My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 29

29

DOWNTOWN, THE OFFICERS AGAIN led me up the concrete ramp into the holding area. And again, as the heavy metal door slammed shut behind me, a chill squiggled up my spine. The same desk sergeant shoved the same telephone in my direction, removed the cuffs, and repeated the same line, "You only get one, so you better make it a good one."

I needed to let Scott know where I was, but doubted he'd be at his office on a Sunday afternoon, so I called Sappy. I caught him walking out the door, explained what was going on, and asked him for two favors. The first was to post a note on the back door of the studio canceling rehearsal; the second being to find Scott McGillikin and let him know I was again in police custody and in dire need of his immediate presence.

Parked in a hot room still wearing the layers of wet clothes, I became nauseous. I peeled off the jacket, two shirts, and the insulated underwear leaving them in a pile on the floor. Then waited.

When Scott arrived hours later, I blurted out, "I have great news!" the instant he entered.

He raised his hand to stop me and held it there until the escort had gone, then leaned close. "What have you got?"

"You're not going to believe this, but Ashleigh is alive! I found someone who saw her last Monday."

Scott set his briefcase on the table and stared at me. "You told the police?"

"Not yet."

"Then don't. Let me handle this. I'll take it directly to the D.A. There's no need for Sam Jones and his buffoons to even know about it. You understand?"

"But if Jones knew Ashleigh was alive, I'd be off the hook."

The door swung open and Detective Jones stepped into the room.

"Keep you mouth shut. Let me handle this," Scott muttered dragging his briefcase across the steel table to his place next to me.

Jones stepped over a chair and sat directly across from me dropping a stack of papers in front of him. He set a cassette recorder on the table between us and pressed the "record" button.

"Mr. Baimbridge," he started. "Tell us again what you did after you went back to the Matthews house that Sunday night in question."

I leaned forward to answer, but Scott quickly broke in squeezing my shoulder hard. "Look, Jones," he said. "For starters, turn that damned tape recorder off. Then let's you and me step out into the hallway and discuss whatever it is you think you have that gives you the right to drag my client in here in such a barbaric fashion." The muscles in Jones's jaw pulsed. He snapped the recorder off and rose from his seat.

Scott opened his briefcase and removed a legal pad sliding it to me. "I want you to write down whatever information you think you have. And don't leave out any details. We'll go over it after I finish with Detective Jones." He closed the briefcase, then followed Sam out.

I didn't have a pen, so I opened his briefcase and rummaged around in it to find one. As I shoved things aside, I came across a photo of a man on the beach with his arms around three very attractive young girls in swimsuits. The man had dark sunglasses, a mustache, thick eyebrows, and exquisite taste in women. Another client, I guessed.

Finding a mechanical pencil inside a compartment, I began writing out what had happened on the trip. The bicycle. The rental boat. And what Darla had told me.

As I detailed the new information I'd come across, I could hear loud voices outside the door, but couldn't make out what they were saying.

"OKAY, JONES," SCOTT SAID magnifying his exasperation. "Just what the hell is it that you supposedly have this time?"

"Your boy certainly does get around, Counselor."

"Your point is?" Scott held his gaze.

"The SBI report came back and—no surprise here—the semen in Ashleigh Matthews' bed belongs to Richard Baimbridge." Jones flashed a triumphant smile.

"I presume you have a copy of that report for me. If you don't—" Without looking down, Sam whipped out a copy and held it out for Scott. Taking it, Scott stepped closer to Jones and lowered his voice to an almost threatening tone. "You think this is sufficient to haul Mr. Baimbridge back down here for your amusement? I don't think so. And I remind you that my client told you—on two occasions—that he passed out. And we both know that semen can easily be extracted from an unconscious man."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, McGillikin. You forgetting the broken fingernail belonging to Ms. Matthews that had your client's skin and blood attached to it?" Sam whipped out a second set of papers. "I have him nailed and you know it."

Scott snatched them out of his hand. "You're mishandling my client and I'm going to see to it that it comes back and bites you squarely in that fat ass of yours, Detective."

Jones drew his thick eyebrows together and sighed. "If you're through insulting me, Mr. McGillikin, I'm just dying to hear your explanation for this." He waved a third set of papers in the air.

"What is it?"

"We found your client's blood type and tire tracks at yet another murder scene." Jones jammed a third set of copies against Scott's chest. "Like I said, your boy certainly does get around. Don't he?"

WHEN SCOTT RETURNED, he sat across the table from me, loosened his tie, and began scanning what looked to be official documents.

I slid the notepad toward him. "I wrote it all down. Everything."

"Good," Scott mumbled, clearly distracted by the papers he held.

"So, what's Jones so worked up about?"

"The semen found in Ashleigh's bed belongs to you."

"No way!" I exclaimed jumping to my feet. "That's impossible! He's lying. I did not have sex with that woman!"

Scott shushed me without looking up. "Careful. These walls have ears. I reminded Jones that you were passed out and that extracting semen from an unconscious man is not a complicated procedure."

"What did he say?"

Scott looked up from the papers. "He said they found your tire tracks and blood at another murder scene."

"What murder scene?"

Scott looked back at the papers in his hand. "Does Lake Waccamaw ring a bell?"