The Stranger You Seek - By Amanda Kyle Williams Page 0,81
with his hands shoved in his pockets, stood there a moment watching the scene with me. “See the dialysis clinic across the street? Saw a guy out there yesterday peeing in the parking lot. Something about that ain’t right. You know?”
Having opened all the windows along the west wall, Brit Williams pulled a chair to the table and sat down facing the glass. Sweat glistened on his very dark black skin. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves and opened his collar, which was as dressed-down as I had ever seen him. He put a legal pad in front of him and slid a pen from his shirt pocket, clicked it with his thumb a few times.
Rauser kept pacing.
The interrogation room door opened and Charlie was escorted in by a uniformed officer. Balaki and I went back to our seats. An enormous bruise blossomed around Charlie’s right eye. Medical tape still crisscrossed his nose.
“Dang.” Balaki’s South Georgia drawl made it sound like Da-ang. “Kicked the shit out of him, didn’t you, Street?”
Charlie’s crooked half smile was back. And so were the odd way he cocked his head, the knees that turned in just slightly, all the things that made it register instantly that something wasn’t right with Charlie. This was the Charlie I’d grown accustomed to, and had even grown to love. If he was acting right now, if he’d been acting these last couple of years, he was very good.
Charlie had been arrested at six-fifteen that morning. Cops had banged on his door, read the charges, assault with intent to commit rape. Then they read him Miranda and hauled him off. Rauser wanted to make sure this happened very early. He didn’t want Charlie well rested. Charlie’s attorney, Ricky Stickler, had argued at the arraignment that Charlie posed no flight risk, did not even have a driver’s license or credit card, and that he was under a doctor’s care. An assistant DA had counterargued that Charlie had a history of violence against women and was also a person of interest in other crimes and should be bound over, but the judge said there was neither sufficient evidence nor probable cause to hold the suspect in custody, that old closed cases from other states were inadmissible, and as long as Charlie had absolutely no contact with the alleged victim—me—he would consider bail. If Charlie agreed to questioning, bail would be set at fifty thousand dollars.
Ricky Stickler swaggered into the interrogation room and sat down next to Charlie, patted his hand. “You’ll be out of here in no time, Charlie. Paperwork is being taken care of now.”
Next to me, Williams folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, nodded toward the one-way mirror and Charlie’s lawyer. “Big-money law firm. Pricey group for a bicycle courier.”
We watched the two men on the other side of the glass for a few minutes. Stickler loosened his tie, took off his jacket. The hot room was having its effect. His pale blue shirt was damp and rumpled when the jacket came off.
Rauser checked his watch, pressed some numbers into his phone, and waited. “Where the hell is our new superstar? Bastard’s not even answering his phone. Williams, you come with me. We’re not waiting.” He tucked in his shirttail and grinned. “How do I look?”
“Real purdy, Lieutenant,” Balaki said, and they all chuckled. Cop humor. I didn’t always get it.
I watched Williams stroll into the interrogation room, then Rauser. The room was stark, just a table, four chairs, a couple of old HVAC registers on the walls. No windows. Rauser took a chair across from Ricky Stickler and Charlie and dropped a manila folder on the table. Williams sat at the end of the table.
“Sorry about the heat, guys. Old buildings, you know? How ’bout some water or something?” Rauser waited for the answer, which came from Stickler and was “No, thank you,” then looked at Charlie for a moment, gave a gentle smile. I saw the lines gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Charlie, my man, what the heck happened? You fall off your bike or something? You’re beat up pretty bad, buddy.”
“I know you’re mad,” Charlie told Rauser. The familiar slur was back. Very subtle, like someone with a glass of wine too many in them. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I love her. I didn’t mean it.”
Rauser picked up the folder and appeared to read it. “Says here you’ve done something like this three times before, Charlie. Did you