LITMIR.BIZ

       12

      Jerry Brunstad, Bremerton’s chief of police, was a paunchy man with a sunburned face, too much dyed-black hair, and long sideburns; DeMarco thought he looked like an Elvis impersonator with a badge. Brunstad’s blue uniform shirt was snug across his belly and when he raised his right arm to use the pointer, a shirttail came out the back of his pants. He was using the pointer to direct attention to a white board that listed the evidence his men had acquired on Dave Whitfield’s killer. His audience consisted of seven people: Richard Miller, who was in charge of security at the shipyard; two FBI agents; two NCIS agents; and Emma and DeMarco. It had taken a phone call from the Speaker’s office for Emma and DeMarco to be allowed to attend the briefing.

      According to Chief Brunstad, Whitfield had been murdered by a man named Thomas ‘Cowboy’ Conran. Conran was an easily recognizable, thirty-nine-year-old street person. He was six foot four, scarecrow thin, and always wore a battered black cowboy hat pulled down low on his forehead, making him look like a demented, undernourished Tim McGraw. Conran had been diagnosed as a schizophrenic in his teens and when he was off his meds – which was almost all the time – was known to act in an irrational, often violent manner.

      ‘Shipyard badge readers,’ Brunstad said, ‘recorded Whitfield going out the State Street gate at 8:38 and it takes about ten minutes to walk from the gate to where his car was parked. We walked the route. A witness saw Cowboy walking down the alley at 8:55. The witness said he was sure of the time because he was waiting for a buddy to pick him up and his buddy was late. From the window of his house, the witness couldn’t see the parking lot where Whitfield was killed, but he could see Cowboy leaving the alley.’

      ‘Who was the witness?’ an FBI agent asked. The agent was a woman with short dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a trim figure. She was as cute as a button, DeMarco thought, and she had outstanding ankles. And the lady agent had noticed DeMarco, too. When she first came into the conference room she’d glanced at everybody, the way a person does when entering a room filled with strangers, but it had seemed to DeMarco that her gaze had lingered longer on him. DeMarco wondered if the lingering look was because she found him devilishly handsome.

      ‘A guy named Mark Berg,’ Brunstad said, answering the FBI lady’s question. ‘He’s an out-of-work carpenter.’

      The agent wrote this down. ‘Why did Mr Berg wait until now to tell you about Conran?’ she asked.

      ‘He was over in Spokane visiting a cousin. Like I said, he was waiting for his ride the day he saw Cowboy and he left for Spokane right after he saw him. He didn’t hear about Whitfield’s murder until he got back last night.’

      The FBI agent also included this information in her notebook. She had written down virtually every word that Brunstad had uttered, making DeMarco conclude: great ankles but maybe just a little anal.

      ‘Anyway,’ Brunstad said, ‘after we interviewed the witness, we went looking for Cowboy and in his backpack we found Whitfield’s wallet and watch. We also found a knife with a six-inch blade. There was blood on the blade and the ME says the shape of the blade matches Whitfield’s wound. We’ve sent the knife to a lab to see if the blood matches Whitfield’s DNA. We’ll know in a couple of days.’

      ‘Whitfield was stabbed from the front,’ Emma said. ‘Why would he let this street person get so close to him?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ Brunstad said. ‘Maybe Cowboy was asking Whitfield for a handout. He’s a big guy, he backs Whitfield up against his car, and when Whitfield doesn’t give him any money, he gets mad and stabs him.’ One of Brunstad’s cops nodded in approval of his boss’s reasoning.

      ‘Had Mr Conran spent any of Whitfield’s money or used his credit cards?’ Emma asked.

      ‘He definitely didn’t use the credit cards,’ the chief said. ‘We checked. As for the money that was in Whitfield’s wallet, we don’t know how much he had to begin with, but there was still cash in the wallet when we arrested Cowboy.’

      ‘Humph,’ Emma said.

      ‘So what does this Cowboy character say?’ one of the NCIS agents asked.

      ‘He says gibberish,’ Brunstad said. ‘We’ve questioned him but he just prattles on about weird stuff. You can’t get a direct answer to anything. We’re trying to get his lawyer to let us force-feed Cowboy his meds but his lawyer’s playin’ games with us. But right now, even without a confession, Cowboy looks pretty good for this thing.’

      Brunstad’s presentation ended a few minutes later. Emma told DeMarco she needed to make a phone call and left him sitting there in the briefing room. DeMarco wondered who she was calling. He noticed the cute FBI agent had walked up to look at the crime scene photos taped on the wall near the white board. DeMarco decided he, too, was interested in the evidence.

      ‘Gotta pretty good case against Mr Cowboy,’ DeMarco said to the agent.

      ‘Yeah, almost too good,’ the agent said.

      It was the way she said ‘yeah.’ Pure New York. ‘Brooklyn?’ DeMarco said.

      ‘No, smart guy. Queens. You don’t remember me, do you?’

      ‘I know you?’ DeMarco said.

      ‘Sorta. My brother was Nick Carlucci.’

      ‘You’re kidding!’ DeMarco said. Nick Carlucci had been an acquaintance of DeMarco’s in high school. He’d never been a close friend because DeMarco’s mother wouldn’t allow DeMarco to pal around with him after Nick was arrested for stealing a car. DeMarco’s father may have worked for a mobster but that didn’t mean that Mrs DeMarco would permit her son to associate with criminals.

      ‘So how’s Nick doing?’ DeMarco said.

      ‘Never mind,’ the agent said. DeMarco guessed that meant that ol’ Nick hadn’t gone on to Yale and become a doctor.

      DeMarco vaguely remembered her now, recalling that Nick had a younger sister, a skinny little kid with a sharp mouth. What the hell was her name?

      ‘My name’s Diane,’ Diane said, apparently having the same ability all women had – which was to read DeMarco’s mind as if there was an electronic reader-board on his forehead.

      ‘So what agency are you with?’ she asked. ‘NCIS?’

      ‘No.

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