14
The interrogation room was silent, breathless while Luther Brady stared at the photos and felt as if his bones were dissolving.
This couldn't be! These photos… him with the two boys from last night. At least he thought it was last night. He didn't hire the same boys every time and couldn't make out their faces. But yes! That was the mask he'd used last night. He rotated through a series of them for variety. But last night or last month didn't matter. The very existence of these photos was a horror, but even worse, they were in the hands of the police.
How? Who?
Petrovich! He'd delivered the boys as usual. This time he must have stayed around and shot these! The greedy little shit! He—
But how did they wind up with this Richard Cordova they were talking about? And who had used his pistol to kill him?
"Wh… wh…" His dry tongue seemed unable to form words.
"Fakes," Barry said in a dismissive wave of his hands. "Very obvious fakes. I'm no computer whiz, but even I know what can be done with Adobe Photoshop. They've even put a mask on the guy in these photos! Give me a break, will you? The whole thing is ludicrous!"
"Where…" Finally Luther could speak. "Where did you get these?"
Holusha tapped the center photo. "We found them under the cushion of the victim's desk chair. The chair where he was killed." The finger moved to a brown stain along the edge of the photo. "That's some of his blood that leaked around the cushion."
"You must believe me," Luther said, leaning forward and covering the photos with his hands. He didn't want anyone, especially Barry, looking at them. But he had to convince these detectives. "I did not kill that man! I swear it! I am being framed for something I did not do!"
Young hadn't broken his relentless stare. "Why would someone want to do that, Mr. Brady?"
"The Dormentalist Church has more than its share of enemies," Barry said. "Mr. Brady is the Church's spiritual leader, its public face. If this plot to disgrace and discredit him succeeds, the Church will suffer irreparable damage."
"Well, then," Young said, "the solution is very simple. If you weren't at Mr. Cordova's house last night, Mr. Brady, where were you?"
With those boys!
But he couldn't admit that. And what good would it do? He'd never allowed any of the boys to see his face. Not even Petrovich knew what he looked like.
"I was in my cabin upstate."
"Can anyone vouch for your presence there?"
"I… no, I was there alone. I go there every Sunday evening to escape the pressures of the Church and the city so that I can commune with my xelton."
Holusha snickered. "Your xelton or whatever it is looks an awful lot like a couple of teenage boys."
"No one to verify your presence at the cabin last night?" Young said.
"No."
"I didn't think so." Young withdrew some folded papers from his inner coat pocket. "I have here a warrant for your arrest."
As he handed it to Barry, Holusha pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
"Luther Brady," Young said, "I'm arresting you for the murder of Richard Cordova. I know your attorney is already present but I'm going to read you your rights anyway: You have the right to remain silent…"
The rest of the words faded into the roaring in Luther's ears. He'd heard them on TV so many times he knew them by heart. But never in his darkest nightmare had he imagined that someone would be reciting Miranda to him…
He glanced at Barry, who'd grown awfully silent, and saw him staring at the photos.
"Barry…?"
The attorney looked up at him and shook his head. He seemed to have receded to the far side of the room.
"You need more help than I can give you, Luther. You need a criminal attorney. A good one. I'll start making some calls right away."
"Barry, you've got to keep these photos from the public. They're fakes, Barry." He turned to Young and Holusha. "I swear they're fakes, and I beg of you, don't let word of them get out. Once something like this gets around, you're forever marked. Even after you've been proven innocent—which I will be, I assure you—you never lose the taint."
"We'll do what we can," Young said. "We're more interested in the murder right now."
Luther fought to keep his knees from buckling as he felt the cuffs snap around his wrists. Yesterday he'd been on top of the world, the Opus Omega all but completed.
Now he was being arrested for murder and his life was swirling down the toilet.
How? How had this happened?