Paul Schmidt punched the button on the elevator in the Government Center repeatedly, as if that would make it move faster. He’d just come from a meeting with Steve Harmon, who’d told him of the testing Zehra Henning had done on the DNA sample.
Paul knew of the new test and thought it was reliable. That proved what he’d told Conway, but he also worried about Zehra.
If El-Amin wasn’t the killer, it proved the network was larger and more sophisticated than he’d imagined. What were they planning? Why’d they want El-Amin to take the fall and confess to the killing? Paul felt like he’d been right all along.
At some point, he had to tell Conway, but he wasn’t sure what reaction he’d get. Especially after the warnings.
He stepped into the elevator when it came. Before he told anything more to his boss, Paul had other things to do. He’d have to make damn sure his information was tight before he risked a firing from Conway. And Paul didn’t have much time left.
He rode the elevator to the second floor. Outside, across the plaza, he could see the hulking old pile of stones called City Hall. It reminded him of a castle topped with a bell tower. Rain splattered over the ornamental stones, giving the building a fuzzy edge.
Paul decided to take the underground tunnel through City Hall to come out closer to his office. Down two floors, he hurried past the cafeteria and turned into the basement of City Hall. As he rounded the last corner, he bumped into Lieutenant Patrick O’Brien, a Minneapolis cop.
“Hey, Father O’Brien,” Paul said. He’d worked with O’Brien on the kidnapping cases and knew the old cop had a reputation for getting more confessions out of suspects than anyone else. The name fit him well.
“Schmidtty. How’re the Feds treating you?”
“Busy. The killer of the Ahmed boy goes on trial in a week.”
“Hope they nail that son-of-a-bitch.” O’Brien slouched against the wall. Unlike the younger cops, who all shaved their heads or had short hair, he wore his gray hair longer than usual.
“I agree.” Paul didn’t want to reveal too much about the investigation.
“Only problem left is the jury. Worst damn thing we ever invented. They can take a perfectly good case and turn it into a failed wet dream. I don’t know how, but I’ve seen it done enough times.”
“Know what you mean.” He looked closely at O’Brien. “Don’t worry. We’ve got some things in the pipeline that could help us. Can’t say any more.”
“’Course not. You’re a Fed.” O’Brien snorted. He shifted from one leg to the other. “Say, Schmidtty, running into you makes me think of something I wanted to ask.”
“What?”
“You know I was one of the first cops on the crime scene in the Ahmed case?”
“No. What a coincidence.”
“I don’t do any forensic investigations, but I gotta protect the scene, keep people out of there, and generally run the show.” He looked to the side and back to Paul. “There was something odd. A guy was there.”
“Who?”
“Damned if I know. He showed up soon after the Minneapolis coppers did. Older guy, dark-blue windbreaker that said USAMRIID, or something like that, on the beck in yellow letters. Of course, I stopped him and asked for an ID. He told me you guys gave him the okay.”
“The FBI?”
“Yeah. He even showed me some kinda ID. Looks like yours, but different.”
“Get a name?”
“Naw. You know how crazy a crime scene is, especially that one with all the press and gawkers. I had my hands full just keeping the civilians out. You put the tape up, plain as day, and they fuckin’ crawl right under it right in front of me.”
“Who do you think this guy was?”
“Don’t know. That’s why I asked you if you knew what was going on.”
Paul shook his head. “He could’ve had clearance from above me.”
O’Brien looked at the floor and thought. “He walked around but didn’t wander. Know what I mean? Like he knew what he was doing and familiar with a crime scene. Wait. I did see him pick up something. Maybe a glove, like a latex glove. It was off to the side, outside the tape away from the sidewalk. Know what I mean?”
“To the south?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the direction the killer fled, according to a witness.”
O’Brien pursed his lips. “At the time, I didn’t think much about it ’cause there’s a lot of junk and trash lying around in that neighborhood anyway. I’d forgotten about him ’til I saw you.”
“Sure, thanks, Pat. So the killer wore a mask and maybe gloves. Part of a disguise? Kinda strange.”
O’Brien smiled and showed crooked teeth. He coughed with a smoker’s bark. “Well, the ID from the witness on the porch wasn’t too great. If it hadn’t been for the snitch that heard the defendant braggin’ about the killing, I don’t know—”
“I’ll check it out.”
“But, Schmidtty, we already got the guy.”
Back at his office, Paul circled his desk several times. Time was running out. Should he go to Conway with the DNA information? Would Paul be fired on the spot? No, Paul decided, he’d wait a little longer, gather more evidence, then go to Conway. One more screw-up and Paul knew he’d be working security at power plants for the rest of his life.
Zehra called him. Paul said, “I heard about the DNA test. Quite a knockout punch, Counselor.”
“Not yet. The prosecutor won’t dismiss until he’s checked things out. We still have our alibi witness at the mosque, Mr. Moalim. I think the combination of the faked DNA and the alibi should give us a great defense.”
“Zehra, remember what that means—the real killer is still out there, and someone is protecting him.”