“Brandon.”
He lifted his gaze back to hers.
“A beer or two is all?” She’d learned numerous techniques for getting around the warning that he must look at her when he spoke. She’d said that a couple of times already. Restating the warning would only raise his suspicions.
“I mostly nurse a drink. Just…to fit in. You know, socially.”
That she understood. She did it too often to admit. Most folks, especially Merri, resented admitting his or her challenges. “Then you clearly recall that he specifically mentioned keeping this story—the one the man you can’t identify was interested in preventing him from pursuing—hidden where no one could possibly find it.”
“Yes.”
“What portion of the riddle do you remember?”
“On the range.” He concentrated long and hard. Several seconds. “Nothing can change. My space and no place. Invisible.”
“You’re sure that’s exactly what he said and how he said it?” Merri pulled her notepad and pen from her purse and wrote down the words. Range could mean stove or cook top. His space could mean where he lives or works. No place? Nothing came to mind…except that she could see why the police had no idea what the hell any of it meant. She guessed Brandon’s statement regarding the so-called puzzle was being run through the Bureau’s ciphers to determine if it was some sort of code.
Then again, perhaps she was reading far too much into this case. Kick Randolph wasn’t a high-level reporter. He was just a junior wannabe. Did the police really have any reason to extend any extra effort to solve his homicide? As much as she despised the idea, the wealthier or more high-profile the victim, the more time spent on the investigation. Considering the deceased was basically a nobody, chances were this case would end up one of two places—closed, with charges pressed against Brandon, or shoved into a cold case file.
“Maybe. I might not be remembering it correctly.”
Those big dark eyes were filled with frustration and defeat. “Brandon, are you on any medication?” A guy who hadn’t been drinking and wasn’t on any sort of medication shouldn’t act so frustrated if he simply couldn’t recall the statements made by someone else. Distraction, a busy schedule, any number of excuses could explain his inability to recall the details of that night. Why not say as much rather than becoming more frustrated?
Extreme frustration. Another indicator of an underlying problem.
“No.” He looked put out that she’d asked.
“Let’s try something else.” Another tactic she’d used with her students. “We’ll try writing down the dialogue. Sometimes when you look at the written words you remember something you otherwise wouldn’t.”
He twisted in the chair and picked up a spiral notebook from the desk along with a pen.
“Write what you remember about that evening. Anything at all. Take your time,” she assured him when uncertainty claimed his face.
As he focused on the page, she observed his ability to put his thoughts down in written form, not the writing itself, but the brain-to-fingers interaction. Slow, methodical and intensely thought-out.
Calling Simon Ruhl crossed her mind again. Not yet. She wasn’t completely sure there was reason to call at this point. What would she say? I’m sitting in the apartment of a man splattered in blood. His roommate is dead. The police consider him a suspect but I don’t think he did it.
She would definitely wait about that call.
Minutes ticked by. Three…five…then ten. Finally his fingers flattened the pen against the paper and his attention returned to her. “Done.”
Now for the real test. The classic symptoms were undeniable. But Brandon Thomas had to be around thirty years old. No question. Her assessment was not in keeping with his age. He was at least half a decade beyond the usual age guidelines. “Would you read what you’ve written to me, please?”
He blinked. Stared at her as if she’d asked him to light himself on fire, then he extended the notebook in her direction. “You read it.”
“I need you to read it,” she pressed. “Stand up and read it.” She hated to add the “stand up” part but if he stood, she would be able to read his lips most of the time from her position below him.
The hesitation lasted at least half a minute. She had almost decided he wasn’t going to comply. Finally he stood. As he stumbled through the passage he’d written, he glanced up at her periodically. It wasn’t imperative that she catch every word, only that she could see the pacing and flow of how he formed the sentences.
Slow. Halting. As if he had a difficult time reading his own words aloud.
When he’d finished, she held out her hand for the notebook. He placed it in her outstretched palm, his expression full of guilt. He was embarrassed that he couldn’t read smoothly. She glanced over what he’d written. His handwriting was bold and neat. But one thing was glaringly apparent. He’d misspelled five words. Two of those words were not only simple but used several times throughout the passage. In each instance, the two words were misspelled differently.
Merri pulled the pages, as well as the three clean ones after the last one, from the notebook, folded and placed them in her purse. She understood Brandon’s situation now. As she pushed to her feet, she glanced around the compact living room once more. She would ask him about it…eventually, but not now.
“Why don’t you shower and change,” she suggested, “and we’ll go have coffee some place neutral and try to figure out what Kick was telling you with these seemingly disconnected phrases.”
Brandon tugged at the T-shirt he wore, then stood. “You’ll…”
He turned away from her as he spoke. But the slumped shoulders told her exactly what he was worried about. “Don’t worry. I’ll do all I can to help you figure this out, Brandon.”
He turned back to her then. “You’re sure you’re not going to slip out while I’m in the shower?”
What she’d missed was him asking if she would still be here. Made sense in light of the desperation choking his reason and logic. “I won’t be going anywhere until we determine how to move forward with proving your innocence. That’s a guarantee.”
He held her gaze a moment longer. The heavy defeat that had weighed down his shoulders had given way to glittering fear in those dark eyes. Something shifted deep in her chest. She’d only met this guy and already she wanted desperately to help him. There was more here than met the eye, so to speak. Brandon Thomas wouldn’t have a chance with the police. If they couldn’t find anyone else to hang this one on, they would railroad Brandon or push the case aside.
That he trusted her enough to shower, leaving her to do as she pleased, surprised her and was likely indicative of his desperation. She understood it far better than she wanted to admit.
When the water was going in the bathroom, she carefully went over the apartment once more. Using a pen from her purse, she flipped through files and the desk Rolodex. A framed photograph of Brandon and his roommate showed that the two were about the same age. Both good-looking. Kick’s framed degree in journalism decorated the otherwise stark wall above the desk. If Brandon had a degree, he wasn’t sporting any indication of the accomplishment. The drawing desk appeared to be where he did his work. After snooping around she decided he was an architect of some sort.
In the deceased’s bedroom, she found several family snapshots in the top drawer of the nightstand. Golf clubs on the bed amid the rest of the items that had been taken from the closet. Kick was not only proud of his accomplishments, he had pricey taste in attire, as well. Designer labels were stamped on virtually all of his sizable wardrobe.
Brandon’s bedroom revealed quite the opposite. No family connections that she found. Not a