Page 60 of The Murder Between Us
“At John’s house? John Hayes’s house?”
“Yeah. He told me to come over.”
“He told you to—” Noah clamped his mouth shut. “You couldn’t even remember his name five minutes ago. Now you’re telling me John had you over to his house last night.”
“He did. He saw how I was after Jessie was killed, and after the autopsy came back. I couldn’t look at that stuff. Jesus, I loved her!” He curled forward, burying his head in his cuffed hands.
Noah, I want to talk to you about Deputy Garrett. I’m worried about him. Let’s meet tomorrow to discuss reassigning him.Noah closed his eyes. They’d never had that meeting. “What did you do at John’s house?”
“Nothing. Just talked to him some. Mostly he sat with me. Let me…” He took a shuddering, deep breath. Gnawed on the corner of his lip. “He gave me something to drink in his bar downstairs. I sat on one of the barstools. When I left, I gave his wife a hug and thanked her for feeding me. She warmed up some leftovers for me. I was in the kitchen when she did.”
Noah nodded. Convenient. A nice, tidy explanation for why his prints were at the scene and in all the pertinent places. The kind of explanation a cop would give. “And the blood on your shirt when we arrested you? We’re testing it now. Whose will we find?”
“Mine.” Garrett shook his head. “I cut myself when I punched out my mirror. As you know.” He nodded to the evidence photos layered on the table. “And when I crashed my truck.”
“Why did you crash your truck? And set it on fire?”
“I didn’t set it on fire. Fucking hoses leaked. Fire started after the crash. I was already in the corn by the time it went up.”
“Why did you punch out your mirror?” Noah pulled the photo of Jessie on the shattered glass back on top of the evidence pile. “I thought you loved her.”
Garrett looked away.
“Tell me about Kimberly Foster. How did you meet her?”
Garrett frowned. “I’ve never met Kimberly in my life.”
“Andy. Tell me about Kimberly.”
Andy shook his head. He looked away.
Noah waited. He looked at the one-way mirror. He could almost picture Cole nodding at him.
He pulled out another photo from his stack and laid it in front of Andy. “Then tell me about Monica Venneslund.”
Garrett froze. His eyes darted over Monica’s photo. She was beautiful, Iowan sunshine and a big midwestern smile. Freckles danced over her nose and cheeks, and her blonde hair was pulled into two braids that framed her face. A locket hung in the hollow of her throat.
Garrett shook his head.
“You had a torn-up photo of her in your nightstand.”
He kept shaking his head.
“You were at Iowa State together.” No reaction. “Why do you have her photo, Andy? What did she mean to you?”
Nothing.
“Why did you tear up Monica’s picture?”
Garrett’s eyes squeezed closed. He rocked back and forth, breathing in rapid puffs of air.
“Where were you the night Monica died six years ago? Did you have anything to do with her death?”
“Oh, God, stop,” Garrett pleaded. “Stop, stop, stop.”
“Stop what? Stop what, Andy?”
“This was all back then. It was all back then. It was all supposed to stay back then.”
