Victims by Collin Wilcox Read Free Book Online

been told, didn’t know whether the charge had been child stealing or homicide. I wondered whether Friedman knew, whether he’d read the arresting officer’s report, and the booking sergeant’s statement. Knowing Friedman, I doubted it. He hated paperwork, hated to read reports.
    “Was your wife standing by?” Friedman asked. “In case of trouble?”
    Kramer looked at Friedman for a moment, his expression calm, coldly calculating. Then he asked, “Where’s my son? Where’s John?”
    “He was taken to the Youth Guidance Center,” I answered. “Just about now, his grandfather will be picking him up.”
    “His grandfather.” He said it as if he were pronouncing an obscenity.
    “Why’d you do it, Mr. Kramer?” I asked. “Will you tell us?”
    He transferred his angry gaze to me. “It should be obvious why I did it. I did it because Alexander Guest and his daughter cheated me out of my son. So I took matters into my own hands.”
    “You took your son away from your father-in-law’s house,” Friedman said. “And when the bodyguard Guest hired tried to interfere, you shot him. Is that the way it happened?”
    The suspect blinked. “I—what?” His eyes were fierce, locked with Friedman’s. “What?”
    “You shot him,” Friedman said. “You shot him and killed him.”
    A spasm tugged at Kramer’s face. His eyes momentarily faltered; his mouth twitched at the corners. Was it fear? Guilt? Both?
    Friedman and I silently watched the suspect as he struggled for self-control, struggled to conceal the fear that tore at his face as comprehension dawned.
    “Those shots …” he mused. “It was those shots that I heard. That’s why I’m here, why I was arrested.”
    He’d answered my question, then. Without doubt, he’d been charged with child stealing, the lesser offense. Good: Friedman and I had surprise on our side.
    “You’re here,” I said, “because, officially, you’re being held as a material witness to the murder of Charles Quade.”
    “But that could change,” Friedman said softly, on cue. “Depending on what you tell us, or don’t tell us, the D. A. could very easily change the charge to murder. So, for you, the next few minutes could be very important. A matter of life and death, in fact.”
    Also on cue, I turned to Friedman. “He could probably cop second degree murder, though. That’s assuming that Quade fired at him.”
    Friedman nodded judiciously. “That’s true.” He turned to Kramer. “You could plead self-defense. As Frank says, the evidence is in your favor. Especially if Quade fired first.”
    “If you’d like,” I said, “We’ll talk to the D.A. about it, see what he says.”
    “Just tell us how it went,” Friedman urged. “Give it to us from the top. Tell the truth, and you’ll be doing yourself a big favor.”
    “You’ll be doing the D.A. a favor, too,” I said. “And he doesn’t forget favors. Believe me. You can make him look good. Very good. And he won’t forget it.”
    As we went through the standard routine, I watched Kramer’s expression change. It was the usual range of interrogation room emotions: amazement, real or fake, followed by indignation, real or faked, followed by transparent apprehension, intended to convey his fear that, despite his innocence, we were railroading him onto death row.
    But Kramer was cooler than most. He waited for us to finish our routine. Then, speaking in a low, distinct voice, he said, “I didn’t shoot anyone—last night, or ever. I don’t have a gun. You—you’re framing me. You’ve talked to Guest. He’s done this—framed me.”
    “I talked to Guest,” I said, nodding. “That’s true. And, yes, you’re right. He accused you of murdering Charles Quade.”
    Kramer licked his lips. “Charles Quade is the bodyguard. Is, is that right?”
    “He was the bodyguard,” I said softly. “He’s dead now. Remember?”
    “But, Christ, I—”
    “Why don’t you tell us what happened last night?”