“We?”
“T did the shooting.”
“Who did the cold-cocking?”
Pause. “I guess that was me. But T held him and kicked him in the balls, by the time I hit him he was pretty much out of it. I didn’t hit him that hard.”
“What happened next?”
“T drove him and I followed in the Corvette.”
“Where was Mr. Franck?”
“In the trunk of the Jag. T had him tied up with these plastic thingies.”
A fact verified by traces of Trey Franck’s saliva and blood in the rear compartment of the freshly vacuumed and detailed car.
“You were following in Sal Fidella’s Corvette.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’d you go?”
“We drove to this place, T knew it ’cause his cousin has a ranch near there and his dad took him hiking and shooting up in the mountains there when he was little.”
“Not recently?”
“No way,” said Quinn Glover. “He doesn’t talk to his dad, hates his dad, thinks his dad hates him.”
“So you’re at a spot T knew,” said Milo.
“T pulls him out of the trunk.”
“Was Franck conscious?”
“Guess so,” said Quinn Glover. “He was making these whimpery sounds, all curled up. T rolls him on his back, says, ‘Guess you’re not so smart, motherfucker,’ and shoots him right here.”
Touching the center of a tan, unlined brow. “We tried to push the Vette down into the hole but it doesn’t go, so T set it on fire and we booked.”
“After putting a baseball cap on the seat.”
“T’s idea. Sir.”
“What was the reason?”
“Blame it on someone else.”
“Who?”
“Mexican dude, everyone knew he hated her.”
“Hated who?”
“The bi—Ms. Freeman.”
“How’d everyone know?”
“Dude told anyone who’d listen. She didn’t like him, either.”
“Elise Freeman complained about Martin Mendoza?”
“Yeah.”
“To you, specifically?”
“When we came for tutoring, yeah,” said Quinn Glover.
“How’d the topic of Martin Mendoza come up?”
“He was leaving and we were coming in, we said, ‘You tutor
“Which you took to mean?”
“She didn’t like Mexicans.”
“What’d you say to that?”
“Nothing,” said the boy.
“But you thought of it later, when you and T decided to blame the murders on Martin.”
“T’s idea.”
“What’d you do with Franck’s body?”
“Wiped it off with some rags from the Jag, then put him back in the Jag.”
“Then what?”
“You know.”
“I know what?”
“You saw him, sir. What T did.”
“T cut him up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But the place you did it was your father’s workshop, Quinn. All those tools he keeps back of your property for his woodworking.”
“He makes birdhouses.” Muttering.
“What’s that, Quinn?”
“Nothing.”
“What’d you just say, son?”
“Lame. Making those stupid birdcages.”
“What use would a chain saw be for making birdcages?”
“That’s for the trees,” said Quinn Glover. “We have some land in Washington, lots of trees, he likes to run around with the chain saw and saw them down. Says it’s his release. Then he turns them into birdcages.”
“Guess your dad will need a new chain saw.”
“Guess so.”
Neal looked up. “Is this going to take a whole lot longer?”
Milo ignored him. “Back to something you just said, Quinn. When you saw Martin Mendoza. ‘We were coming in for tutoring.’ Are you telling me you and T had joint tutoring sessions with Ms. Freeman? ’Cause the records recovered from the laptop we found in T’s bedroom at home don’t back that up. Same for Mr. Fidella’s computer recovered from your room—he had copies of all Ms. Freeman’s files.”
Quinn Glover licked his lips.
Milo said, “You had individual sessions.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So maybe it was you who had that conversation with Ms. Freeman about Martin, not both of you.”
The lawyer said, “Don’t answer that.”
We stood again.
“Oh, c’mon, Lieutenant. You need to balance what he’s given you with what he hasn’t.”
“I need to?” said Milo.
“You know what I mean, Lieutenant.”
“You’re a lawyer, Mr. Neal. That means no one—including yourself—knows what you mean. Bye.”
“This is inappropriate and… impetuous!”
“There you go,” said Milo. “Two SAT words for the price of one.”
As details of the cheating scandal hit the national news, the Educational Testing Service announced a comprehensive review of all exams administered to Windsor Prep students over the past five years.
Sal Fidella’s computer files showed he’d contemplated finding additional blackmail victims after Elise’s death. The files Tristram and Quinn had added concentrated on porn, tunes, photos from exotic car and motorcycle sites. Email correspondence between the boys indicated they viewed their murder spree with hilarity, wondered what it would feel like to
John Nguyen said, “No deal, no way. I’ve got a bisected corpse, if anything’s a death penalty case this is it.”
No one gets executed in California, but prosecutors collect lethal-injection sentences like baseball cards.
