Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

I followed. “This could be important,” I said. “I’m representing an innocent woman.”

“Sure you are.”

“I swear. Look, you’re my only lead, OK? You wouldn’t want to protect a killer, would you?”

His hand was on the door, but he stopped and turned toward me. “There was a cop asking me about Knudsen, but he never said anything about murder. Besides, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s never to get involved.”

I waited a few beats, giving him the kind of look I’d give a jury if I ever defended a death penalty case. “I don’t know about that cop. All I know is, my client’s life is at stake. Your name wouldn’t even have to come into it. I just need to get some background information on this guy. If Knudsen’s a murderer, don’t you want justice done?”

Bledsoe mulled it over. Of course, I had no reason to think Knudsen was a murderer. I was just pulling out all the stops. It worked, because he finally walked back to the bench and sat down, leaning against the wall and staring before him in a defeated way.

“Shit,” he said. “Gregory Knudsen. After all these years, I can’t believe I’m hearing that name again. Twice in two weeks, no less.”

I sat on the other end of the bench. “Why do you hate him?”

Bledsoe said nothing for a moment. “Look, I don’t know how any of this can help you. This is all ancient history, you know? I haven’t seen Greg Knudsen in ages, but back then, he was nothing but trouble—he and Bruce Schaeffer.”

“Bruce Schaeffer,” I said. “So Bruce was also friends with Knudsen?”

“Yeah, we all hung out together. Don’t tell me he’s involved, too?”

“I don’t know, but maybe.”

He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his legs, and rubbed his face, looking tired. “I can’t say I’m surprised they’re involved with a crime, but murder?”

“And you don’t recall them hanging out with anyone named Tom Garvey?”

“I don’t remember anyone at school by that name.”

“So tell me about Schaeffer and Knudsen. You said they were trouble?”

“They liked to pull stunts. They were pranksters, really. I met them in junior high. We did the usual—threw firecrackers into the girl’s room, smoke bombs in the teachers’ lounge. Stupid stuff. But I stopped hanging with them in high school, when things started getting a little too serious.”

“What do you mean?”

“Their tricks just got too wild for me. By the time we were juniors, they’d graduated to cherry bombs and M-80s. They were the twin terrors of Dundalk High. Seemed too risky to be friends with them. I planned to go to college.” He shook his head. “Glad I dropped them, too, after what happened.”

“What was that?”

“They set up something to explode in the chemistry lab. Set it on fire. There was a rumor around school that it killed a kid, but I think that was bullshit.” He closed his eyes and put his hand over them, as if shutting them weren’t enough. “Still, they could have killed someone. Made me sick. Like, how could I have been friends with these guys?”

He opened his eyes again. “They’d been suspended a few times, and that was the last straw. Both of them were expelled.”

“Was that the last time you saw them?”

Bledsoe’s jaw clenche

d. “I saw them around after that. I lived with my parents in Dundalk while attending community college. They had nowhere to go, so I’d see them at parties sometimes. I think people invited them because their past was so checkered. It fascinated them. Like a couple of circus freaks.” He snickered without humor. “Losers.”

“Do you know anything about what they’ve done since then? I’d really like to talk to Knudsen, if you know where he is.”

“I haven’t seen them since college, and I don’t ever want to see them again.”

“You seem pretty bitter.”

“I have my reasons.”

“Which are?”