Presumed Guilty: (A Jefferson Winter novella) by James Carol

Author:James Carol [Carol, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Crime thriller
ISBN: 9780571312610
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2014-06-30T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Yoko had stayed behind in Winter’s dorm room after the arrest. It was just her and the cop who’d been left guarding the door until the crime-scene investigators showed up. Everybody else had been anxious to get back to Upper Marlboro. The kid was where the real action was, so everyone was sticking as close to him as possible.

She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and little puffs of powder exploded from them. Then she picked up the book he had been reading. It had the uninspiring cover of an academic textbook, and a title that was as impenetrable as it was bland. Yoko had heard of string theory, but didn’t have a clue what it was. She opened the book at the page he had marked. It might as well have been written in Korean for all the sense it made.

Next, she went over to the CD player and picked up the empty case lying on top. Mozart’s Requiem. Yoko turned the music back on. She’d always hated classical music, and this piece did nothing to change her opinion. Over-the-top strings, and a choir that sounded like every member had a pole jammed up their ass.

It was over complicated for the sake of being over complicated, and much too pretentious for her taste. She preferred something with a decent backbeat and loud guitars.

Not that she’d ever admit that around Quantico. She was aware of the names whispered behind her back, and was happy to play along. The pigeonhole she’d been slotted into did not include an obsessional love of late-sixties and early-seventies rock.

She turned off the music and glanced around the room. If she could make sense of this space, then maybe she could start to unravel the puzzle that was Jefferson Winter. Because one thing was for sure: this kid was a puzzle.

For starters, what sort of nineteen-year-old student did two masters degrees, read advanced physics books for fun, and listened to composers who’d been dead for centuries?

At first glance, the room was a typical first-year dorm room. Tiny, with a small window that was covered by drapes so thin you might as well not bother. There was space for the bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a small bookcase, and that was about it.

That’s where the similarities ended. The room was spotless, no clutter anywhere. Even the desk was scrupulously tidy, and the air freshener on the bookcase was still new enough to fill the room with the soft smell of flowers and fruit.

Where was the stale smell you usually associated with teenage boys? The one that came from leaving plates of food and dirty laundry lying around for an indeterminate amount of time? And what sort of teenage boy actually made his bed?

Music posters covered the walls. Bands and musicians Yoko could relate to. Hendrix dressed like a cosmic warrior, wielding his Fender Strat as though the future of mankind depended on it. Keith Richards flying high, the very definition of elegantly wasted. Lennon expounding peace and love during his New York years.

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