Confession Chapter 63
"Excluding the Center's staff, we've got a hit from the fingerprints at the delivery entrance," Kate announces to Castle.
"A heinous villain of some kind?" Castle inquires.
"Not exactly. It's a tagger, Maurice McClendon."
"Beckett, tagging isn't exactly a violent crime," Castle points out.
"No, but the gangs that use it to mark their territory can be. And there was no reason for a tagger to be hanging around the Center. There isn't any unsanctioned art on the building. And Maurice's address of record is in Harlem. I'm sending unis to bring him in."
"It could be a long wait, Beckett, assuming that they find him at all. And it's late. Are you planning on staying at the precinct the rest of the night?"
"That much overtime for nothing? Gates would have a fit. No, I'll try to grab some sleep and have the unis send me an alert if they find McClendon. They can put him in holding for the rest of the night. Maybe that will soften him up for an interview tomorrow. I'll let you know before I start one."
"Or you could just nudge me."
"Hey, this was supposed to be your night with Alexis. We're both tired. We should spend what's left of it in our own beds. I'll call you in the morning."
Despite his late night, Castle wakes up early, long before the October sun begins to filter into the bedroom. He shuffles into the kitchen to start coffee brewing. Thanks to Alexis, the remnants of pumpkin carving, other than the pumpkins, were scrubbed from the counter, floor, and wherever else orange strands and pulpy flesh landed. He decides that she deserves at least smiley face pancakes for taking on that chore, and goes about making the batter. He won't be heating the griddle for a while, but the mixture works best when rested.
Sitting at the counter with an aromatic mug, Castle checks the time. Alexis won't be down for breakfast for almost an hour and pancakes are best served freshly made. He decides to retreat to his office to check his email and the online feed for any news – other than Victoria Masterson's murder – that developed during the night. One of Bracken's lawyers withdrew from the case. The legal reporter who posted the story notes that for a judge to allow a withdrawal once the jury is seated is unusual because juries draw inferences from the change. Apparently, the discussion of the matter took place in the judge's chambers, so no information as to the reason was available.
"A rat leaving a sinking ship?" Castle mutters to himself. There would have to be more to it than that. But it's unlikely that the story will come out until after the trial – if it comes out at all. For the hundredth time, he wishes he could be in court, even to listen to anyone as boring as an accountant testify. He would love to see every nail go into building Bracken's coffin, or at least his prison. Damn! He needs the distraction of a case as much as Kate does. He checks the time again. Still close to two hours before the morning shift at the 12th Precinct starts. Under the Gates regime, if Beckett will be grilling someone in the box, it won't be until then. But since she hasn't called, there might not be a suspect to grill. Right now, the best he can do to fill the time is to look more deeply into Victoria Masterson.
Reporters specializing in the arts love to document the rise of promising artists, if for no other reason than earning kudos for spotting talent. Perhaps something written about Victoria Masterson will shed light on some hidden murder motive. Looking for one beats clockwatching by a mile.
Maurice McClendon paces the small space in his holding cell. Damn sh*tty gloves, anyway. He didn't even know that one had torn until he left the Center. The cops didn't say why he was being brought in, but he heard about the murder. He must have left a fingerprint, what else could it have been? No one knew he was scoping out the Center. The back wall would have made a perfect place for a mural, a statement of what street art could be. Ever since the one time he screwed up, he's been careful not to get caught by the cops again. Through his precautionary examination gloves, he had felt every inch of the surface and pictured what he could paint there. Then maybe one day he could be respected like Banksy. But a tagger from Harlem who leaves a print at a murder scene? Who's going to believe a word he says?
Castle grabs a gulp of coffee and looks back at his screen. The displayed article gives an account of how Victoria Masterson was chosen from among all the artists vying for the Stellus Foundation grant. She had a lot of competition from painters and other sculptors, but only five reached the point of serious consideration. Castle makes note of the names: Sylvia Chen and Susan Alyne, both painters, and Lee Wadsworth, Carmella Gonzalez, and Clinton White, sculptors. Sadly, he knows what happened to the winner, but what became of the losers?
The alarm Castle set on his computer to remind him about his waiting pancake batter, chimes. The history of the losers will have to wait.
Castle trots off the elevator at the 12th Precinct and immediately sees the empty chair at Kate's desk. "Yo, Castle," Esposito calls from across the room. "If you're looking for Beckett, she's in the box."
"She started without me?"
"Nah, the suspect's had a few hours to sweat. LT's just grabbing him from holding now."
Castle changes direction. "Thanks, Bro."
LT is leading Maurice McClendon to a chair as Castle arrives in Interrogation. The writer takes a seat next to Kate and her trusty folder. He knows from experience that she'll have a lab report in there proving the suspect was at the scene. But she'll let Maurice dig a hole for himself before she reveals it and offers him a hand up if he confesses. The routine is amazingly effective and Castle's always admired how she modifies it to fit individual suspects. When Kate asks McClendon what he was doing at the Center, Castle fully expects him to deny being there.
Maurice sighs. "You're not going to believe me."
"Try me," Beckett responds.
"I was there for my art."
"You wanted to tag the Center?" Castle asks.
"A little out of your territory, isn't it?" Beckett queries.
"I said you wouldn't believe me. And I wasn't there to tag. I want to make a statement about the state of society, tell a story through color and shape. I was just checking out the back wall as a canvas. It was perfect."
"So you're telling me you were at the Center to check out a wall. Why the Center?" Kate asks.
"Because it's where people come to talk about art, but not pictures some guy painted for some old king or something. It's about art that matters now. That's what I want to do, art that reaches out to tell the stories of the brothers and sisters today," Maurice insists.
"Did you talk to anyone at the Center about what you want to do?" Castle asks.
"Just Ms. Masterson. She was a good lady. She listened."
"And isn't around to back up your story," Kate says.
Maurice slumps. "No, she isn't. But I had no reason to kill her, and there ain't nobody can say I did."