Left Field (New Hope #4)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Blake

The eastern horizon turns a shade of violet as the sun creeps toward this side of the earth. The insubstantial light casts oblong shadows behind the telephone poles and parked cars lining Erie Ave. The city is unnaturally still at this hour. All night, I've been walking with no one to keep me company apart from the scattered homeless and the occasional drunkard. My thoughts are sluggish, impaired by the events and discoveries of the previous evening. My feet move without purpose, or direction.

Maybe I've committed one too many murders. I've permanently altered my brain chemistry. My soul has been dipped in so much sin, it's now blackened and decayed. I'm no better than the men I've killed.

Perhaps that's why my steps brought me to the 39th District Precinct. My mind might be frayed, my emotions might be dampened, but my body knows where it belongs.

I enter the brick building, approaching the counter where a desk officer is stationed. She's wearing the blue uniform, but she doesn't carry a gun. Her eyes widen when she notices the state of me. I lift my hands—coated in my own blood, as well as Cole's—to either side of my head, showing her I'm not holding a weapon.

"My name is Blake Sterling. I attempted to murder someone approximately twelve hours ago," I state, my tone flat. I recall Cole's injuries and the force behind my strikes, then amend my confession. "It's possible I did murder him."

She rises from her seat, her fingers drifting to the taser on her belt. "Let me page an officer. Don't move."

"Yes, ma'am."

She speaks into the radio attached to her vest. "Any available officer, report to the front desk. We have a man admitting to a possible 25-02."

An electronic crackle answers her. "10-4. Hang tight."

I press each finger into my thumbs, counting them off. One, two, three, four. One, two—

"Blake?"

My gaze shifts to the darkened corridor on the right side of the counter. A short, bald man with brown eyes steps toward me. He's a detective, so he doesn't wear a uniform. Instead, he sports khakis and a dress shirt, the buttons straining against his protruding belly. His name is Perry Ottowald, and he was a beat cop alongside my father. They graduated Academy together.

Otto's beady eyes travel over my condition. "Are you injured?"

"He said he tried to kill someone," the desk officer informs him, her gaze shifting nervously between the two of us.

"Jesus," Otto curses, his expression reeking disbelief. He waves his hand, beckoning me forward. "Come on. We can talk in my office."

I don't move. "You're not going to cuff me?"

"Do you pose a threat to yourself or anyone else?" he asks.

Not currently. "No."

"Then, I'm not going to put you in handcuffs," he states, releasing a deep breath. He rubs a thick palm over the back of his head. "For Christ's sake, I was at the hospital the day you were born."

Again, he gestures for me to follow, so I do. I trail behind him, entering the corridor. We pass a few closed doors before coming to one that has been left open. 'Detective Ottowald' is engraved on a bronze placard nailed to the wood. Otto claims a seat behind his cluttered desk, the blinds drawn behind him. I sink into a chair on the other side, resting my hands in my lap. I stare at a paper plate on his desk, trying to discern what kind of pastry he had for breakfast.

"Tell me what happened," he demands.

"Around five o'clock yesterday evening, I assaulted Cole Calloway," I begin, stating the facts like I'm reading them from a script. "The attack was unprovoked and my intention was to kill him, but I was interrupted. I had the wherewithal to put him in my truck, and instructed his two daughters to drive him to the hospital."