Blowout

leave now?”
    No one, Savich thought, bucked Sherlock when she used that sweet iron voice.
    Officer Biggs studied Savich for a moment. “You heading this investigation, Agent Savich?”
    “The FBI is heading it, Officer Biggs.”
    “So the marshal of the Supreme Court Police isn’t coordinating everything?”
    How could Biggs ever have thought that, Savich wondered. “Marshal Alice Halpern and her people will be involved, certainly. You’re really a lucky man, Officer Biggs. One of your friends, Officer Clendenning, wondered about you, and went looking. The man who struck you down had thrown a tarp over you, left you right there beside the wall.”
    “And nobody realized when he came in that he wasn’t me.”
    Savich said, “No, but we’re still speaking to all of the officers on that shift. Maybe someone noticed something, felt something wasn’t right. By the time the alarm was raised, the killer was gone.
    “All right now, Officer Biggs.” Savich leaned close to his gray face, where so much pain and rage flickered in his faded eyes. “I need you to think back to this past week, particularly yesterday. Did you notice anyone who seemed to be hanging around, watching, waiting, perhaps leaving, then returning, anyone who didn’t look right, who gave you pause?”
    Officer Biggs closed his eyes. Slowly, he shook his head. “We’ve got a residential neighborhood not a block behind us, and there are people hanging around all the time. I didn’t notice anyone in particular, and they’d be more noticeable at night when I’m on duty.”
    “I want you to think about this after we leave. If you recall anything, call us. Now, sir, it’s a quarter of twelve last night. You haven’t had a smoke for two hours. You’re antsy, hurting. You want to skip this break since you’re trying to stop, but you had an argument with your wife, and it’s eating at you. You don’t want to go outside because it’s cold and beginning to snow, but you’ve got to have that cigarette. Tell us exactly what you did.”
    “How did you know about that fight with my wife?”
    “She told us,” Sherlock said. “She’s really worried about you. She wants you to forgive her.”
    Those pain-faded eyes burned a bit. “It was about our oldest son. It doesn’t seem like much now. But she really made me mad,” said Officer Biggs. “Okay, so, I have my area, right there on the first floor, through the Great Hall and into the courtroom. I keep watch, always listen for any noise that shouldn’t be there, make my rounds, watch and listen. Dear God, Justice Califano is dead, he’s dead, such a nice man, and it’s all my fault.”
    Sherlock put her hand on his forearm again and left it there. “Did you see Justice Califano come in?”
    “No, but I heard some of the guys talking. Justice Califano was a regular, coming in at all hours of the evening. It was kind of a joke, you know? We’d lay bets on when he’d come in, laugh about fights with his old lady, about her driving him off.”
    “But you have no idea why he came in last night?”
    “A couple of the guys were talking—something Justice Califano said at the entrance, something about having a lot to think about. But no one knew for sure. Jerry Quincy thought it could be about that death penalty case they were hearing on Tuesday. That sixteen-year-old kid killing three people. Of course he isn’t sixteen now, he’s closer to thirty. Jerry saw him head up to the library. That was one of his favorite places. It’s really beautiful up there, all those arches, all those books.”
    Savich paused when Officer Biggs closed his eyes, licked his dry lips. He watched Sherlock lightly stroke the man’s forearm, soothing him.
    “Anyway, it was about a quarter of twelve, like you said, Agent Savich, and I was ready to chew off my elbows I wanted a smoke so bad. So I tell my supervisor, that’s Mrs. Parks, and she tells me to step out and do the deed. I get my coat and gloves out of the locker—we’re down in the basement, you know?”
    “Yes, we know.”
    “And I went out from there, out the side door that’s next to the information desk. There’s lots of construction going on, and it looked like an unfinished Hollywood set out there, what with the piles of raw wood, the row of Porta Potties, temporary construction buildings, all covered with a sprinkling of white. It was pretty, but cold, real cold. Not much wind, which was good. I lit up. Ah—you can’t imagine how