Page 97 of Bossman

“We’ve had two psychiatrists evaluate him. Both say he’s capable of knowing right from wrong. He has obvious mental health issues, but he meets the standard of fit for trial.”

“He confessed?”

“Yes. It’s not perfect—we need to piece together twelve hours of interrogation with one- and two-word answers. But it should stick.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“With the victim’s testimony, he’s going down for first-degree assault or attempted murder on the waitress. For Ms. Morris’s case, the DA says there’s enough physical evidence to put him away without the confession. He was found with the knife on his person, and we interviewed the workers at the shelter. A few had seen him using the pocketknife to cut his food and remembered it. Apparently, it was an antique—a rare officer’s edition made of walnut.”

Walnut.

I froze. “Did it have initials on it?”

“Why, yes. It did. How did you know?”

I ignored her question, needing my own answered immediately. My heart was beating a thousand miles an hour. It felt like my ribcage was going to crack and explode from the pressure.

Detective Balsamo stared at me, her brows drawn. She’d get her explanation after I got my answer. I needed an answer.

“What initials were on it?” I asked.

Seeming to sense my urgency, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her notepad. She flipped through the pages for a while, and I stood completely still. Every muscle in my body had locked.

Eventually, she stopped and pointed to her pad. “The initials were S.E.”

Chapter 31

CHASE — SEVEN YEARS AGO

Twenty-seven stitches in his head. Peyton held Eddie’s hand the entire time, even though I wasn’t allowed within two feet. Somehow she’d managed to gain access to the no-people zone Eddie surrounded himself with like an invisible shield.

Looking over at her, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. She was beautiful and soft, sweet and inviting. What man in his right mind would reject her touch?

The ER doc who’d sewed up Eddie’s head asked to speak to me outside the exam room.

“He’s got a collection of fresh scars on his face and head,” he told me as we stepped into the hall. “This one was definitely made with a blade. The jagged skin slice is from a serrated edge. Probably a kitchen knife, if I had to guess. If the slash had been a quarter-inch to the right, he wouldn’t have an eye right now.”

I looked back into the room. Eddie’s stitches ran from his forehead down to his chin. His right eye was swollen shut from the beating he’d taken again last night.

“Eddie doesn’t talk much,” I explained. “But we think it’s a group of teenagers. Apparently it’s a game they play. They earn points for damage they cause to homeless people.”

“I heard about that on the news. Makes me scared for the future of our society.” The doctor shook his head. “Has he gone to the police?”

“Peyton’s tried to get him to. And she’s gone herself a few times—tried to file reports on his behalf. They don’t seem to care.”

“Can you get him into a shelter?”

“He goes for meals. That’s how Peyton met him. She volunteers at the place he usually eats. But he won’t stay the night. When the tables for dinner are all full, he takes his food and eats sitting in the corner, away from the people. Beds in the shelter are too close together for him to handle. Doesn’t like people too close.”

“He’s going to get killed out there if this keeps up. He needs to protect himself at least. He doesn’t have any defensive wounds on his hands and arms.”

“He’s not protecting himself?”

“Doesn’t look that way. He’s either the aggressor, or he’s cowering in the corner while someone kicks him in the head repeatedly.”

“He’s definitely not the aggressor.”

“Then you might want to try to talk to him about defending himself. Or he’ll wind up with a cracked skull.”