Reese took the elevator, got off on the third floor, and walked down the corridor. He stopped before Room 315. He could hear voices inside. He unfastened the button of his jacket and knocked on the door. It was opened by a boy in his late teens.
“Hello.”
“Paul Yerby?”
“No.” The boy turned to someone in the room. “Paul, someone for you.”
Nick Reese pushed his way into the room. A slim, tousle-haired boy in jeans and a sweater was coming out of the bathroom.
“Paul Yerby?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
Reese pulled out his badge. “Detective Nick Reese. Homicide.”
The boy’s complexion turned pale. “I—what can I do for you?”
Nick Reese could smell the fear. He took the dead girl’s ring from his pocket and held it out. “Have you ever seen this ring before, Paul?”
“No,” Yerby said quickly. “I—”
“It has your initials on it.”
“It has? Oh. Yeah.” He hesitated. “I guess it could be mine. I must have lost it somewhere.”
“Or given it to someone?”
The boy licked his lips, “Uh, yeah. I might have.”
“Let’s go downtown, Paul.”
The boy looked at him nervously. “Am I under arrest?”
“What for?” Detective Reese asked. “Have you committed a crime?”
“Of course not. I…” The words trailed off.
“Then why would I arrest you?”
“I—I don’t know. I don’t know why you want me to go downtown.”
He was eyeing the open door. Detective Reese reached out and took a grip on Paul’s arm. “Let’s go quietly.”
The roommate said, “Do you want me to call your mother or anybody, Paul?”
Paul Yerby shook his head, miserable. “No. Don’t call anyone.” His voice was a whisper.
The Henry I. Daly Building at 300 Indiana Avenue, NW, in downtown Washington is an unprepossessing six-story gray brick building that serves as police headquarters for the district. The Homicide Branch office is on the third floor. While Paul Yerby was being photographed and fingerprinted, Detective Reese went to see Captain Otto Miller.
“I think we got a break in the Monroe Arms case.”
Miller leaned back in his chair. “Go on.”
“I picked up the girl’s boyfriend. The kid’s scared out of his wits. We’re going to question him now. Do you want to sit in?”
Captain Miller nodded toward a pile of papers heaped on his desk. “I’m busy for the next few months. Give me a report.”
“Right.” Detective Reese started toward the door.
“Nick—be sure to read him his rights.”
Paul Yerby was brought into an interrogation room. It was small, nine by twelve, with a battered desk, four chairs, and a video camera. There was a one-way mirror so that officers could watch the interrogation from the next room.
Paul Yerby was facing Nick Reese and two other detectives, Doug Hogan and Edgar Bernstein.
“You’re aware that we’re videotaping this conversation?”—Detective Reese
“Yes, sir.”
“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to represent you.”
“Would you like to have a lawyer present?”—Detective Bernstein
“I don’t need a lawyer.”
“All right. You have a right to remain silent. If you waive that right, anything you say here can and will be used against you in a court of law. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your legal name?”
“Paul Yerby.”
“Your address?”
“Three-twenty Marion Street, Denver, Colorado. Look, I haven’t done anything wrong. I—”
“No one says you have. We’re just trying to get some information, Paul. You’d like to help us, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure, but I—I don’t know what it’s all about.”
“Don’t you have any idea?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you have any girlfriends, Paul?”
“Well, you know…”
“No, we don’t know. Why don’t you tell us?”
“Well, sure. I see girls…”
“You mean you date girls? You take girls out?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you date any one particular girl?”
There was a silence.
“Do you have a girlfriend, Paul?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”—Detective Bernstein
“Chloe.”
“Chloe what?”—Detective Reese
“Chloe Houston.”
Reese made a note. “What’s her address, Paul?”
“Six-oh-two Oak Street, Denver.”
“What are her parents’ names?”
“She lives with her mother.”
“And her name?”
“Jackie Houston. She’s the governor of Colorado.”
The detectives looked at one another. Shit! That’s all we need!