"He came willingly," Flack told Mac and Charlie after the three caught up with one another at the precinct. They were standing in a viewing room looking in on Russell Fletcher. He was sitting alone at a silver table, waiting to be interrogated. The man was, by all appearances, at ease with his surroundings. He had his chair leaned back, tipped up on two legs. His hands were tucked—quite conveniently, Charlie thought—into the pockets of his work jeans.
"I picked him up at the Worthen Company's warehouse just as he was leaving work," Flack said.
"He didn't argue?" Mac asked.
Flack shook his head. "We've never been able to get a warrant on Fletch—this is the first time he's ever even been in our custody, and he pretty much volunteered for it."
"How bizarre," Charlie said.
"Or maybe lucky," Flack said. "The judge denied my request for an arrest warrant. Without an obvious motive, we need viable proof that Fletch was in the warehouse for a reason other than work."
"Did you subpoena his work records and verify that he worked the job at that exact warehouse?" Mac asked.
"They're being sent over now," Flack replied.
Mac slapped the manila folder he had in his hand against one thigh. "He's here by choice, not force. He can leave at any time, so we shouldn't press him too hard unless we have to."
"If it's alright with you," Charlie said, pulling her eyes away from Fletcher to look at Mac. "I'd like to watch, at least for the first few minutes."
Mac nodded wordlessly to Flack, and the two left the room. A moment later, Fletcher turned his head as the door to his room opened to emit the two detectives. Charlie shifted her weight from one leg to the other, her eyes fixed on Fletcher.
"Let's start with your alibi," Mac said. He dropped the file onto the table and sat down across from Fletcher. Flack leaned against the wall next to the door, arms crossed over his chest. Fletcher lowered his chair to all four legs.
"Where were you this morning between the hours of four and nine?" Mac asked.
"I went in to work at seven," Fletcher said.
"Where were you before then?" Mac asked.
"Sleeping," Fletcher tipped a nod at Flack. "His sister can verify."
"Cute," Flack said.
"She sure is," Fletcher said, but there was no menace in it. Fletcher talked to Flack the way one brother would to another.
Mac pulled a photo of the victim out of the manila folder and put it in front of Fletcher. This one was different from the one Charlie had shown him earlier. It had been taken after the autopsy, and the large 'Y' shape that Sid had carved into the man was clearly visible in the photo. "How did you know him?"
Fletcher picked up the photo and studied it for minute, his eyes unreadable. He started shaking his head long before he spoke. "I didn't."
"Funny," Flack said. "Since the two of you worked together."
"I've never worked a shift with him," Fletcher put the photo back onto the table. "I don't know him, didn't know him."
"You never ran into him at the Worthen headquarters, never shared a truck with him?" Mac asked.
Fletcher shook his head. "Never met him. Never shared a subway car with him, never stood beside him to piss in a urinal."
Charlie's gaze had been on Fletcher's hands since he removed them from his pockets. He had held the photo with his right hand, and although Charlie could see the back of it she couldn't make out any distinct bruising from where she was standing.
"Do you really think we're going to buy that?" Flack asked.
"You don't have to buy it," Fletcher said. "I don't have to sell it either if you'd rather me go home to your mother."
"Tell us about your job," Mac said before Flack could reply. "How did your prints end up on the window frame of the warehouse?"
"We moved mostly crates out of that place, maybe two hundred pounds apiece. We took a lot of breaks, maybe I leaned against the window during one of them."
"Maybe?" Flack asked.
"You're right, maybe I put them there after I got rid of the gun I used to kill a guy I don't even know," Fletcher said. He was starting to lose his patience, his sarcasm thickening with every word. "I didn't come here to parry murder accusations or confess. I said I'd answer your questions. Why don't you start asking some useful ones?"
"Do you know a man named Brant Miller?" Mac asked. Charlie recognized the name as belonging to the witness that had reported the victim's body to the police. She thought immediately of the too-clean jogging suit and the theory she and Mac had put together. Fletcher and Miller were likely in league with one another. Fletcher as the murderer, Miller as his accomplice.
"Brant Miller?" Fletcher echoed the name. "Does he work for Worthen too?"
"No," Mac said.
Fletcher shrugged. "I don't know him."
Mac collected the photo and slipped it back into the file. Flack unfolded his arms and moved to rest his weight on the edge of the table. "Don't paint yourself into a corner, Fletch. If there is anything helpful that you can tell us, you need to tell us now before this goes too far."
"I've told you everything I know," Fletcher wouldn't meet Flack's eyes.
"You've never seen the victim, never heard of Brant Miller," Mac said. "What about drugs? Is there anyone at Worthen that you've heard of who uses? Who might be dealing?"
"No," Fletcher shook his head. "Not that I know of."
"No one at all?" Flack asked.
"Look I'm sure there is, but I don't know Worthen inside and out. I'm just a guy who gets paid to move some boxes. I go to work every day at the same time and I work on the same truck with the same five guys, and they're clean."
"You have a record, possession of—" Mac began.
Fletcher abruptly got to his feet, pushing his chair back with a loud scraping noise. Flack followed suit, and the two stood face to face in what now seemed like a very crowded room. "Sit down," Flack said, "We're not done."
"The hell we are," Fletcher said. "You can't hold me here, you don't have anything on me."
"Give us something, Fletch. You came down here because you know something. Tell us what it is," Flack said. "Do you have any idea who killed him?"
"Christ," Fletcher said, "for the last time, I didn't even know him."
Now Mac stood as well, and Fletcher suddenly looked a lot less like a guy about to come to blows and more like someone who'd been backed into a corner.
"I don't believe you," Mac said. "You have a hand in this some way or another, and when we find out what it is we're going to come for you Fletcher. You're not going to slip through the cracks again. We're putting you away for this."
"Right, tenth times the charm," Fletcher said before he turned on his heel and headed for the door. Charlie ducked out of the viewing room as quickly as she could and started after Fletcher, dodging desks and detectives. He was moving fast, and was already heading up the street when Charlie reached the front steps of the precinct.
"Hey!" She called, but the street and the crowd swallowed Charlie's voice and he didn't stop. Charlie took off after him, only shouting again when she was within arm's length of Fletcher's back. "Fletch!"
He turned so quickly that Charlie nearly plowed into him. Fletcher took a step back from her as if she would burn him if they touched. "Parker?" He looked genuinely surprised to see her, but the emotion wasn't quite strong enough to wipe the frustration from his face. "What do you want?"
"A word," Charlie said.
"The interrogation's over," Fletcher said, and he turned and started walking again. Charlie bulled forward and put herself squarely in front of him. He towered over her, and not a hint of the easy going manner he'd assumed that morning remained. He was practically bristling, his mouth set into a hard line.
"I've got somewhere to be," Fletcher said, but he made no move to go around Charlie.
"Two questions," Charlie said. "Off the record."
"Who are you anyway?" Fletcher asked, and Charlie frowned.
"What? I'm Parker—you just said so."
"Taylor was obviously the bad cop, Flack some contorted version of a good cop. So who're you?"
Charlie just shrugged, unsure of how to answer. Fletcher made as if to walk around her, and Charlie moved to block him. "What do you think," Charlie snapped. She couldn't care less about his answer, she just wanted to keep Fletcher from storming off.
"I was hoping for naughty cop, but you're still wearing your clothes so that can't be it," Fletcher said. "Now what do you want?"
Someone bumped into Charlie from behind, and she took an involuntary step closer to Fletcher. He didn't back up, just continued to glare down at Charlie.
"Why did you do this?" Charlie said.
"Why did I come down here?" Fletcher looked annoyed. "Because your friends asked me real nicely."
"Bullshit," Charlie said, her own temper flaring. "You hated every second you spent in that room. Why did you come here?"
"They think I did it," Fletcher shot back. "I'm just trying to clear my name."
"You never did this before," Charlie said. "This is the first time you've ever—"
"I've never been in official police custody," Fletcher corrected. "But I've never refused to talk." Charlie remembered that morning when they'd questioned Fletcher, the way he'd met them on the corner to answer their preliminary questions.
Another person—someone quite larger than the first—bumped into Charlie. Fletcher grabbed her arm to steady her before tossing a glare over his shoulder.
"Watch where you're going asshole!" Fletcher called after the man. Charlie's eyes shot immediately to his hand on her arm, to the relatively new looking bruises across the top of his knuckles.
Fletcher followed Charlie's line of sight and quickly pocketed his hand. There was a multitude of emotion in his eyes now—alarm among them. "I've had enough," he said before brushing past Charlie.
"One more," she called after him.
He stopped again, turning only half way around to look at Charlie. She walked to meet him, pitching her voice against the noise in the street. "What did you mean this morning, when you said you hoped you didn't kill him either?"
"What?" Fletcher was perplexed.
"Flack said he hoped you didn't kill him, and you said you hoped you didn't either," Charlie said. "What did you mean?"
For a moment Fletcher just stared, and Charlie could see the gears behind the green eyes turning. "Cops," Fletcher said after what felt to Charlie like an eternity, "aren't the only ones looking for the person responsible."
Reviews are greatly appreciated! Let me know how you guys like the characters, especially Charlie and Fletcher. Thoughts on whether or not he did it?