They crossed the street and took the elevator in the Government Center to the County Attorney’s office. BJ didn’t say anything during the ride.
“What’s up? Out too late last night, listening to music?” Zehra asked him.
He shook his head. “Naw.”
Her thoughts returned to Mustafa, to the feel of his smooth skin and the smell of it. She tried to place the fragrance … sandalwood cologne maybe. She wondered what he was doing right now and longed to see him again. Her loneliness lifted for a moment.
In a few minutes, they met with Steve Harmon in his office.
“Have a seat, guys.” His face softened. “Hey, Zehra, sorry to hear about you. Are you okay?” He paused, then said, “Any last minute things we should cover?” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Judge Goldberg’s anxious to get the trial started.”
Zehra leaned forward. “Yeah, Steve, there is something. We watched the video of the crime scene yesterday and noticed the gloves. Have you seen it yet?”
“Uh … yeah, of course. Gloves? I guess I don’t remember any gloves … heh, heh,” he forced a laugh.
Zehra knew he hadn’t seen the film. “The killer wore gloves. Latex from the look of them. Why? More critical, where are they? Are you holding out on us?”
Harmon’s eyes opened wide. “Don’t ever accuse me of anything unethical,” he shouted. “I’ve given you all the Discovery material I have.”
“Then, where did the gloves go?”
“Maybe El-Amin kept them and tossed ’em later.”
“The killer dropped the mask, why not the gloves?”
Harmon stood and moved around his desk. “How the hell should I know? I don’t need any gloves to get the conviction.”
“You’ve got to admit,” Zehra said, “this is an odd murder-the type of mask, gloves, glasses. It’s more than a disguise.”
“You can argue your case in court. To me, it’s simple-a cold-blooded murder of an innocent young man.”
No one spoke for a while.
Zehra said, “Can we get a look at the evidence in the property room?”
“Sure. I’ve already called ahead. Sergeant Miller’s waiting for us.”
In ten minutes, they’d all gone down the elevator to the second floor of the Government Center, crossed under the street in the tunnel past the cafeteria, and come up in the massive City Hall where the police department had its headquarters. In the basement, they stopped at a worn wooden door with a frosted glass window in the top half. Large letters stenciled on the window told them it was the property room.
As they walked through it, Sergeant Miller came out from a secured door and shook hands all around. He smiled broadly when he saw BJ. “Hey, dude, still on the wrong side, huh?”
“Pays better,” BJ lied. “Everything’s cool. By the way, nice threads,” he joked about the officer’s uniform with the frayed blue shirt cuffs.
“Budget cuts.” Miller led them back into the large room. Rows of metal shelves towered around them as they worked their way deeper into the room. Each shelf held dozens of banker’s boxes, numbered and marked with the name of the case they came from. They were filled with exhibits for hundreds of cases.
Other than the clopping of their shoes on the cement floor, silence hung in the air like old dust.
After four turns, Miller stopped and reached for the appropriate box. “Here it is,” he grunted. Although a younger man, he looked like he’d been in the basement, alone with the boxes, a long time. His skin seemed as dry as the shelves, and his left eye twitched unnaturally every once in a while.
He carried the box to a small metal table at the end of the row. “I’ve almost got everything down here computerized now. We’re getting some of that federal drug-bust money to help us upgrade things. It’s a bitch to convert it all from those old files to computers, and no one appreciates all the work I’ve done.”
Since forensics had already analyzed the evidence, they could touch it with bare hands. Miller lifted out various items. Most of the things had been taken from El-Amin’s apartment or found at the crime scene. Some items, like the mask, had been sent to the BCA for testing.
She watched as shirts, shoes, pants, a pair of glasses that resembled the ones in the video, and the curved knife were laid on the table.
The knife was unusual. From a long handle, the blade curved slightly, resembling a scimitar. It had been tested for blood samples, revealing the victim’s blood type. Nothing else, including fingerprints, was found on it.
Zehra held it in her hands. A shiver ran through her when she thought of what had been done with this weapon. Who had held it? she wondered. As she turned it back and forth, the fluorescent lights from the ceiling glistened off the shiny blade. A similar light flashed across her mind. There was something … something she tried to remember. About the knife? After a few moments, Zehra gave up, hoping her memory would come clear later.
After rummaging through all the items, Zehra and BJ thanked Miller and left with Harmon.
Outside the door, Zehra asked, “Hey, Steve, got time for coffee?”
“Too busy fighting crime. Thanks anyway. At least you got Judge Goldberg.”
“He’ll do a good job.”
“Aw … he hasn’t got any balls.” Steve walked away.
BJ said, “That offer of coffee good for me, Z?”
“As long as you’re paying.”
In fifteen minutes they sat in a Caribou Coffee shop on the second floor skyway. It connected the Government Center to most of the downtown area. With the brutal winters and steamy summers in Minnesota, the skyways bustled with life as the entire city flooded into them.
They reminded Zehra of the ant farm she had as a child. The ants scurried through the narrow passageways on their way to work or food. Similarly, people moved in lines through the skyways for the same reasons.
BJ licked the foam off his upper lip from his latte. His eyes flicked up to Zehra’s. He cleared his throat. “Uh … Z, I got something to say to you.”
Zehra could tell he was serious. He dropped his usual smile, and the brightness in his eyes dulled. She set down her cup. “What? What’s up?”
“Well, it’s none of my business of course, but like my momma always told me, ‘If you got something to say, say it.’”
She waited.
“It’s about your friend, Mustafa.”
Zehra sucked in her breath. “Denzel, look, we got a lot to do in the next couple days. Can it wait?”
“Sure, but I gotta say it quick.” He looked at the settling foam in his cup and then to Zehra. “He’s lying to you.”
She jerked back. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what it’s about, but you know my FACs training. At least I can tell when somebody’s probably lying.”
Zehra wrestled with her emotions. Sure, she didn’t know Mustafa well, but so what? That was the whole purpose of dating. “Maybe because he’s foreign, his way of talking and expressions are different than ours.”
“Don’t make any difference. The signals are universal.” He leaned forward and reached out to her. “I know how you feel about him, but I have to warn you.” His hand covered hers. “You don’t know this guy, and, well, he’s foreign, like you say. You know I got your back.”
“Yeah, but I can’t think about it now.” She waved her hand in front of them. “Too much dropped on me …” She looked at BJ’s eyes and found them wet and shiny again. “I’ll be careful. Thanks for always thinking about me.”
He shrugged and stood. “I got a few errands. I’m still gonna see if we can find the missing imam.”
Zehra nodded as he left.
She sighed and tried to think straight. With the trial and all its problems, it was difficult to sort through her emotions. Maybe in her thrill of meeting such an attractive Muslim man, she’d missed things she’d normally spot. Of course, he was too conservative, and Zehra worried about his flexibility.
