes must have bored into Richard Staples’s brain. My pulse crept up a dozen notches. “Make it easy on yourself, Richard.”
“This is deep, deep trouble, son,” Holman murmured.
Richard Staples frowned hard, his head down. His lower lip twitched once, jutting out a bit and then jerking back in like he’d given something away. And then, almost in slow motion, he caved in until his head was resting on his crossed arms on the table. None of us moved or said anything.
After a full two minutes, the tape recorder clicked and I reached forward, snapped the eject, flipped the tape, closed the cover, and pressed record/play again.
“We’re ready when you are, Richard,” I said gently.
Richard Staples pushed himself upright and wiped at his right eye again. When he chose to speak, he was looking at Martin Holman. Damned if the sheriff hadn’t made the sale.
30
“Iain’t going to take the blame for no burglaries and then have him turn around and get away with what he done,” Richard Staples said.
“Who are you talking about, Richard?” I asked.
“Kenny. He ain’t puttin’ the blame for everything on me.”
“Kenny who, Richard?” Deputy Torrez prompted.
“Kenny Trujillo.” None of us had mentioned Trujillo’s name to Staples and I glanced at the tape player to make sure the gadget was still spinning.
“Richard, is it true that you worked a time or two out at Florek’s wrecking yard? With Kenny Trujillo?”
“Yeah, I been there,” Staples said. “I was thinkin’ of workin’ out there full time, startin’ this summer.”
Robert Torrez pulled a manila envelope from his briefcase. He shook several instant photos from the envelope into his hand, selected one, and slid it across the table to Staples.
“Is this the engine hoist that was stolen from Wayne’s Farm Supply?”
Staples glanced at the photo carelessly. “Yeah, that’s the one he took, not me.”
Torrez retrieved the photo and handed it to me, knowing that I was waiting. The photo showed a chain hoist resting amid a sea of other automotive detritus on a grease-covered workbench. A tag attached to the bottom of the photo gave the date and time the photo was taken, along with the description: chain hoist, sn567901, Florek Auto Wrecking.
I handed the photo back to Torrez. I wasn’t interested in hardware.
“You started to tell us what Trujillo was blaming you for,” I said. “As it is, he says you were involved with Todd Sloan in several of the burglaries.”
Staples shook his head. He leaned forward, his arms on the table, and held his hands about a basketball apart, as if to say “This is the way it is.”
“Todd Sloan didn’t have a damn thing to do with any of them burglaries,” Staples said.
“Is that a fact.”
“Yes, sir. Me and Kenny did.”