Matters of Doubt by Warren C Easley Page B

screaming, “You broke my camera. You broke my goddamn camera.” I was pretty sure his hand was broken, too.
    I grabbed Picasso’s arms and hustled him into the building, only to run smack into Lieutenant Scott and Detective Jones, who had just finished up inside. Anna was in the process of showing them out. She sucked a breath. Scott and Jones assumed a ready stance. “What happened? ” she asked.
    â€œOh, just a little dustup out there,” I said. “Some jerk reporter got a little too aggressive.”
    Scott and Jones ducked out the door to see for themselves. I grasped Picasso by the shoulders like I had at Conyers’ place. “Why the hell did you do that? All you had to do was ignore the idiot.”
    He turned his head to avoid my eyes. “That prick had it coming.”
    â€œThat’s not good enough. You’re under a microscope right now, and you’ve just demonstrated to the whole world that you can’t control your temper.” As I said that, all my confidence in Picasso’s innocence threatened to bleed away. Had I made a mistake?
    â€œI, um—”
    â€œI don’t want to hear it. Now stay here with Doc while I see how much damage you’ve done.” To Anna, I said, “Take him into your office and shut the door. Please.”
    The media crowd was now knotted around the injured reporter, who held his kicked hand against his chest while clutching the pieces of his shattered camera in his other hand. He was talking to Jones and Scott, who both had their notebooks out. I worked my way through the crowd and introduced myself to the reporter.
    â€œMr. Baxter would like to apologize for his actions. He’s understandably upset by recent events and sensitive to the memory of his mother.” The reporter looked down at the remains of his camera, and I found myself adding, “He’ll be glad to replace your camera.” I fished a card from my wallet and handed it to him. “Call me, and I’ll arrange it.” I spun on my heels and went back into the clinic, wondering what I’d just committed to.
    It was quiet when I entered Anna’s office, but the look on Picasso’s face told me she’d been at him, too. I said, “Well, you just bought yourself a broken digital camera.” He started to protest, but I shushed him with a raised hand. “I don’t know whether he’s going to press charges or not. You’d better hope his hand’s not broken.” Anna glanced at her watch and excused herself.
    Picasso said, “If I’d wanted to hurt him, I would have kicked him in the face. I went for his camera. I could tell he had a hard on for it.”
    The fluid, graceful move he’d made replayed in my head, and I realized he was telling the truth. “Well, that may be so, but nobody out there knows that. They probably think you tried to kill him and missed. Where’d you learn to kick like that, anyway?”
    â€œI did a series of paintings for a kickbox studio over in Southeast, on the inside walls. They gave me free lessons in exchange. I was a fast learner. They asked me to stay on and teach.”
    â€œDid you?”
    â€œAnd become a working stiff? No way. I wanted the skill for self-protection. Comes in handy on the streets, you know. Two skin heads jumped me under the I-5 bridge one night.” He smiled and shook his head. “Boy, were they surprised.”
    â€œWell, you need to keep your kickboxing prowess to yourself. Like I said, you’re under a microscope, and the last thing you need is for information like that to get out. Understood?”
    The smile dissolved, and he nodded.
    Scott and Jones didn’t return, which was good news. Anna told me they’d interviewed her and the staff, then taken a brief look around the clinic. The question of Picasso’s computer didn’t come up. It probably didn’t occur to them that a homeless youth would