LITMIR.BIZ

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you what we got.”

      Travers led Marge to his desk located between a gas chromatograph and a centrifuge lined with tubes of blood. He picked up a file and frowned. Marge caught it.

      “Your expression’s hinky. What’s wrong, Buck?”

      “What do you want first—the good news or the bad news?”

      “I’m an optimist. Let’s hear the cheerful stuff.”

      “Good news is we have a preliminary match—”

      “Hallelujah!” Marge clapped her hands. “Who’s the lucky man?”

      “Wait a minute. You haven’t heard the bad news yet.”

      “First let’s finish with the good news. Who, Buck?”

      “I think you’d better hear the bad news.”

      Marge bit back frustration and told herself to take her time. That’s the way it was with lots of techs. They were meticulous people. “What’s the bad news?”

      Travers frowned again. “Who did the evidence collection?”

      “I did.”

      “You did?”

      “What happened? Was there a screwup?”

      “Yeah, there was a screwup.”

      “Damn it! It wasn’t me, Buck. I bagged each sample individually and marked them—”

      “Now, hold on, I’m not saying it was you. But there was a screwup.”

      “How bad?”

      “Well, I found this lone bag of female hairs in your evidence collection. Lord only knows which case it belongs to. Someone’s going to charge in here demanding to know what the hell happened to their evidence and we’re not going to have the answers. Screwups are more frequent than we’d like to think. Some staffers just pass over them. Not me.” Travers pointed to his chest. “I’m not going to further the disaster and make like my results are pristine. I just want to make sure the evidence you gave me is all accounted for.”

      “Fine, Buck, I’m duly warned. The results?”

      “I’m not stalling for the sake of stalling, Marge. I just don’t want to name a person only to find out he’s not the one you should be after. I’d like some more time—”

      “Fine. Take as much time as you want, Buck. I’m perfectly aware that you’re giving me tainted results. Who’s the prelim match?”

      “Well …” Travers opened up the file again. “After careful consideration we find consistency between the hair collection taken from sheets on Case Number REb129847563 and a hair sample collected by you. We’re still waiting for DNA banding results to come in using spermatozoa as the primary marker. Banding is more conclusive but the tests take a while. So you gotta take this with a grain of salt, Margie—”

      “A whole shaker full! Buck, who is it?”

      “Carl Totes.”

      The stable hand was as out of place as a cow chip on china, eyes darting from one wall of the interview room to the other. Decker figured it was claustrophobia that was giving Totes the shakes, more than the situation itself. Carl had seemed baffled by the arrest but not the least bit uncooperative. He’d readily offered samples of his hair for retesting—anything to help out Miz Lilah. He’d handled the car trip over to the station house pretty well although he’d been uncomfortable riding next to Marge. But once inside the small interrogation area, Totes’s nervous system began to discharge. He fidgeted and drummed the table with his hands. He took off his cowboy hat and kneaded the felt rim with calloused hands. Clearly, this was not a man used to physical boundaries.

      Marge was seated closest to the door, working the tape recorder. Decker wanted to do the questioning. He had seated himself next to Totes at the other end of the table. Totes had been working out the horses when they had presented him with the warrant. The stable hand’s jeans were covered with dust, his shirt had soaked up lots of sweat. Guy smelled up close, but Decker could take it. He’d spent enough of his youth on a ranch and was used to nature’s perfume. After being Mirandized, Totes was given a card that stated he had been advised of his rights. Marge asked him to read the card and sign it and he did so without reservation.

      “How long this gonna take?” He wiped his face with his bandanna and stuck it in his pocket.

      Decker said, “A long time, Mr. Totes.”

      “Don’t like talking in a room.” Totes’s eyes were still jumpy. “Why couldn’t we talk at the ranch? Like last time.”

      “Because you’re under arrest, Mr. Totes,” Decker said. “Do you understand that you’re under arrest?”

      “Arrest fer what? I didn’t do nothin’.”

      Decker tapped his foot. “I think we should get him a lawyer.”

      “Don’t need no lawyer,” Totes insisted. “Jus’ ask your dern questions and get this over.”

      Marge and Decker exchanged glances. Decker shrugged and told her to turn on the recorder. After reciting the identifying data into the mike, he began the questioning.

      “Mr. Totes, do you remember last Monday, June twenty-third—”

      “Don’t remember no dates.”

      “Okay.” Decker tried a different angle. “Do you remember the day after your boss, Lilah Brecht, was raped?”

      “Yessir.”

      “Do you remember where you were the night Lilah Brecht was raped?”

      “Yessir.”

      “Where were you that night, Mr. Totes?”

      “Where I always were. At the ranch.”

      “Where?”

      “Don’t know the address of the place. Don’t you got it?”

      Decker smoothed his mustache. “In which part of the ranch were you located, Mr. Totes?”

      “Oh … in the stable.”

      “What were you doing in the stable?”

      “What wuz I doin’? I wuz sleepin’.”

      “Why were you sleeping in the stable?”

      “’Cause that’s where I live.”

      “How long have you lived there?”

      “Five years.”

      “And you were sleeping there the night Lilah Brecht was raped.”

      Totes didn’t answer right away. His fingers tightened around the rim of his hat. “Yessir.”

      Decker assimilated Totes’s pause. “You were sleeping there all night?”

      “Don’t you sleep all night, mister?”

      Decker was impassive. “Were you sleeping there all night, Carl?”

      Again, Totes hesitated. “Yessir.”

      Two pauses within a minute of each other. Was he that slow a thinker or was he formulating consistent lies?

      Decker said, “What time did you go to bed that night, Carl? When did you stop working and go into the stable?”

      “’Bout eight-thirty. Gets dark ’round then.”

      “You went into the stable around eight-thirty?”

      “Yessir.”

      Decker stood and leaned against the table. “Okay, Carl, you went into the stable around eight-thirty. Did you leave the stable the night Lilah Brecht was raped?”

      Totes shook

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