Jack and his partner, in unison, looked at each other, at the group of cops at the end of the lot, at the Channel 15 van with its mounted camera, back at Marlon Toner, and made an instant, unspoken decision.
“Mr. Toner,” Jack said, “you’re going to want to come with us.”
The man didn’t feel that mellow. “Wha? No, I don’t got to—”
Jack stepped in closer, speaking quietly, hoping he could penetrate the drug-induced fog. “You see that group of cops over there? They are ninety-five percent certain that you are the one who killed their fellow cop. Come with us right now and we’ll get quietly into our vehicle and drive downtown and we can talk there. Because if you stay here, we cannot guarantee your safety. Do you understand me?”
Marlon Toner didn’t; that was clear. He seemed about as perplexed as a man could get and still be upright. But despite the confusion, the abruptness, the fog, Jack’s tone spoke to something primal in him, some survival instinct that helped him recognize true danger. A few officers turned to see what Jack and Riley were doing, frowned as if trying to read an unfamiliar code, and Marlon Toner’s face paled from more than the cold.
“Okay,” he said.
All three men pivoted and, Toner between the two detectives, strode toward the unmarked cars parked along the curb. They walked slowly, calmly, purposely keeping every step unhurried and casual. Jack guided Toner into the back seat, shut the door on his most cooperative arrestee ever, and heard a voice shout, “Hey!”
Riley had the driver’s door open, slipped inside. Jack turned, waved at the two cops now moving toward them, dropped into the passenger seat, and shut the door with a shuddering thump. “Go.”
They pulled away, leaving the cops staring after them. Riley drove slowly, casually.
Behind him, Marlon Toner let out a sigh of deep relief he probably didn’t understand, and neither did Jack. Wasn’t driving into the Justice Center, if one feared violence against the suspected cop-killer, like jumping from the frying pan into the fire?
And did he truly think his fellow officers would have lynched the man right there, or arrange to have him mysteriously hang himself in his prison cell? No, Jack didn’t really believe that would happen. But . . . neither did he want to take the chance.
He also wanted to talk to Marlon Toner before the circus of outraged cops and posturing higher-ups could get their parade organized.
“What is going on?” Toner demanded.
“That,” Riley said, “is what we hope you can tell us.”
Monday, 12:55 p. m.
They put him in an interrogation room and with a guy Riley trusted on the surveillance camera who could make sure it would not be turned off under any circumstances. Again, Jack didn’t really think his fellow officers would burst in and beat Toner to death right then and there, but violent scenes from too many movies and black and white newsreels haunted the edges of his mind.
He had his doubts about Toner’s guilt, but if the man had killed his own sister and their own cop, then the case would have to be airtight. There could be no areas of the investigation for a decent attorney to negate. Marlon Toner must be treated with kid gloves, afforded every right and privilege, and each minute in their presence recorded, documented and utterly transparent. The other officers knew that, but it only took one or two cowboys to undermine a by-the-book investigation.
Except for legal representation—at least for now, Jack and Riley concluded. If they questioned him while he was under the influence, his statements could be thrown out. If they got him a lawyer, the first thing any attorney who had been awake through at least a few of his classes would be to postpone all questioning until the client’s sobriety could be established, and they didn’t want to wait. They wanted to get at least a few questions answered before the cops from the scene returned and asked who the hell it was they had in the interrogation room.
Toner didn’t have any obvious outward signs; he wasn’t slurring, staggering, or speaking nonsensically. His eyes were bloodshot but not jumping . . . at least not too badly. The two detectives figured it was worth trying. If he turned out to be higher than they thought, then they’d have to stop the interview and get him some representation.
The next hurdle: getting him to agree to talk without a lawyer. Surely a truly sober Marlon Toner would not, but according to his sister he had been a productive, law-abiding citizen until only recently. He didn’t think of himself as a criminal or he would never have approached them in that parking lot, whether under the influence or not.
They avoided most obvious problems by not arresting him. They had enough probable cause to arrest him for the murder of his sister, if not Rick; but they didn’t have a warrant, so they could honestly tell Marlon Toner, on video, that he was not under arrest and could leave at any time.
But the creepy scene at his sister’s apartment had spooked the man and besides, the police department had a good heating system. Jack got him a glass of water and a cup of coffee and a heaping plate of cookies from the break room. Police departments were full of food during the Christmas season, gifts from well-meaning citizens and civic groups and grade schools.
So it was on.
The temperature in the interrogation room felt a little too warm after the frigid outdoors and all three men quickly shed their coats. Jennifer Toner had said her brother smelled as if he hadn’t showered in a few days; Jack guessed that had spread to a week. He tried to breathe through his mouth without making it too obvious.
Cooperative didn’t mean clueless. Toner refused to tell them where he had been and what he had been doing unless they told him why they asked—and why the Cleveland police department thought he had killed one of their cops.
“It’s turning out to be a long story,” Riley said, briskly but not aggressively. “It goes back to last week. A man died of an overdose at the West Side Market and had your ID on him.”
“What, like my driver’s license? I got that, I just showed it to you.”
“Right. His driver’s license had his picture, but your name and your sister’s address. The man’s name was Raymond Winchester. Was he a friend of yours?”
“Never heard of him.”
They showed him a photo. Still nothing.
From this somewhat benign starting point, he took them through his activities since that time. Unfortunately, those were all amorphous and indistinct, with lots of “walking around” and “hanging out,” eating fast food and sleeping at St. Malachi’s or inexpensive motels.
“So you didn’t visit your sister on Friday afternoon, or evening?”
“No, man. I ain’t been there in a couple of weeks.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Why don’t you ask her? She’ll tell you.”
They circled back a few more times, but the answer didn’t change: he had not been to his sister’s apartment building in two or three weeks. He spoke to her on the phone, but hadn’t gone there.
“Do you have your phone with you now?” Jack asked.
“Yeah.”
“Could I see it?”
All the cookies in the world couldn’t sweeten that deal. “No.”
“I just want—”
“No.”
Riley said, “We only ask because your sister told us you’ve been having some issues with medication.”
The man rolled his eyes. “She exaggerates. She’s like our mom, a bit of a nag. Thinks it’s her job to tell me what to do.”
“Sisters can be like that,” Riley agreed. “She seemed especially concerned about a Dr. Castleman.”
A wary look came over the man. He said nothing.
“Who is Dr. Castleman?”
“He’s my doctor. That’s what I keep telling her. I take those pills because they’re prescribed to me.” He enunciated each word with careful clarity.
“Where can we find him?”
“You can’t talk to him about me. That’s violating patient confidentiality.”
“We understand that. We only want to talk to him.”
Toner crossed his arms. “Not my problem.”
“We’d like to know where he is.”
“Try the phone book.”
“He isn’t in it. That seems very strange for a doctor, doesn’t it?”
He shrugged. “Not my problem.”
“Did Jennifer speak with Dr. Castleman?”
“No.” But he seemed uncertain.
“Did you tell her where to find him?”
“No!”
“Are you sure? I was on your same medication once, Percodan,” Riley said, and Jack assumed he lied—about taking it, not about the drug. Jennifer Toner had told them what the label on her brother’s bottle had read. The drug combined aspirin and OxyContin. “After I fell out of a window chasing a suspect, landed right on my knee. I know it made me feel light-headed, a little confused. Even a big guy can get loopy on that stuff.”
Toner said nothing, arms still crossed.
“Perhaps part of last week gets a little mixed up in your mind. Because of the medication.”
“No.”
“Maybe you went to Jennifer’s and then forgot about it.”
“ No. ”
Riley backed off. “Okay. So what did you do on Friday?”
“I told you.” Another litany of walking around and hanging out.
Riley leaned back in. “Jennifer told us how concerned she felt about Dr. Castleman and his treatment of you. She tried very hard to locate him so she could talk to him personally. Did she tell you about that?”
The sugar boost of the cookies provided an energy boost, and Toner fidgeted in his chair. “No. Why don’t you just ask her?”
“You’re positive she never confronted the doctor?”
“No, man! He would have told me, or she would, or something.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes! Why’re you asking all about Jenny and my doctor? They don’t even know each other. What’s any of that got to do with anything?”
“Quite a bit, Mr. Toner,” Riley said. “Because your doctor is the only other person who might possibly have a motive to kill Jennifer. Besides you.”
No reaction. Fingers gripped the coffee cup and his other hand stilled over the cookie plate. Jack pulled the cup from his hand before he could break the Styrofoam shape into pieces. The expression on Marlon Toner’s face turned from intense bafflement to a ghastly knowing.
“She’s dead?”
Monday, 1:45 p. m.
The interview went downhill after that, Jack reported to Maggie. The man had burst into wails of grief so profound that they lost twenty minutes trying to calm him down enough to speak with any sort of coherence at all.
She and Jack sat in the lab, surrounded by the comfortingly familiar sounds of lab work being done—Denny in the wet lab spraying Ninhydrin on what looked like fake currency, Maggie’s computer humming as the program did a search through its fingerprint database, Carol bustling about in the DNA lab, and the boxy mass spec moving sample vials around on a carousel. At least Jack hoped Maggie found it comforting. It did nothing for him.
Josh and Amy were at the police impound garage processing Rick’s assigned city vehicle, which had been located in Euclid at nearly the same moment that Maggie first saw his body—a complete coincidence. The vehicle had been sitting in a Park and Ride lot for who knew how long until a bored transit cop out having a smoke happened to run the plate. The killer might have dumped the car and gotten on a bus, or might have been picked up by a cohort, or might have walked home for all they knew. Video cameras only covered the bus loading area; they could start canvassing commuters, but with no idea when the car had been dropped that seemed like a desperately hopeless task.
“You don’t think he did it,” Maggie instantly guessed.
“Not quite yet, I don’t. We could not shake his timeline—he hadn’t been to his sister’s apartment in two or three weeks. I said, maybe he dropped in to borrow a few bucks, but he insists he has plenty of money, as Jennifer had said. But if he has plenty of money, then why isn’t he spending it on a place with good running water? But maybe he is but isn’t bothering with the water because he’s too busy shooting up. He’s not starving, either. A little hungry this morning, but not starving. Of course he could have had money all weekend because he got it from Jennifer before he killed her. Who knows? Riley and I went round and round.”
“So he didn’t kill Rick, either,” Maggie said. “If he’s telling the truth.”
“Maybe not. Maybe he crushed up a boatload of Oxy, went there and killed them both, and now honestly has no recollection of even being in the area. He seemed really devastated about his sister, but it’s hard to tell. We’ll wait until the stuff clears his system, and then see what kind of answers we get.”
“Where is he now?”
“We transferred him to the special detox cells, private room, suicide watch, lots of eyes on him. He went voluntarily—safer for him and strict adherence to protocol for us.”
“What about Rick’s autopsy?”
“They were going to do it immediately. Unless they had to wait for, um—”
“For the body to thaw,” Maggie said. She spoke matter-of-factly, Jack saw, because her ex-husband’s half-frozen corpse was, at heart, a practical problem with a practical solution. Sometimes Jack thought she was more like him than she would ever admit. That could be why their weird partnership hadn’t imploded . . . yet.
“Yes.”
“Who’s going?”
“Johnson and Padlecki. The chief wouldn’t let Will go.”
“I should think not.” She seemed aghast at the idea, more solicitous of her ex-husband’s workplace partner than—“We need to know, ASAP, whether he was shot or stabbed. And if stabbed—”
“Was it the same weapon that killed Jennifer, which would make sense, as well as the same weapon that killed Evan Harding?”
“Which wouldn’t.”
“No,” Jack said. “Not at all.”
His phone rang.
Riley said, “You’re not going to believe this.”
“Don’t tell me we have another body.”
“No, not that. It’s Harding’s little girlfriend. She got mugged on her way to work.”
