Identical by Scott Turow Page A

church, so he’s heartbroken for her and is fine with whatever, but Hermione, Dita’s mom, and Hal, they wouldn’t hear of ten years. Finally, right before the PA was going to return an indictment, all of them settled at second-degree for twenty-five years, but still minimum security. The judge gave Cass a month before he surrendered so he could stand up at Paul’s wedding.”
    “And were you OK with that result?”
    “Depends how you mean. The sentence, I never thought that was my business. Minimum security irritated some of the other cops, but I’m like, ‘It’s prison, not torture, any nice college boy would get torn apart at Rudyard, especially a former cadet.’ The thing that bothered me was he wouldn’t answer questions. Never did. He pled, said he done it, that was it.”
    “Well, what questions were there to answer?”
    “The windowpane just for one. The glass is all outside, on the little concrete balcony under the French door. Meaning the window was broken from the inside. So how’d he get in?”
    “You already told me. He’d climbed up there before. What was your term? ‘Making whoopee’?”
    “That’s OK. Maybe he arrives hoping for romance, or knowing what’s on her mind. Either way, she says, ‘No, I’m done with this,’ and he loses it and smacks her. When she passes out, he panics and flees. But if you’re inside already, why not just open the latch and leave?”
    “Maybe he’s trying to make it look like a break-in. Only he really doesn’t know much about crime scenes. So he cracks the glass the wrong way.”
    “Nice.” Tim chuckled and pointed a thick finger at her with true admiration. The knuckle was crooked and swollen with arthritis. “Only Cass Gianis is a police cadet. And the other thing is, breaking glass, that makes noise. If you want to escape, why raise that kind of ruckus? What sense does that make?”
    “So you didn’t like him for the crime?”
    “No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying I had a few questions. There wasn’t any couch in my office for the defendant to lay down on and explain what was in his head or his heart, assuming anybody ever knows. But we had his fingerprints in her bedroom and on the door. Blood was his type. Shoes match. And there’s motive because she was going to drop him. And he gave a shit-ass alibi when he was first questioned right after the crime, said he was with his twin brother—”
    “Paul?”
    “Right. Said they were larking around that night, drinking beers over the river. Course nobody saw them. Cass couldn’t even name the liquor store where they bought the six-pack, said Paul got ’em.”
    “And did Paul back that?”
    Tim scratched his chin while he looked at the beamed ceiling of what had once been a porch.
    “Seems to me he might have, now that you mention it. You know, it was just part of the initial canvass. Troopers talked to everybody who’d been with Dita at the picnic. Report couldn’t have been more than a paragraph. I would probably still have it.”
    “Really?”
    “Down in the basement. I didn’t have any staff, and I was in a different office every couple of days, so I figured I’d rather keep all the reports at home. Show you if you like.” Tim used a chair arm to hoist himself to his feet and wobbled a bit with the first step. Evon watched him. He was somewhat stooped now behind the shoulders, but he remained a big man, well over six feet, with the proportions of a tight end. In the day, he must have commanded a lot of attention on the street. He motioned for her to follow, and then opened a door in the kitchen and descended unevenly toward the cellar. The old wooden steps were steep, and Tim held on to the rail and kept his other hand on the brick wall to steady himself. His twill pants were halfway down his butt.
    The basement, when they reached it, was even more crowded than the upstairs. There was a distinct cellar reek, a combination of mildew and dust, and all manner of things crammed