Blind Side
Page 112
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
Savich saw that Aquine Barton was holding her iron skillet a little tighter. He gave her a slight shake of his head. He said, “I was in an accident several weeks ago, Troy, and they loaded me up with morphine. I was remembering our conversation, but in a morphine haze everything’s different. Maybe some hidden connections came bursting through, things that I’d picked up that you hadn’t actually said to me.”
“And what did you pick up on, you bastard? That I wasn’t like you, because you were just like all those other moron jocks? You knew I was different, didn’t you?”
“I listened to you call some of the Ravens game on Sunday. You were very good, just the right mix of play calling, commentary, and sweet silence.”
“Yeah, I’m the best, but it’s just not enough, is it? You’re just waiting to tell everyone, aren’t you?”
Savich said, “That Smith and Wesson .38 of yours, Troy. Turns out when I spoke to your wife’s sister, she remembered your owning a gun a long way back. A revolver, just like this .38 you brought here to Ms. Barton’s house. I know there are lots of .38s in the world, Troy, but the thing is, now we’ll get to test yours. Do you think we’ll find a match?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You’ll get your lawyer. But you might as well know we found where you bought the gun way back in 1993 in Baltimore. A small gun shop owned by a Mr. Hanratty on Willowby Street, downtown. He keeps excellent records. I’m sure your lawyer will show you a copy of the sale.”
“Sounds like you better fess up, Mr. Ward,” said Aquine, who now was sitting on a dining room chair, the skillet in her lap.
“Like I said, Ms. Barton, Troy here is really smart. You know, I kept worrying about motive, Troy, just couldn’t understand why you’d murder your wife, even if she found out you were gay.”
“I’m not gay! That’s a lie! That’s not a motive either.”
“No, but she wasn’t just going to tell the world about your being gay, Troy. I think some people already knew that and didn’t really care. What she was going to tell the world was that you trade in child pornography, and that you couldn’t allow.”
“You can’t know about that, you can’t, unless—you hacked into my computer without a warrant? I’ll sue your ass off, Savich! That’s against the law!”
“You’re right, it is. But you know, I have an agent in my unit by the name of Ruth Warnecki, and she used to be a D.C. cop. She has lots of snitches. One of them called her, told her he’d seen you on TV and knew he’d also seen you one night buying some kiddy porn on the street over on Halloran. I went there, and guess what, Troy? We found a witness who recognized your photo, said he’d seen you pay to go into a live shop with little kids parading around naked. Now, I can’t prove yet exactly what went on in those shows, and if we find out who the owners of that nasty little business are, we’ll nail them right along with you. But how much of that did your wife find out about, Troy? Did she even know you were gay?”
“I want a lawyer. None of that crap means anything. Witnesses are paid off all the time. I don’t know anything about child pornography. Leave me alone.”
“You know, Troy, we really don’t need your cooperation, not after you huffed your way over the windowsill and landed in Ms. Barton’s dining room with the murder weapon in your hand. That’s what I’d call catching the perp dead to rights. You’re a murderer, Troy, a vicious, cold-blooded murderer, and you’re going down for it. All the way down. You got anything else to say?”
“I want a lawyer,” Troy Ward whispered and pulled his legs into his chest.
Dane Carver hauled Troy Ward to his feet, read him his rights, and cuffed him. They left Ms. Aquine Barton with a fine story to tell the press and her students.
42
TUESDAY MORNING
WASHINGTON, D.C. Katie was sore, but she wasn’t about to lie in bed and have the kids wonder if there was something else going on other than a brief bout with the flu. She showed up at the breakfast table, trying to stand straight and not limp. “Okay, I’m making waffles this morning. Miles, do you have twenty minutes?”
He really didn’t, but he leaned over and kissed her. “Sure. I’ve never had your waffles, Katie.”
“It’s the best thing Mama makes,” Keely said. “You’re lucky. She doesn’t make them often.”
Miles grabbed Keely and tossed her into the air. She was his daughter, he thought, an amazing thing. She was laughing, and Sam joined in, hoping he was next. Miles, not about to let him down, swung him up and around, too, nearly crashing into the kitchen table.
“And what did you pick up on, you bastard? That I wasn’t like you, because you were just like all those other moron jocks? You knew I was different, didn’t you?”
“I listened to you call some of the Ravens game on Sunday. You were very good, just the right mix of play calling, commentary, and sweet silence.”
“Yeah, I’m the best, but it’s just not enough, is it? You’re just waiting to tell everyone, aren’t you?”
Savich said, “That Smith and Wesson .38 of yours, Troy. Turns out when I spoke to your wife’s sister, she remembered your owning a gun a long way back. A revolver, just like this .38 you brought here to Ms. Barton’s house. I know there are lots of .38s in the world, Troy, but the thing is, now we’ll get to test yours. Do you think we’ll find a match?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You’ll get your lawyer. But you might as well know we found where you bought the gun way back in 1993 in Baltimore. A small gun shop owned by a Mr. Hanratty on Willowby Street, downtown. He keeps excellent records. I’m sure your lawyer will show you a copy of the sale.”
“Sounds like you better fess up, Mr. Ward,” said Aquine, who now was sitting on a dining room chair, the skillet in her lap.
“Like I said, Ms. Barton, Troy here is really smart. You know, I kept worrying about motive, Troy, just couldn’t understand why you’d murder your wife, even if she found out you were gay.”
“I’m not gay! That’s a lie! That’s not a motive either.”
“No, but she wasn’t just going to tell the world about your being gay, Troy. I think some people already knew that and didn’t really care. What she was going to tell the world was that you trade in child pornography, and that you couldn’t allow.”
“You can’t know about that, you can’t, unless—you hacked into my computer without a warrant? I’ll sue your ass off, Savich! That’s against the law!”
“You’re right, it is. But you know, I have an agent in my unit by the name of Ruth Warnecki, and she used to be a D.C. cop. She has lots of snitches. One of them called her, told her he’d seen you on TV and knew he’d also seen you one night buying some kiddy porn on the street over on Halloran. I went there, and guess what, Troy? We found a witness who recognized your photo, said he’d seen you pay to go into a live shop with little kids parading around naked. Now, I can’t prove yet exactly what went on in those shows, and if we find out who the owners of that nasty little business are, we’ll nail them right along with you. But how much of that did your wife find out about, Troy? Did she even know you were gay?”
“I want a lawyer. None of that crap means anything. Witnesses are paid off all the time. I don’t know anything about child pornography. Leave me alone.”
“You know, Troy, we really don’t need your cooperation, not after you huffed your way over the windowsill and landed in Ms. Barton’s dining room with the murder weapon in your hand. That’s what I’d call catching the perp dead to rights. You’re a murderer, Troy, a vicious, cold-blooded murderer, and you’re going down for it. All the way down. You got anything else to say?”
“I want a lawyer,” Troy Ward whispered and pulled his legs into his chest.
Dane Carver hauled Troy Ward to his feet, read him his rights, and cuffed him. They left Ms. Aquine Barton with a fine story to tell the press and her students.
42
TUESDAY MORNING
WASHINGTON, D.C. Katie was sore, but she wasn’t about to lie in bed and have the kids wonder if there was something else going on other than a brief bout with the flu. She showed up at the breakfast table, trying to stand straight and not limp. “Okay, I’m making waffles this morning. Miles, do you have twenty minutes?”
He really didn’t, but he leaned over and kissed her. “Sure. I’ve never had your waffles, Katie.”
“It’s the best thing Mama makes,” Keely said. “You’re lucky. She doesn’t make them often.”
Miles grabbed Keely and tossed her into the air. She was his daughter, he thought, an amazing thing. She was laughing, and Sam joined in, hoping he was next. Miles, not about to let him down, swung him up and around, too, nearly crashing into the kitchen table.
