Artie picks up the pillow. He steps beside Garcia. His Adam’s apple bobs. Then he lowers the pillow … and sees me, crouched in my imperfect hiding spot.
I straighten. “Okay, Artie, put down the pillow.”
He lunges for the scalpel. I’m already coming at him, and when he sees he’s not going to make it, he knocks the tray instead. The scalpel skates across the floor. He dives, grabs it, and rolls onto his back, brandishing the tiny blade … to see me calmly holding my gun on him.
“Go ahead,” I say. “It’s better than the pillow. Take your shot. I’ll take mine.”
He whips the scalpel. It bounces off my jeans as he scrambles for the door. He grabs the knob, twists, and—
“You need to unlock it first,” I say.
He goes to do that, but I’m already on him. I’ve holstered my gun, and when he reaches for the lock, I grab his arm and throw him to the floor. Behind me, I hear a snicker, and I glance over to see Sam watching the show.
“I’d have helped,” Sam says. “But I figured I’d just get in the way.”
“Good call.”
I wrench Artie’s arm, pulling him to his feet just as footsteps sound on the front porch. Dalton runs in.
“It’s under control,” I say.
“So I see.”
“He threw a scalpel at me,” I say.
“I’ll add that to the charges.” He walks over and takes Artie. “Arthur Grant, you’re under arrest for the murder of Mark Garcia.”
“What? No. I never—” Artie twists to face me. “Casey, tell him. I never used the pillow.”
“Only because you saw me.”
“I wouldn’t have used it, and you can’t prove otherwise. Even if you try, that’s attempted murder.”
“Nope,” I say. “He’s dead.”
“He can’t be. That pillow never touched him.”
“Your bullets did. That’s the murder you’re being charged with, Artie. The man you just tried to kill? He’s already dead.”
* * *
“I didn’t do it,” Artie whines as Dalton strong-arms him into the station.
“Here’s a thought,” I say. “Surprise us. Upend our expectations. Stand tall and proud and say, ‘Yes, I did it and by God, I’d do it again if I could.’ If you really, really must proclaim your innocence, just don’t whine about it, okay? The whining really gets on our nerves.”
Artie gapes at me. Then he says, “You—you aren’t supposed to talk to me like that. I have rights.”
“No and no,” I say. “You signed off on those rights when you came up here. Literally signed them away, in return for safety. And while down south I wasn’t supposed to talk to suspects like this, I sure as hell wanted to. Up here…” I glance at Dalton. “May I speak to him like this, sir?”
“Fuck, yeah. I’m sick of h
is complaining too. Four years, Artie, and I don’t think I’ve heard you say a sentence without whining it. I’m beginning to suspect it’s a speech impediment.”
Artie straightens. “Fuck you, asshole.”
“Nope, apparently not a speech impediment. Good thing, ’cause I’d have had to apologize if it was, and I might even have felt bad. Truth is, you’re just a whiny little shit. Now you’re a whiny little shit murderer. Not sure if that’s a step up or down.”
Dalton pushes Artie into a chair, and I secure his hands. Artie’s cursing the whole time. We ignore him until I’m done.