The Pardon

shocked if that’s what happened. Can’t say I’d be terribly disappointed, either. You’ve been around long enough to know what I’m saying. Your job isn’t to catch a killer. It’s to kill a rumor.”

Stafford smiled wryly. “Second call sounds like a dead end already.”

“Good. Now, on your way, Detective. And give my regards to Eddy Goss.”

The two men chuckled as they headed out the door together, smiling the way men smile when they’re in complete agreement.

“Morning, Lon,” Detective Jamahl Bradley said to his partner as he ducked his six-foot-six frame beneath the yellow police tape that spanned the width of the hall outside Goss’s apartment. The building had been completely secured, with uniformed police officers standing guard at the staircase and at either end of the hall. The door to apartment 217 was wide open, a yellow tarp draped over the bloody corpse that blocked the entrance. Dawn’s eerie glow seeped in through the apartment’s only window. All was quiet, save for the occasional squawk and static of a police walkie-talkie.

Stafford glanced at Bradley as he folded his arms across his signature attire: red tie, white shirt and twenty- year-old blue blazer-“the colors,” the flag-waving ex-marine liked to say. “About damn time you got here,” Stafford grumbled.

Bradley gave him a look that typified the mutual disrespect this young African-American and old Florida cracker outwardly demonstrated toward each other. But their banter belied their true feelings. Deep down, they knew they worked well together, basically liked each other, and, most of all, loved giving each other unmitigated hell. “You’re lucky my black ass is here,” Bradley snapped back. “Your daughter wouldn’t let me out of bed.”

A joke like that would normally have drawn a nuclear reaction out of Stafford. But he wasn’t listening. The old master was absorbed in details, standing squarely in the open apartment doorway as he peered inside with narrowed, discerning eyes. He’d been on the scene for over an hour already. He needed just one more hard look before turning things over to the department’s “lab rats,” who would collect blood, fingerprints, fibers, and whatever else they could find.

“Let’s go,” said Stafford.

“Go?” asked Bradley.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “You and me gotta be at Jack Swyteck’s house before he turns on the morning news.”

Bradley winced with confusion. “What for?”

“Justice,” he quipped, the corner of his mouth curling in a wry smile. “I can’t wait to see that cocky bastard’s expression when I tell him that half his client’s ugly face is splattered on the living room wall.”

Detective Bradley returned the smile. Like everyone else in the police department, he was familiar with the way Eddy Goss’s lawyer had skewered Stafford on the witness stand. “I’ll drive,” he said.

They left Goss’s apartment building at 7:00 A.M., just as rush hour began, but they were headed against traffic. They reached Jack’s house in fifteen minutes, pulled into the driveway, and marched up to the front door, Stafford leading the way. The detective gave three loud knocks and waited. There was no answer. Jack s car was in the driveway, though, so he knocked again, louder this time. He listened carefully, then smiled with success as he and his partner heard someone stirring inside.

Jack lumbered out of his bedroom and shuffled through the living room to the door. His eyes were puffy slits, and his hair stuck out in all directions. He wore no shoes and no shirt, only the baggy gray gym shorts he’d slept in. He yawned as he pulled aside the curtain and looked out the window next to the front door. He recognized the beige sedan in the driveway as an unmarked police car, and his brow furrowed with curiosity. Then his curiosity turned to concern as Lonzo Stafford’s familiar face appeared in the window. Right behind the crusty old detective was his young black partner, whom Jack recognized from Goss’s videotaped confession. Bradley seemed even taller and more formidable in person. He had the thick neck of a weight lifter, and his hair was cropped short on the sides and flat on the top, like a pencil eraser. Jack’s heart fluttered as the black detective glanced at the Mustang in the driveway. Fortunately, the top was still down so the slash wasn’t visible. Relieved, Jack took the chain off the door and opened it.

“Good morning,” Stafford said matter-of-factly.

“It certainly is morning,” Jack answered.

“We need to talk.”

“What about?” asked Jack.

“You mind if we come in?”

“What’s it about?” Jack repeated, this time more firmly.

Stafford showed no expression. “It’s about Eddy Goss.”

Jack shook his head. “Then we have nothing to talk about. I don’t work at the Freedom Institute anymore. I don’t represent Goss anymore.”

“He’s dead,” said Stafford.

Jack froze. “What?”

“Goss is dead,” he repeated, as if he liked the sound of it. “We found him in his apartment a few hours ago. Somebody killed him.”

“Are you sure?”

“I seen a few dead bodies in my day,” Stafford said. “I know a homicide when I see one. Now,” he arched an eyebrow, “you mind if we come inside for a minute?”

“Sure,” said Jack.

“You do mind?” Stafford asked, pretending to have misunderstood.

“No,” Jack said, flustered. “I mean, I don’t mind.”

“Because you don’t have to talk-”

“I don’t mind,” Jack asserted, a little too forcefully. “Come on in,” he said as he stepped aside, allowing Stafford and Bradley to pass.

As he entered, Stafford reflected on the irony of the situation. Had a homicide detective shown up at the door of any of Swyteck’s clients the night after a murder Swyteck would have been the first to tell him to get lost. It amazed Stafford how lawyers never seemed to heed their own advice.

“Have a seat,” said Jack as he cleared the newspaper off the couch.

Stafford watched him carefully. Jack’s movements were jerky, a little nervous. Stafford noted the fresh red scratches on his bare back. Could have been a woman, he thought. There was a purple bruise on his ribs, too. Would have taken a pretty aggressive woman. And the back of Jack’s left hand had a nasty cut-like from a knife. Not something a woman delivers in ordinary course.

“That’s quite a gash you got there,” said Stafford as he and his partner took their seats on the couch.

Jack glanced down, picking up on the detective’s nod at his hand. It suddenly hurt more now than when he’d stabbed himself with the steak knife. It looked worse, too. Everything looked worse than it had last night. There was a dead body and two nosy detectives booking for an explanation.

“It’s nothing, really,” said Jack. “Just a scratch.”

“Pretty deep for a scratch,” observed Bradley. “More like a puncture.”

Jack shifted uneasily, feeling somewhat double-teamed now that Stafford’s partner was talking too. He glanced at Stafford, then at Bradley. They seemed to want an explanation. So he gave them one. “Yesterday, I was doing some work on my Mustang,” he lied. “I was loosening a really tight nut, you know-one of those ones that gets rusted on real tight. I just pushed and pushed,” he said, demonstrating with his left hand. “The wrench slipped, and I cut my hand.”

Stafford arched an eyebrow suspiciously. “Didn’t know you were a lefty, Jack.”

Jack hesitated, measuring his response. “I’m not. But I use both hands.”

“You’re ambidextrous?” Bradley followed up.

“No, not exactly, but whenever I work on my car I use both hands. One gets tired, I use the other. You know how it is,” he smiled nervously, “especially on the really tough nuts.”

Stafford gave a slow, exaggerated nod, as if to say, “You’re a fool and a liar, but let’s move on.”

“So,” said Jack, “you didn’t come here to talk about cars.”

“No,” Stafford agreed. “We’re here about Goss. Some routine stuff. Just a few minutes of your time. You mind