Cat-Eye Witness (A Klepto Cat Mystery) (25 page)

Iris moved the feather around toward Rags after she was seated and he continued to attack it. Iris raised the feather and Rags sat up and pawed at it. She raised it higher and he stood on his back paws reaching for it. This triggered chuckles among at least a few of the spectators.

“Put your hand down and see if you can pet him,” Sledge suggested.

Iris reached out toward Rags and he walked up and rubbed against her hand.

Savannah was sure she saw Craig Sledge smile a little when he observed this.

“Now, Ms. Clampton, I want you to take the feather and walk it over to Mr. Garfield. Walk with it on the floor so the cat will follow it. When the cat is close to where Mr. Garfield is sitting, hand him the toy.”

“Oh this is a bunch of crap,” Garfield said. “I’m not doing this nonsense.” He stood up.

“Sit down, Garfield,” Sledge said sternly. “Now, Ms. Clampton, do as I said.”

Iris got Rags’s attention with the toy and led him across the room to Fred Garfield as instructed. Rags bounded along behind her chasing the feather. She handed the wand to Garfield, and turned and walked away. Rags sat down. He followed her with his eyes before returning his attention to the feather.

Sledge also watched as she moved toward her chair.
The woman has a remarkable figure for her age and a regal way of carrying herself. Maybe that’s what makes her so eye-catching.
He smiled to himself.
Eye-catching—yup that’s what she is, especially in those sexy things she wears and those bright colors. Striking!

Iris sat down and Sledge noticed that everyone was staring in his direction—waiting for his instructions. He looked over at Fred Garfield and cleared his throat. “Okay, move it, wiggle it,” he said.

Garfield wiped perspiration from his head with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket and began flicking the feather around in front of him.

“Not so fast—slow it down,” Sledge said.

Looking thoroughly deflated and humiliated, Garfield complied. Rags walked a little closer to the feather and stopped. He looked up at Garfield.

“Speak to him. Show him your hand,” Sledge said.

“Talk to a cat?” Fred Garfield said with hate in his voice. “Ugly cat,” he said as he held his hand down toward the floor.

Rags shifted from a sitting position to a crouch, his head low, his tail resting a few inches above the floor. He took a few steps back. He sniffed in the direction of Garfield. His pupils grew larger.

“Pet him, Garfield. Pet him,” Sledge insisted.

Fred Garfield reached out in an attempt to pet Rags and the cat let out a low growl. Garfield pulled his hand back. “That cat’s rabid!”

“Put your hand out there again.”

Garfield hesitated.

“Do it!” Sledge demanded.

Rags’s growl became shrill and intense. He spat at Garfield’s hand and began retreating—stepping back a few steps before turning and running in a crouch over to Michael. He ran under Michael’s chair, stopped and looked back at Garfield, his pupils dilated. He then looked around as if considering his options and darted into the carrier, slinking to the back of it and lying down. Savannah rose and quickly closed the wire door. She looked over at Sledge. “May we leave now? I think Rags has had enough.”

“Yes,” the detective said with a look of satisfaction on his face. “I think we’re done here. Thank you very much Ms. Jordan, Dr. Ivey.” He peered into the carrier and added, “…and Rags.”

Fred Garfield stood, preparing to leave when Sledge looked over at him, a sneer on his face. “Oh no, you aren’t going anywhere. I want to talk to you, Garfield.” He glanced over at Damon. “You, too, Jackson.”

“Why me?” Damon whined. “It’s him the cat fingered.”

“You shut your mouth, punk,” Garfield spat. “I should have killed you, you little snitch.”

Damon jumped to his feet and headed for Garfield. “I haven’t snitched yet, but I’m about to, you creep.”

Sledge stood and pressed a button on an intercom next to the door. “Need backup.” Immediately, two sheriff’s deputies stepped in, each grabbing one of the scrapping men.

“Take Garfield to a holding cell, will ya? I want to have a little chat with Jackson,” he said to the deputies. “Ms. Clampton, you’re free to go.”

She looked over at Damon.

“We’ve got it under control, Ms. Clampton. Let it go,” he said as he ushered her out to the main office. “I’ll be in touch. Thank you for your cooperation.” He watched Iris leave and then said to the deputy at the desk, “Would you have someone set up a table for us in the interrogation room? Thanks.”

Once the room was prepared, Sledge and Gonzales walked in to find Damon Jackson seated at the table, a uniformed officer standing to his left. The investigators sat down across from the suspect. Sledge started the dialog: “Would you like a glass of water, soda—need to pee? This could take hours, or it could be quick and easy. It’s up to you,” he said staring intently at Damon.

“Uh, a soda.”

The detective motioned for the officer to get the beverage. He then faced Damon with a grin that could only be described as cocky. “Okay, Jackson, this is what we know. You have been meeting with Garfield to exchange what—information, drugs, money? Is he blackmailing you? We also suspect that he’s the one who hit you and put you in the hospital—obviously in an attempt to kill you. You got off easy with a few broken bones.” He moved forward, leaned his elbows on the table, looked into Damon’s eyes and said, “Next time you die. Do you get that? He killed once at the Forster house, didn’t he? If he thinks you’re in his way, he’ll kill you, too.”

Sledge realized he was going out on a limb with his line of questioning. He hoped he was close enough to the truth that Damon would feel threatened and start talking—verifying what Sledge thought he already knew.

Damon sat quietly, his right hand on the cold soda can. He watched his thumb as he rubbed it along the wet can
.
He let out a breath with a huff, looked over at Sledge and said, “Can I get outta here if I tell ya what I know?”

“I promise we’ll go easy on you if we get the right information from you.”

Damon cleared his throat and looked down at the can. “Yeah, he killed that guy.”

“To be clear, do you mean that Fred Garfield killed Marvin Byrd?”

“Yeah, I guess that was his name.”

“Did you see him do it?”

Without looking up, Damon shook his head slowly, his tangled red mop of hair staying in place. “I was in the other room and heard something.”

“Now wait,” Sledge said. “Which room? What were you doing in there?”

“Across the hall. I…” He closed his eyes. “You know—getting that money,” he said quietly.

Sledge let out a sigh that felt somewhat like relief. He decided to play dumb—baiting Damon to give him the facts. “What money?”

“The money in the box.”

“From the fundraiser?”

“Yeah.”

“Damon, how did you know the money was in there?”

He looked up somewhat surprised to hear the detective use his first name. “I told ya before, I climbed up the ladder to get a balloon for a kid. Well, that’s when I see my mom put the box in there. I go up later when no one’s looking to see how much money was in there. It was just too tempting.” He squirmed sideways in his chair, looked down. “I had people I owed money to, ya know?”

“Ahhhh. Gotcha,” Sledge said. And then he prompted: “So you climbed up the ladder a second time to get the money—you didn’t use the stairs, right?”

Damon nodded.

“And you heard something?”

“Yeah. I open the door to look out. The noise is coming from that room across the hall.”

“What sort of noise? What did you hear?”

“Some guys arguing and then a thump. I stand there listening and then the door opens. Garfield sees me and he grabs me…pulls me into the room.”

“So you knew Mr. Garfield?” Gonzales asked.

“Yeah, he was…you know…messing with my mom. She didn’t know I knew.” He lifted his chin and looked over at the investigators through eye slits. “Maybe she can hide that kinda thing from those other kids, but I knew what was goin’ on.”

Sledge smirked. “Yeah, I’m sure nothin’ gets past you. Okay, go on.”

Damon took a breath. “Well, he sees me and pushes me into the room and closes the door. He starts telling me he needs help and he’ll pay me if I help him.”

“What did he need help with? Did you know he had killed someone?”

“Hell no. Alls I knew was there’s some guy laid out on the bed. I thought he was just knocked out or somethin’. Garfield had this…thing in his hands and he wanted me to get rid of it for him. He said he would pay me a grand.” He shifted in his seat and shot a quick glance at Sledge. “Well, I’m not gonna turn down no thousand bucks. Would you?”

Sledge ignored the question. “So what did you do?”

“I took the money. And I took the thing…”

“What was this…thing?” Gonzales asked.

“Gawd, I don’t know—like a decoration you would set on a shelf, I guess.” He became animated, contorting his face. “I didn’t want to look at it ’cause it had blood and who knows what else on it.”

“So what did you do then?” Sledge asked.

Damon looked at his soda can. “I took it down the ladder. I didn’t know what I was gonna do with it.” He glanced up at Sledge. “I mean there was people everywhere, right? I saw a shovel…and buried it under a bush—figured I’d come back later and hide it in a better place.” He shook his curly head and, without expression, said, “That didn’t work out.”

“Did you get blood on you?” Sledge asked.

Damon grimaced. “Yes. I tried not to, but when he handed that…thing to me, some got on my hand.”

“What did you do about that?”

Damon looked hard at the detective. “I wiped it off, what do ya think? It about made me puke.”

“With what?”

“What do ya mean, with what?” the kid asked.

Sledge shot Gonzales a sideways grin; shook his head.

Gonzales sensed that his partner needed a break. He looked over at Damon. “What did you wipe the blood off with?”

“My rag.”

“Your what?”

“Rag…you know.”

“Oh, your bandana?”

“Yeah, that’s it, man.”

Sledge asked, “What color was your…rag, Jackson?”

“Black. Well, black and sorta white or maybe grey. Mostly black.”

“Where is it now?” the detective asked.

“I don’t know, man. I lost it.”

The detective leaned forward and looked into Damon’s eyes.

“I’m tellin’ the truth, man. I lost it.”

“Don’t worry, we found it,” Sledge said matter of factly.

Damon stared at him. Sledge was sure it was fear he saw in his eyes. He asked, “After you wiped your hands off, what did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you take the ‘decoration’ down the ladder then?”

“Not until Garfield wrapped it up in something.”

“Like what?”

Damon sat back in his chair, sprawling his good leg out under the table. “I don’t know—a towel or somethin’ he got from somewhere.”

“Was he wearing gloves, Jackson?” Gonzales asked.

“Who?”

“Come on…Garfield, who else?” Sledge said.

“Oh.” He thought about it for several seconds, sat up a little in his chair and said, “Yeah. Yeah, he was. But when I dropped the decoration thing, he caught it and got all butt-hurt because some of the blood and stuff got on his glove.”

“Did he take it off?”

“What?”

“Did he take the bloody glove off?” Sledge asked, obviously growing impatient.

“I dunno. He just went in the head…”

“The bathroom?”

“Yeah. He came out with a towel.”

“Then what did he do?”

“He wrapped it up and shoved it at me…told me to go take care of it and fast.”

Sledge shifted in his chair. “He wrapped up the decoration?”

“Yeah.”

“What color was the towel Jackson?”

“White, I guess.”

“And was he wearing both gloves then?” Gonzales asked.

Damon seemed to be thinking—trying to remember. Finally, he said, “Crap, I dunno.” He then straightened in his chair. “Wait, no he didn’t have both gloves on when he came out of the head. I remember because I noticed that big diamond ring he wears on his pinky. That thing must have cost him thousands—maybe even more than his Escalade. No,” he said. “He had only one of those creepy gloves on.”

“Did you see where he put the other one?” Gonzales asked.

“Nope. Maybe he flushed it down the john.” Damon snickered.

“Did you hear the toilet flush?” Sledge asked.

Damon stared at the two men and shook his head in disgust. “No,” he said sarcastically, “I did not hear any flushing.”

“So did you see the deceased?” Sledge asked.

“Huh?”

“The dead guy—Byrd. Did you see him?”

Damon shook his head. “No. I told you, I didn’t know he was dead. I just wanted to git outta there—take my money, ditch that thing and split.”

“You said he was lying on the bed when you saw him—alive?” Sledge asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to look.”

“So what did you do next?”

“I buried the thing. That’s what.”

“How did you get out of the house?”

“The ladder, what do you think?”

The detective stared over at the kid and asked, “Did you lock the door to that room?”

“What room?”

Sledge stared hard at the younger man, then glanced over at Gonzales. “The bedroom across the hall from where the dead guy was,” he said as if he was speaking to a child, “where you went out the window and down the ladder.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess I did. Didn’t want to get caught climbing out the window. Why?”

Sledge just shook his head and indicated to his partner that he’d had enough for now. “Okay, what did you do after you buried the…decoration?” Gonzales asked.

“Uh, I texted this guy I owed money to.”

“Then what?” the sergeant prodded.

“I met him out front and gave him some of the money.”

“In front of the Forster place?”

“Yeah.”

“How much did you owe him?”

“Three thou.”

Sledge smiled, leaned forward and said, “That’s quite a debt, Jackson. So how much did you give him?”