Matters of Doubt by Warren C Easley Page B

me exactly what happened. Start when you arrived at the clinic this morning.”
    Picasso went back over the events. He hadn’t seen the bike messenger arrive or leave. He was busy sketching. He didn’t know much about Milo either, except that he was a recovering heroin addict. And no, he didn’t think anyone had seen him leave for Conyers’ place on his bike, and he sure as hell hadn’t taken any murder weapons with him.
    When he finished, he asked, “What’s going to happen when they come, the cops?”
    â€œThey’ll take preliminary statements here from both of us, then we’ll go downtown to make it official. They’ll take you in a squad car. They’ll probably let me drive down.”
    â€œWhat about my bike?”
    I started to tell him not to worry about it, but caught myself, realizing his bike was a major possession. “They’ll probably impound it as evidence. If not, I’ll put it in my trunk. In either case, you’ll get it back. Now listen, Picasso, tell them exactly what happened, just like you told me. I’ll join you as soon as I can. If they ask you something you’re unsure of, do not speculate, and if they start asking you about anything other than what happened this morning, don’t answer. Tell them you’d rather discuss it first with me. Got that?”
    He nodded. “Are you still my lawyer?”
    I almost said not for long, but opted to stay optimistic. “Good question. I am unless they charge you with something. If that happens, I’ll have to bow out since I’m a witness. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” I looked around the yard and added, “I’m going to take a quick look for the murder weapon. Stay here, you’re still dripping.”
    I didn’t see anything that could have been used to kill Conyers, and that bothered me. But, I went ahead and placed the 911 call. When I snapped my cell shut, Picasso looked down at his hands as if he were seeing the blood for the first time. He said, “Should I wash this shit off?”
    â€œNo. You can explain why the blood’s there. You had to pull him out of the pool. You couldn’t hide it anyway.”
    He shook his head and clenched his jaw. For a young homeless man like Picasso, the cops were to be feared even in the best of times. And this wasn’t the best of times. He said, “I’m totally screwed. The cops are gonna be all over me.” He held his hands in front of his face. “Shit, look at me!”
    â€œIf you didn’t kill him, you have nothing to worry about,” I shot back, but I didn’t believe that for a moment. Picasso had a strong motive that was public knowledge, and with Conyers’ blood literally on his hands, I knew his chances as well as he did, maybe even better. The criminal justice system was genetically programmed to rush to judgment in open and shut cases, and taking a menacing homeless man off the street rated bonus points.
    But running was no answer, either. Hell, people back at the clinic knew he’d come here. That’s when it hit me—this was all too convenient. I began to smell a frame-up. Not your garden variety frame, either. Someone had planned this with considerable care.
    We heard the first whoop whoop of sirens in the distance. Picasso shook his head, looked at me and said, “I’m so screwed.”
    The sirens grew louder. I searched his eyes, a final gut check. They were a mix of fear and accusation. Flight to him probably seemed like his only chance, and I’d talked him out of it.
    I said, “You’re innocent , Picasso. When the cops get here, act like it.” Then I heard myself add, “And don’t worry, I’ll get you out of this.”
    Who was I kidding?

Chapter Nine
    A patrol car screeched to a halt down in the street, followed by an ambulance. The uniformed officers quickly sent the ambulance back and called