I was cold. The Tenth Street Bridge on a November night was warmer than Room B in that old stone cop shop.
The door buzzed and Det. Harper shuffled into the room carrying files and an evidence bag that held the knife that killed Mrs. Rennor. I recognized the bulldog that followed him in.
“Juneau,” I said. The young cop watched me with a stony glare, like I was about to take a shit on the floor.
“You two have history?” Harper asked.
Juneau shrugged. “Rousted Griffin a couple weeks ago. Vagrancy.”
I gave the young bull the stink-eye. “He has to be here?”
Harper’s eyes narrowed.
“You got a problem with Constable Juneau’s presence here?”
I shrugged. “I’ll tell you who has—had a problem with him. Mrs. Rennor.”
Juneau shifted uncomfortably. The fluorescents made his face look sick.
Harper leveled his steel-cold eyes on Juneau, hand drifting toward his hip. “Mrs. Rennor lodged the police brutality complaint against you on Mr. Griffin’s behalf.”
“So?”
“Your disciplinary hearing’s next week. It’s convenient that Mrs. Rennor can’t testify.”
I laughed. “Now you’re getting it.”
Juneau laughed, too, but it was pitched too high. “That old bum doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
I shook my head. The fool. “I was behind Mrs. Rennor’s tower under some trash bags, keepin’ warm. A guy wearin’ a black mask booked around the corner, knife in his hand. He tore off the mask, wrapped it around the knife, an’ jammed it up the drainpipe.”
Juneau’s face twisted with every word I said.
“I saw you,” I said. “From them trash bags. Blood all over your hand.”
Juneau lunged across the table at me, and I scrambled for the door. Gotta hand it to Harper. Had Juneau in cuffs like a cop half his age.
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© Kevin M. Coleman, 2023
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