Mitch’s wariness of Taggart exceeded his concern about the more imposing Mortonson. The lieutenant’s precisely trimmed hair, his glass- smooth shave, his perfect veneered teeth, his spotless white sneakers suggested that he adopted casual dress and a relaxed demeanor to mislead and to put at ease the suspects unfortunate enough to come under his scrutiny.
The detectives first interviewed Mitch in tandem. Later, Taggart had returned alone, supposedly to have Mitch “refine” something he had said earlier. In fact, the lieutenant repeated every question he and Mortonson had asked before, perhaps anticipating contradictions between Mitch’s answers and those that he had given previously.
Ostensibly, Mitch was a witness. To a cop, however, when no killer had been identified, every witness also counted as a suspect.
He had no reason to kill a stranger walking a dog. Even if they were crazy enough to think he might have done so, they would have to believe that Iggy was his accomplice; clearly Iggy did not interest them.
More likely, though they knew he’d had no role in the shooting, their instinct told them that he was concealing something.
Now here came Taggart yet again, his sneakers so white that they appeared to be radiant.
As the lieutenant approached, Mitch rose to his feet, wary and sick with worry, but trying to appear merely weary and impatient.
Detective Taggart sported an island tan to match his Hawaiian shirt. By contrast with his bronze face, his teeth were as white as an arctic landscape.
“I’m sorry for all this inconvenience, Mr. Rafferty. But I have just a couple more questions, and then you’re free to go.”
Mitch could have replied with a shrug, a nod. But he thought that silence might seem peculiar, that a man with nothing to hide would be forthcoming.
Following an unfortunate hesitation long enough to suggest calculation, he said, “I’m not complaining, Lieutenant. It could just as easily have been me who was shot. I’m thankful to be alive.”
The detective strove for a casual demeanor, but he had eyes like those of a predatory bird, hawk-sharp and eagle-bold. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, if it was a random shooting…”
“We don’t know that it was,” said Taggart. “In fact, the evidence points to cold calculation. One shot, perfectly placed.”
“Can’t a crazy with a gun be a skilled shooter?”
“Absolutely. But crazies usually want to rack up as big a score as possible. A psychopath with a rifle would have popped you, too. This guy knew exactly who he wanted to shoot.”
Irrationally, Mitch felt some responsibility for the death. This murder had been committed to ensure that he would take the kidnapper seriously and would not seek police assistance.
Perhaps the detective had caught the scent of this unearned but persistent guilt.
Glancing toward the cadaver across the street, around which the CSI team still worked, Mitch said, “Who’s the victim?”
“We don’t know yet. No ID on him. No wallet. Don’t you think that’s peculiar?”
“Going out just to walk the dog, you don’t need a wallet.”
“It’s a habit with the average guy,” Taggart said. “Even if he’s washing the car in the driveway, he has his wallet.”
“How will you identify him?”
“There’s no license on the dog’s collar. But that’s almost a show-quality golden, so she might have a microchip ID implant. As soon as we get a scanner, we’ll check.”
Having been moved to this side of the street, tied to a mailbox post, the golden retriever rested in shade, graciously receiving the attention of a steady procession of admirers.
Taggart smiled. “Goldens are the best. Had one as a kid. Loved that dog.”
His attention returned to Mitch. His smile remained in place, but the quality of it changed. “Those questions I mentioned. Were you in the military, Mr. Rafferty?”
“Military? No. I was a mower jockey for another company, took some horticulture classes, and set up my own business a year out of high school.”
“I figured you might be ex-military, the way gunfire didn’t faze you.”
“Oh, it fazed me,” Mitch assured him.
Taggart’s direct gaze was intended to intimidate.
As if Mitch’s eyes were clear lenses through which his thoughts were revealed like microbes under a microscope, he felt compelled to avoid the detective’s stare, but sensed that he dared not.
“You hear a rifle,” Taggart said, “see a man shot, yet you hurry across the street, into the line of fire.”
“I didn’t know he was dead. Might’ve been something I could do for him.”
“That’s commendable. Most people would scramble for cover.”
“Hey, I’m no hero. My instincts just shoved aside my common sense.”
“Maybe that’s what a hero is—someone who instinctively does the right thing.”
Mitch dared to look away from Taggart, hoping that his evasion, in this context, would be interpreted as humility. “I was stupid, Lieutenant, not brave. I didn’t stop to think I might be in danger.”
“What—you thought he’d been shot accidentally?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t think anything. I didn’t think, I just reacted.”
“But you really didn’t feel like you were in danger?”
“No.”
“You didn’t realize it even when you saw his head wound?”
“Maybe a little. Mostly I was sickened.”
The questions came too fast. Mitch felt off balance. He might unwittingly reveal that he knew why the dogwalker had been killed.
With a buzz of busy wings, the bumblebee returned. It had no interest in Taggart, but hovered near Mitch’s face, as if bearing witness to his testimony.
“You saw the head wound,” Taggart continued, “but you still didn’t scramble for cover.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I guess I figured if somebody hadn’t shot me by then, they weren’t going to shoot me.”
“So you still didn’t feel in danger.”
