Mystic River

People were stupid. They killed each other over the dumbest things and then they hung around hoping to get caught, walked into court pleading not guilty after giving some cop a four-page, signed confession. It was knowing how stupid they really were that was a cop's best weapon. Let them talk. Always. Let them explain. Let them unload their guilt as you plied them with coffee and the tape recorder reels spun.

And when they asked for a lawyer? and the average citizen almost always asked? you frowned and asked if they were sure that's what they wanted and let a very unfriendly vibe fill the room until they decided that they'd really like all three of you to be friends, so maybe they'd talk a bit more before they brought that lawyer down here and spoiled the mood.

Dave didn't ask for a lawyer, though. Not once. He sat in the chair that bucked when you leaned too far back in it, and he looked hungover and annoyed and pissed at Sean, in particular, but he didn't look scared and he didn't look nervous, and Sean could tell it was beginning to get to Whitey.

"Look, Mr. Boyle," Whitey said, "we know you left McGills before you said you did. We know you showed up a half-hour later in the parking lot of the Last Drop around the same time the Marcus girl left. And we sure as shit know you didn't get that swollen hand by banging it off a wall making a pool shot."

Dave groaned. He said, "How about a Sprite, something like that?"

"In a minute," Whitey said for the fourth time in the half an hour they'd been in here. "Tell us what really happened that night, Mr. Boyle."

"I already did."

"You lied."

Dave shrugged. "Your opinion."

"No," Whitey said. "Fact. You lied about leaving McGills. The fucking clock was stopped, Mr. Boyle, five minutes before you claim to have left."

"Five whole minutes?"

"You think this is funny?"

Dave leaned back a bit in the chair and Sean waited to hear the telltale crack it emitted before it would buckle, but it didn't, Dave pushing it to the edge, but not going any further.

"No, Sergeant, I don't think it's funny. I'm tired. I'm hungover. And my car was not only stolen but now you're telling me you won't release it to me. You say I left McGills five minutes before I said I did?"

"At least."

"Fine. I'll give you that. Maybe I did. I don't look at my watch as much as you guys apparently do. So if you say I left McGills at ten of one instead of five of one, I say, okay. Maybe I did. Oops. But that's it. I went home right after that. I didn't go to any other bar."

"You were seen in the parking lot of? "

"No," Dave said. "A Honda with a dented quarter panel was seen. Right? You know how many Hondas there are in this city? Come on, man."

"How many with dents, though, Mr. Boyle, in the same place as yours?"

Dave shrugged. "A bunch, I bet."

Whitey looked at Sean and Sean could feel that they were losing. Dave was right? they could probably find twenty Hondas with dented quarter panels on the passenger side. Twenty, easy. And if Dave could throw that at them, then his lawyer would come up with a lot more.

Whitey came around the back of Dave's chair and said, "Tell us how the blood got in your car."

"What blood?"

"The blood we found in your front seat. Let's start there."

Dave said, "How about that Sprite, Sean?"

Sean said, "Sure."

Dave smiled. "I get it. You're a good cop. How about a meatball sub while you're at it?"

Sean, half out of his chair, sat back down. "Ain't your bitch, Dave. Looks like you'll have to wait awhile."

"You're somebody's bitch, though. Aren't you, Sean?" There was a crazy leer in his eyes when he said it, a preening cockiness, and Sean started thinking maybe Whitey was right. Sean wondered if his father, seeing this Dave Boyle, would have the same opinion of him as he'd had last night.

Sean said, "The blood on your front seat, Dave. Answer the sergeant."

Dave looked back up at Whitey. "We got a chain-link fence in our backyard. You know the kind, with the links curling inward at the top? I was doing yard work the other day. My landlord's old. I do it, he keeps the rent reasonable. So I'm cutting away these bamboo-looking things he's got back there? "

Whitey sighed, but Dave didn't seem to notice.

"? and I slip. I got this electric hedge trimmer in my hand, and I don't want to drop it, so when I slip, I fall into the chain-link fence and I slice myself against it." He patted his rib cage. "Right here. It wasn't bad, but it bled like hell. Like ten minutes later? I gotta go pick up my son at Little League practice. It was probably still bleeding, I got into the seat. That's the best I can figure it."

Whitey said, "So that was your blood in the front seat?"

"Like I said? best I can figure it."

"And what blood type are you?"

"B negative."

Whitey gave him a broad grin as he came back around the chair, perched on the edge of the table. "Funny. That's the exact type we found in the front seat."

Dave held up his hands. "Well, there you go."

Whitey mimicked Dave's hands. "Not quite. Care to explain the blood in the trunk? That blood wasn't B negative."

"I don't know anything about any blood in my trunk."

Whitey chuckled. "No idea how a good half pint of blood got in the trunk of your car?"

"No, I don't," Dave said.

Whitey leaned in, patted Dave's shoulder. "I don't mind telling you, Mr. Boyle, that this is not the avenue you want to take. You claim in court that you don't know how someone else's blood got in your car, how's that going to look?"

"Fine, I suppose."

"How do you figure?"

Dave leaned back again and Whitey's hand fell from his shoulder. "You filled out the report, Sergeant."

"What report?" Whitey said.

Sean saw it coming and thought, Oh, shit, he's got us.

"The stolen car report," Dave said.

"So?"

"So," Dave said, "the car wasn't in my possession last night. I don't know what the car thieves used it for, but maybe you want to find out, because it sounds like they were up to no good."

For a long thirty seconds, Whitey sat completely still, and Sean could feel it dawning on him? he'd gotten too smart and he'd fucked himself. Just about anything they found in that car would be thrown out in court because Dave's lawyer could claim the car thieves had put it there.

"The blood was old, Mr. Boyle. Older than a few hours."