Last Chance for Glory Read Free Page B

scar.”
    Corelli looks up in surprise. “Your suspect has a scar. How are you gonna get an ID with that?”
    “It’s not my fault, Lou. That’s just the way it came up. Look, all I wanna do is take it one more step. I wanna get the witness to look at the perp’s photo. See what she says and go on from there.”
    Corelli shakes his head. “I’m probably crazy, but here’s what I want you to do. First, get a felt pen and put a scar on every photo. Under the eye, like the perp’s scar. Then glue the photos to a piece of poster board—flatten ’em real good—and photocopy the whole thing. That’ll take care of the problem with the film. Remember, no matter what, don’t let the witness see the original. If she can’t make an ID off the copy, you let the suspect go. Maybe you’ll get lucky in the lab.”
    “You want me to bury the original, Lou? Like it doesn’t exist?”
    “Are you kidding me? We’re tryin’ to show good faith here. We’re tryin’ to show that we’re tryin’ to respect this scumbag’s civil rights. Tag it and turn it in.”
    9:15 PM
    Melody Mitchell, upon opening the door, is relieved to find a smiling Tommy Brannigan standing in the hallway. She is relieved to find him alone. Detective Kosinski reminded her of those construction workers who once upon a time (and not that long ago) verbalized their most obscene fantasies as she walked down the street. By contrast, Detective Brannigan, with his quick broad smile and mop of unruly hair, looks almost boyish. He looks like an overgrown elf.
    “Come in, Detective. Please.”
    “Thanks. I’m not keeping you up, am I?” Brannigan stops to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “So, this is the famous Roscoe. Without Roscoe’s bladder, where would the criminal justice system be?”
    Melody finds herself returning the detective’s smile. How can she do otherwise? His good humor is infectious, even though he’s only trying to put her mind at ease.
    “Would you like a cup of coffee, Detective?”
    “As a matter of fact, I would. And if you don’t mind, we can use the kitchen table to set up the photo array.”
    “Is that what it’s called? A photo array?”
    “That’s how the lawyers say it.”
    Melody sits Brannigan down and turns to the cabinet above her sink for cups and saucers. “How does it work? This photo array?”
    “What I’ve done, Ms. Mitchell, is arrange eighteen photos of nine individuals on a single sheet of paper. All you have to do is look them over and tell me if you see the man you saw on the night of the murder. Believe me, it’s a lot easier than going through hundreds and hundreds of mug shots.”
    “Does that mean you know who the killer is?” Melody comes back to the table, her hands filled with cups and saucers, spoons and napkins. She notes Detective Brannigan’s concentration. Whatever he’s thinking, she decides, he wants to make sure he gets it right.
    “I guess that’s obvious enough, but I have to inform you that the man in question is only a suspect. He hasn’t been arrested yet. A lot depends on your identification. If you can make an identification. I don’t want to prejudice you.”
    Melody pours the coffee, sets sugar and milk on the table, sits down. “You seem to be treading on water, Detective.”
    “It’s the courts, Ms. Mitchell.” Brannigan shrugs his shoulders, sighs. “If the judge throws out the photo array, he’ll most likely throw out any further identification you make. In fact, he’ll probably throw you out altogether. Believe me, the suspect’s attorney will question you closely on what we do here tonight.”
    “I understand.” The thought of being cross-examined in an open courtroom sobers Melody up. What, she thinks, will I do if there are reporters present? Or if it’s televised?
    “Would you explain the procedure, please?”
    “I’m going to set the photo array down in front of you. I want you to look at it for a full minute before you say anything. Take as