Play To Kill

mundane scraps of day-to-day life. 'Man, this is the sorriest place I've ever tossed. There's nothing here, not even a can of Coke in the fridge. It's like Alan Sommers wasn't even a real person, just a cardboard mock-up.'

    'I think the real Alan Sommers is in that closet.'

    'Christ, you're going to have to put me on suicide watch if I stay here much longer. I hate poking through dead people's stuff. Reminds me of having to clean out my grandpa's house after he died.'

    Magozzi nodded. 'There's nothing here. Let's get to the jail and bribe a boy in blue to let us see Wild Jim before they let him out in the morning.'

    'I got nothing to bribe a jailer with.'

    'Give him some vitamin C.'

    'You get that I have had no sleep, right, Leo? Zero, nada, not even a Salvador Dali nap.'

    'I get it. Join the club.'

    Magozzi pulled in at an angle in front of the Hennepin County Jail.

    'And you also understand that it's three o'clock in the morning'

    'I do.'

    'So here's the thing. My eyes are fried eggs, my brain cells are crisp around the edges, and at the moment I'm about three levels down from any drunk coming off a high toot, let alone an ex-judge.'

    Magozzi put the car in park and rubbed his eyes. 'No choice. The golden time is wearing off on Alan Sommers. We already lost a day thinking he was an accidental, more time finding out he left the club alone, and Wild Jim is the last lead. We've gotta milk it.'

    During visiting hours, Hennepin County Jail kept at full ballast with a cross section of society that would never mingle in the real world. There was always the predictable, en masse scum, coming to chitchat with significant-other scums; then there was the regular meat-and-potatoes crowd, always a little shell-shocked by having to visit an errant friend or family member in lockup; and, less frequently, the dressed-to-kill cocktail crowd, sporting major attitude and pissed as hell that their lover or spouse had gotten a DUI after drinking too much champagne at an important charity event. It made for excellent sport if you were into people- watching, but as a cop, you got over that brand of voyeurism your first or second day on the job.

    At this hour the lobby was calm, the sign-in deputy was bored, and Magozzi and Gino were relieved. Efficiency was at its peak, and Wild Jim was escorted immediately to the standard, Plexiglas booth that was blurry with scratches and fog from the breath of loved ones declaring their heart's desire through a quarter-inch of plastic.

    The judge looked perfectly lucid, eyes as sharp as they always had been on the bench, blood alcohol notwithstanding. He plunked down on the steel chair across from Magozzi and Gino with a gracious thanks to the jailor who'd escorted him, then lasered in on the both of them without prelude.

    'I remember you, Magozzi. You were in front of me twice. As I recall, you were trying to lock up a couple craven sociopaths that your wife at the time wanted desperately to put back on the streets, for some incomprehensible reason.'

    'She was a public defender.'

    That elicited a snort from Wild Jim. 'Bad bedmates, cops and public defenders. But I guess you figured that out.'

    The comment really pissed Magozzi off. It was incredibly bad form to bring up his ugly divorce that had been so painfully public in the law enforcement community, but he had no choice but to humor him. Drunks coming off jags could change like the wind if you pushed the wrong buttons.

    'Come on, where's your sense of humor, Magozzi? I've had five divorces, so that makes you four times smarter than me. Hey, do you know what the difference is between a criminal and a public defender?'

    'No, Judge, I don't,' Magozzi said flatly.

    'Neither do I!' He busted a gut laughing at his own tired joke, then his eyes honed in on Gino. 'And I remember you, too, Rolseth. Only saw you once, but we made a good team. We exterminated some vermin that day, yes indeed. So, Detectives, assuming this isn't a social call, what can I do for you?'

    'A body was found in the river this morning,' Gino said.

    'Ah. That's why there were so damn many cops in my front yard. So what happened to the poor schmuck?'

    'Drowned.'

    'And I'm talking to two homicide detectives. Isn't that interesting.'

    Magozzi ignored the comment. We understand you may have seen something last night.'

    'You wouldn't believe the depraved shit I see down by the river, every goddamned night. People having sex, shooting up, smoking crack… I don't know what happened to this city.'

    'Last night specifically,' Magozzi said, trying to get him back on track. The sergeant running the canvass said you mentioned a commotion.'

    The judge smiled. 'Very delicate phrasing, Magozzi. Yes, I told a cop this morning that there was some crazy faggot raising hell down by my river, like usual. Sorry, but I'm not politically correct.'

    'Raising hell? What does that mean?'

    'He was crashing through the brush, yodeling like a coloratura soprano on helium.'

    'Calling for help?' Gino asked.

    Wild Jim leaned back in his chair and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. 'You know what the problem with this line of questioning is, Detectives? I'm a bourbon aficionado. And when you like Kentucky horse piss as much as I do, memories and recollections are hard to come by. If I saw something, I don't remember it. All I can tell you is I heard yodeling, then I heard a cop shouting at me to wake up this morning. There's nothing in between.'

    Magozzi sighed audibly.

    'Don't look so dejected, my friend. I may be a dissolute drunk, but just because I don't remember last night right now doesn't mean I won't think of something later. So, are you expecting your perp to get into more monkey business down there, maybe return to the scene, or is this a one-off murder?'

    Magozzi and Gino just shrugged noncommitally.

    'Well, there's my answer. Tell you what - I'm down there every night anyhow. I'll be your eyes and ears. And I know where to find you.'

    We wouldn't recommend night walks by the river for a while.'

    The judge smiled. 'I'm sure I'll have plenty of company.

    You cops always blanket an area after a homicide, at least for a week or two. By the way, am I a suspect?'

    'Should you be?'

    'Absolutely. Anybody down by that river last night should be a suspect, but I don't have to tell you that. Anything else you need to know?'

    Magozzi looked straight at him. Yeah. What happened to the respected judge who sat on the bench, handing out justice for twenty years?'

    The judge looked surprised. 'Nothing happened to that respected judge. You're looking at him. I sat on the bench handing out justice for twenty years, and for every one of them I was drunk out of my mind. Kind of puts a wrinkle in the robe, doesn't it?'

Chapter Ten

    Clint ran his red pen down the list next to his computer, crossing off the items he'd completed one by one. Feed Ruffian. Eat supper. Wash dishes. Code post.

    If you're too stupid to remember your chores, write them down, Clinton.

    The only valuable advice from the dead bitch who claimed to have borne him, although the thought of such a thing still made him sick to his stomach. To have lived in the sagging, bloating belly of such a creature was more than he could imagine.

    He put a gold star on the last of the one-page essays the dear children had written in class today, then crossed 'grade papers' off his list. Perhaps the gold star hadn't been earned in this case - certainly not grammatically - but this particular boy always tried so hard, and needed a pat on the back every now and