Twisted

Spoda, flipping through a battered copy of the sheriff’s department Procedure Manual. The knife was just where Boz’d left it.
    Thank you, Lord in heaven . . .
    Boz looked at Ed. Silence. Ed recovered first. “I suppose you’re wondering why this suspect’s here, Agent Bigelow. I guess there was a mix-up, don’t you think, Boz? Wasn’t the Commonwealth’s Attorney supposed to be here?”
    “That’s what I thought. Sure. A mix-up.”
    “What suspect?” Bigelow asked.
    “Uhm, well, Lester here.”
    “You better charge me or release me pretty damn soon,” the man barked.
    Bigelow asked, “Who’s he ? What’s he doing here?”
    “Well, we arrested him for the robbery tonight,” Boz said. His tone asked, Am I missing something?
    “You did?” the agent grumbled. “Why?”
    “Uhm” was all that Boz could muster. Had they jeopardized the case with sloppy forensics?
    A fourth FBI agent came into the room and handed a file to Bigelow. He read carefully, nodding. Then he looked up. “Okay. We’ve got probable cause.”
    Boz shivered with relief and turned a slick smile on Lester. “Thought you were off the hook, huh? Well—”
    Bigelow nodded his shiny head and in a flash the other agents had relieved Boz and Ed of theirweapons and belts, including the overpriced, made-in-Taiwan billy club Boz was so proud of.
    “Officers, you have the right to remain silent . . .”
    The rest of the Miranda warning trickled from his somber lips and when it was through they were cuffed.
    “What’s this all about?” Boz shouted.
    Bigelow tapped the folder he’d received. “We just had an evidence response team go through the getaway car. Both your fingerprints were all over it. And we found dozens of footprints that seem to be police-issue shoes—like both of yours—leading down to the water near Mr. Spoda’s house.”
    “I backed the car out to search it,” Boz protested. “That’s all.”
    “Without gloves? Without a crime scene unit present?”
    “Well, it was an open-and-shut case . . .”
    “We also happened to find over ninety thousand dollars in the back of your personal car, Officer Rankin.”
    “We just didn’t have a chance to log it in. What with all—”
    “The excitement,” Boz said. “You know.”
    Ed said, “Check out those bags. They’ll have Lester’s prints all over them.”
    “Actually,” Bigelow said as calm as a McDonald’s clerk, “they don’t. Only the two of yours. And there’s a chrome-plated thirty-eight in your glove compartment. Tentative ballistics match the gun used in the robbery. Oh, and a ski mask too. Matches fibers found in the armored truck.”
    “Wait . . . it’s a setup. You ain’t got a case here. It’s all circumstantial!”
    “Afraid not. We have an eyewitness.”
    “Who?” Boz glanced toward the corridor.
    “Nate, are these the men you saw walking by the river near your house just after the robbery this afternoon?”
    Nate looked from Boz to Ed. “Yessir. This’s them.”
    “You liar!” Ed cried.
    “And they were in uniform?”
    “Just like now.”
    “What the hell is going on here?” Boz snapped.
    Ed choked faintly then turned a cold eye toward Nate. “You little—”
    Bigelow said, “Gentlemen, we’re transferring you to the federal lockup in Arlington. You can call attorneys from there.”
    “He’s lying,” Boz shouted. “He told us he didn’t see who was in the bushes.”
    Finally Bigelow cracked a smile. “Well, he’s hardly going to tell you that you’re the ones he saw, is he? Two bullies with guns and nightsticks standing over him? He was terrified enough telling us the truth.”
    “No, listen to me,” Ed pleaded. “You don’t understand. He’s just out to get us because we picked on him in high school.”
    The agent beside Bigelow snickered. “Pathetic.”
    “Take ’em to the van.”
    The men disappeared. Bigelow ordered the cuffs taken off Lester Botts. “You can go now.”
    The scrawny man glanced contemptuously around the room and stalked outside.
    “Can I go too?” Nate asked.
    “Sure can, sir.” Bigelow shook his hand. “Bet it’s been a long day.”

    Nate Spoda put on a CD. Hit the “play” button.
    Mostly, late at night, he listened to Debussy or Ravel—something soothing. But tonight he was playing a Sergey Prokofiev piece. It was boisterous and rousing. As was Nate’s mood.
    He listened to classical music all day long, piped out onto the front porch through $1,000