Behind him, chairs scraped on the flagstones. One by one, the Jamisons stood. Kit, Laura, and Tommy moved close to Elaine. Cleo and Richard remained a few feet away.
Lou Pirelli stepped out of a parked police car. His coal-black hair gleamed in the sunlight. A black-and-tan bloodhound clambered out to join him. They walked toward the crime-lab van, Lou holding the leash. The hatchback door was open. Beyond the van, detectives continued to investigate the crime scene near the gazebo, but everyone on the terrace watched the uniformed officer and the dog in his leather harness. Man and dog stopped at the rear of the open van.
Mavis Cameron held a large, clear plastic container. She hopped lightly to the ground. She lifted the hinged lid. A plastic-gloved hand lifted out blue cloth. She dangled the cloth before the bloodhound.
Lou spoke loudly. “Track.”
Mavis returned the cloth to its container.
The dog snuffled, then turned and meandered back and forth. He stopped near a volleyball net, smelled intently, then headed for the terrace, Lou moving fast to keep up. The dog went straight to Tommy Jamison, lifted his head, and bayed.
Tommy backed away. “What’s wrong with him?” He pointed at the bloodhound.
The dog kept pace.
Lou pulled on the harness. “Stay.”
The bloodhound stopped, his dark eyes staring at Tommy.
“What’s the dog for?” The teenager’s voice was high. “What’s going on?”
Billy lifted his voice. “Crime tech.”
At the crime van, Mavis Cameron nodded. She strode swiftly toward her husband. At the edge of the terrace, she placed the container on the ground, used both gloved hands to hold up a man’s blue polo shirt. In the soft sunlight, the brownish smear across the front was distinct.
Billy walked back toward Elaine. “Tuesday morning you were observed walking toward the marsh carrying a bunched-up cloth.” He looked toward Annie. “What color was the cloth?”
Annie stared at the stained shirt. “Blue.”
“Did the shade of blue you saw Tuesday morning match the shade of this polo shirt?”
“Yes.” Annie looked toward Elaine, wished that she had not. Elaine’s face reflected a welter of emotions: fear, despair, frantic thought, disbelief, panic.
Billy folded his arms. His voice was uninflected and perhaps even more menacing for its very lack of drama. “Ms. Jamison, we know what you did with this shirt. You drove away Tuesday morning in a great hurry. You turned left on Sea Oats Lane.”
Elaine stared at him, her eyes widening in shock.
“On Sea Oats Lane”—the police chief sounded authoritative, a man with facts at his fingertips—“you proceeded to Kittredge Forest Preserve. You parked in the turnaround. Tire tracks there match the tread on your 2009 Corolla.”
Elaine clasped her hands tightly together.
“You proceeded on foot into the preserve. You walked precisely eight-tenths of a mile. You left the trail to secrete the exhibit”—he pointed at the blue polo shirt held by Mavis—“beneath a resurrection fern. The shirt was photographed in situ, removed by an officer, and submitted to the crime lab for testing.” Billy pointed at the stain. “Ms. Jamison, why did you hurry away from the site of your brother’s murder and hide a bloodstained shirt in the forest preserve?”
Elaine looked sick and frightened.
“Surely you remember what you did that morning and why. Perhaps I can assist you in recalling.” He was matter-of-fact. “The shirt is stained with the blood of your dead brother. Is that why you disposed of it?”
“Stop it.” Tommy’s cry was hoarse and desperate. “Dad’s blood . . .” Tears filled his eyes.
Billy swung toward Tommy. “It’s your shirt, isn’t it, son?”
“Yeah.” He was struggling to breathe. “My shirt . . .”
Cleo Jamison stalked toward the teenager. “Did you shoot Glen? Oh God, did you kill him?”
Tommy took a step back. “I didn’t. I didn’t. I—”
“Leave him alone.” Elaine plunged to Tommy’s side, grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I just grabbed anything. I didn’t know it was your shirt. I didn’t know what it was, I was so upset. God, I’m sorry.” She clung tightly to her nephew’s arm as she faced Billy. “Listen to me, I can explain. I came up to the house to talk to Glen. I went to the door of the study that opens off the terrace. I pulled the handle and stepped inside. I wasn’t looking around the room. I was thinking about what I was going to say. I wanted Glen—oh well, it doesn’t matter now. But that’s why I didn’t realize what had happened. I went in and my foot hit something. I looked down. I saw Glen’s gun. I’d kicked it. I couldn’t imagine what it was doing on the floor. I thought it was odd but I knew the key to the gun safe had been lost. I took a few steps and bent down and picked up the gun. It wasn’t until I straightened up that I saw shoes. Glen’s shoes. And his legs. I walked around the desk. He was lying on the floor and there was blood. So much blood, blood everywhere. I dropped down and touched his arm. I guess that’s when I got blood on my hand. I got up and I was going to call for help and then I looked down and I saw the blood on my hand and I had the gun in my other hand. I was afraid. I wanted to call the police, but I thought they’d think . . . I was terrified. I ran into the hall and through the kitchen and that’s when I grabbed Tommy’s shirt from the dirty clothes basket in the laundry room. I wiped my hand off and rolled up the gun in the shirt and went outside.”
The teenager, his eyes huge and frightened, stared at his aunt. “Elaine—”
She tightened her grip on her nephew’s arm. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I didn’t know the shirt belonged to you. But now everything’s all right.” She looked defiantly at Billy. “I know it was stupid. I should have owned up. But that’s
