Matters of Doubt by Warren C Easley Page A

frozen on his face. From the newspaper photos I’d seen, it looked like Conyers. His head had a sizeable hole punched in it—a crater of splintered bone, oozing blood, and gray matter just above the right ear. I jerked my head away and heard myself say, “Shit.”
    I got up and returned to Picasso, who’d remained standing at the open gate. I gripped him by the shoulders and shook him. “What have you done, son? What the hell have you done?”
    He twisted out of my grip and met my eyes. “I didn’t do anything, man. He was floating in the pool when I got here. I jumped in to pull him out. He hit his head or something. Some kind of accident.”
    â€œ Accident ?” I went over to the diving board, a short fiberglass plank bolted to a low, round pedestal. It was as clean as a whistle. The tiles edging the pool were bullnosed, which seemed to eliminate the possibility that Conyers had somehow hit his head on them. At the deep end, around the corner from the diving board, I saw a distinct line of spattered blood. It was nearly dry on the warm cement. I backed away so as not to step on it.
    Picasso remained standing at the gate, watching me intently.
    I said, “He’s been murdered. Someone either shot him or stabbed him with the mother of all ice picks.” I pointed down. “I can see the blood spray. He was probably dead before he hit the water.” I forced myself to take another look. “I’m guessing the ice pick. Doesn’t look like a gun shot wound to me.” I glanced around, looking for the murder weapon. “See anything lying around here?”
    â€œNo. I just found him floating there in the water.”
    I met his eyes and said, “Are you sure ? Did you get angry and hit him with something?”
    â€œ No. I didn’t. Please believe me.”
    â€œWhy did you come here, anyway?”
    â€œI got a message from Conyers. He said he had some important information about my mom and wanted to meet with me. Said there were no hard feelings.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Here’s the message. Milo said a bike messenger brought it for me.”
    â€œWho’s Milo?”
    â€œThe guy who works the desk at the clinic,” he answered, handing me the note. “Careful, it got wet.”
    I opened it gingerly, looked up and shook my head. “I can’t read this. The ink’s all over the page.”
    A car passed by on Westover. Picasso looked down at the street then back at me. “Shit, man, I’m getting the hell out of here.”
    â€œThat would be the worst thing you could do. Tell me again, did you get angry and hit him? ”
    â€œ No , I didn’t do anything ,” he said. “He was face down in the pool.” Picasso expelled a breath and shook his head. “I should’ve taken off, but I couldn’t just leave him there. I thought he might still be alive.”
    He locked onto my eyes and didn’t flinch. His appearance would scream guilty to the police—the coiled snake, the facial rings glinting in the sun, his hands stained with blood. But his eyes said something else to me. With that look and in that instant, something clicked into place, and I decided to believe him; at least most of me did. A small corner of my brain—call it the L.A. prosecutor piece—remained skeptical. Be careful, it warned.
    He spun around and started out the gate. I caught up to him and grabbed his arm. “Don’t do this, Picasso. Running’s an admission of guilt. I believe you. I believe you didn’t kill him.”
    My statement must’ve struck a chord. He stopped and gripped his head in his big hands and stood there with his back to me for what seemed an eternity. Then he turned around and folded his arms across his chest, “Okay, so I don’t run. What the fuck happens now?”
    â€œI’ve got to call 911. But before I do, tell