26 - There dwells a spirit, waiting to be released

“Where were you last night?” Detective Jonas asked without preamble when Merlyn opened the front door.

“Tell me why you want to know,” he replied, leaning against the doorjamb, one eyebrow cocked quizzically.

“Because Mr Hunt was shot last night.”

“Brian?” Merlyn felt as if he’d been sucker punched. Brian Hunt was the manager and soon to be new owner of the gallery. “When? Where?”

“Approximately ten-thirty, inside the gallery.”

“I… hell…” Merlyn backed away from the door, shaking his head. “What’s going on, why is this happening?”

“That is precisely what I want to know, sir. Now answer the question. Where were you?” Detective Jonas stepped into the room, watching him with distrustful eyes.

“I was here. I went out earlier but I was back by then, before then.”

“Any witnesses?”

“To my being here? Of course not…” he started to say.

“Just me,” a voice said from the top of the stairs.

Merlyn spun around, looking up at Alan in shock. “What are you..?”

“Doing?” Alan finished his sentence with a tight smile. “Letting the cop know someone saw you here.” He walked down the stairs to Merlyn, putting an arm around his waist as he stared defiantly at the detective. “I was here all night. Trust me he never left because I was keeping him very busy. Wasn’t I lover?” He kissed Merlyn’s cheek.

“Is this true Mr Knight? You seem a bit, may I say surprised to see him here.”

“That’s because he thought I’d left, which I was going to but I forgot something in the studio.” Alan reached into his jacket pocket and took out the sketch Merlyn had given him the night they’d met. “When I heard the doorbell I decided to wait and see who it was. I’m not quite as trusting as he is and with a murderer on the loose, well,” he shrugged, “I didn’t want him to be the next victim.”

“So you’re ready to swear that you’ve been with him since before ten-thirty last evening?”

“I am. He picked me up at the library around what?” Alan glanced at Merlyn. “Five-thirty wasn’t it?”

Merlyn nodded. “About then I think.” He looked at the detective. “Yes, that would be right.” He could hold his glance steady because at least that much was the truth.

Detective Jonas tapped a finger against her lips as she studied the two men. “I’ll need you to sign a statement vouching to the fact that you were with him last night as you said,” she told Alan.

“Write it out and I’ll do it now.”

With a nod she asked him to repeat his story, writing it down verbatim as he did. When he’d finished let him read it and then sign it. When he had she looked at his signature and frowned. “I need your last name too, sir.”

“I don’t have one,” he replied tightly. “Ailín is all the name I have.”

“May I see some identification, please?”

Alan took his wallet from his back pocket, handing it to her.

“Open it please, sir, and hand me just the ID.”

 He did as she asked, giving her a folded piece of paper.

“This is a birth certificate, sir. I need some form of photo ID.”

“I don’t have any. Just that and…” he handed her another piece of paper, “my Social Security card.”

“This is highly unusual. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who didn’t have either a driver’s license or a state-issued ID card. How have you managed to get by so far without one?”

“I don’t drive and, well I really don’t believe that the government has the right to keep track of me that way if you want to know the truth.”

She chuckled. “I think the government believes otherwise. For your own sake I’d suggest you get proper ID as soon as possible. For now I’ll accept these, but I will check them out to make certain they’re legitimate.”

Alan nodded his head. “Be my guest.”

By this time Merlyn had managed to regain enough of his composure, such as it was, to ask the detective for details on Hunt’s murder. She told him that the alarm at the gallery had gone off at ten-twenty five p.m. The security company had immediately sent a man out to investigate when they couldn’t get hold of Hunt. He’d arrived at ten-forty, found the back door ajar and upon entering had discovered Hunt in his office, dead.

“One shot to the head just like Mr Weber, which suggests he knew his assailant,” she said in conclusion.

“It wasn’t me,” Merlyn said emphatically, running his hands through his hair in angry frustration.

“Of course it wasn’t,” Alan stated with a gentle hug.

“Apparently not,” the detective agreed, “since Ailín here vouches for your whereabouts.” She snapped her notebook closed. “Thank you both for your help. Mr Knight I’ll be in touch.”