“Tom, do you know why you’re here?”
Stoller didn’t answer. He’d stopped his mumbling and seemed to be listening.
Danilo opened the evidence box and lifted the bag holding the murder weapon, the Glock 23 semiautomatic pistol.
“That’s my gun,” Stoller said, as Danilo dangled it before him.
Danilo snuck a peek at Gregus. Jesus. That was easy.
“This is your gun, Tom?”
Stoller reached for it. Danilo pulled it back.
“That’s my gun,” Stoller insisted, as if wronged.
“We need to hold on to it, Tom. Okay? Keep your butt in that chair.”
“It’s mine.” Stoller stared down at the table. “It’s mine.”
“Where did you get this gun, Tom?”
Stoller didn’t answer. Like maybe he didn’t hear it. Danilo repeated the question and still got no response.
“Where do you live, Tom?” he asked.
The suspect’s eyes danced, a crooked smile appearing briefly. “Where do I… live?”
“Okay, sleep,” said Danilo. “Where do you sleep?”
“Park.” Stoller chuckled.
“Franzen Park?” The answer seemed obvious enough. Franzen Park was the name of the surrounding neighborhood, a yup-and-comer, where some high-end townhouses were sprouting up amid apartment buildings where students like Kathy Rubinkowski lived. But Stoller clearly spent his nights in the park itself.
Stoller shook his head, but he didn’t seem to be responding.
“West side of the park, Tom.” Danilo tried to sound casual. “A street called Gehringer. You know that street, Tom?”
No answer. A slow buildup didn’t seem to be getting Danilo very far. The detective drummed his fingers and thought for a moment.
“Why’d you run from the cops, Tom?”
The police had found Stoller in Franzen Park, behind the park district’s main building, huddled between two dumpsters, inventorying a purse later identified as belonging to Kathy Rubinkowski. He threw a two-by-four at one of the cops, knocking away his flashlight, and ran for a good three blocks before the uniforms, with the help of an additional patrol car, cut him off.
Stoller stopped his fidgeting. His eyes darted about. Fresh heat, fresh odor came off him. His forehead had broken out in sweat. His hands came off the table, poised in midair. He seemed to be lost in some world other than this one.
Detective Danilo waited him out. But Stoller didn’t seem ready to spill. So Danilo repeated his question about running from the police tonight. He tried some others, too. What did you do last night, Tom? Where’d you get this purse, Tom?
“Tom.” Danilo slammed his hand down on the table.
Stoller winced at the sound but didn’t turn to Danilo. Like he heard a sound but couldn’t place it. His lips moved quickly, but damned if Danilo could make out a single word.
“Tom!” he repeated, slamming his hand down again.
Detective Gregus retrieved a file folder from the evidence box. Crime scene photos. She pushed them over to Danilo and nodded.
Right. Probably the right time for this.
Danilo slid a photo across the table. Kathy Rubinkowski, lying dead on the street by her car, amid a pool of blood.
The suspect glanced at the photo and looked away, whipping his head around, his eyes squeezed shut.
“You did this, Tom, didn’t you? You killed this woman.”
The table rocked on its legs as Stoller pushed himself away, jumping from the chair.
“Tom, did you shoot this woman?”
Standing away from his chair now, Stoller shook his head violently and tugged at his hair with both hands.
“Tom, if you don’t explain this to me, you’re going to be charged with first-degree murder.”
“No.” He shook his head so hard, so uncontrolled, Danilo thought, he must be hurting himself.
“Tell me how it went down, Tom, or you’ll spend the rest of your life-”
“Put it down!” Stoller barked in a low, controlled baritone. “Drop it! I said put it down!”
The detectives looked at each other. Neither of them was holding anything they could put down. What was he “Put it down!”
Danilo steeled himself. Security was one concern. But there were no loaded weapons in this room, and they could hit the emergency button under the table, alerting the stationhouse of the need for emergency assistance, if things got out of control.
The camera was another concern, but the suspect would still be within the camera’s sight line, and the volume of his voice was more than sufficient.
Stoller braced himself, feet spread, and continued to shout his command: “Drop the weapon! Drop the weapon right now! Put down your weapon!”
His eyes were closed the whole time. He was essentially shouting at the wall.
Tense silence followed, a few seconds. In a careful voice, Danilo asked, “Did she pull a weapon on you, Tom? Is that how it happened?”
“I told you to put it down!” Stoller’s posture eased. His voice lowered from a stiff command to a plaintive plea. “I told you… I told you to put it down. Why didn’t you…”
Stoller collapsed to the floor. He let out a wretched wail, somewhere between an anguished, girlish squeal and a guttural animal cry.
“Wake up!” he whined. “Please don’t… don’t die… please, God, don’t die…”
Stoller burst into uncontrolled sobs.
Detective Danilo pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. Sometimes he hated this job.
BOOK 1
1
Deidre Maley held her breath until she left Courtroom 1741. A proud woman who took care to contain her emotions, she waited until she had a small portion of the corridor to herself before she burst into tears.
She’d felt so helpless. So angry and confused and helpless. Watching her nephew Tommy in that prison jumpsuit, those vacant eyes staring at the floor as the judge matter-of-factly issued rulings that she couldn’t completely comprehend, and that Tommy surely couldn’t follow in his current condition. Their lawyer, a public defender, was a nice man who seemed to care about what he was doing, but he always had so many cases going, he was always so hurried, always promising that there was plenty of time to prepare for the trial, even though it was less than two months away.
After a while, Deidre collected herself. Crying about it was never going to solve anything, her mother always said. Her nephew Thomas didn’t have a mother, not anymore. She was all he had now.
She saw a couple of men who looked like reporters-if carrying notepads and handheld tape recorders was any indication-rush into the neighboring courtroom, 1743. Not being in a particular hurry to return to work, she followed them inside.
