by Spencer Kope
“What’s your gut tell you?”
Jimmy waits at a stop sign and then turns northbound on U.S. 101 before answering. “My gut? Well, I suppose if he’s really suffering from grandiose delusional disorder, he wants to talk. He can probably barely contain himself. It would be like Einstein discovering the theory of relativity, and then not telling anyone. It’s just not conceivable. I think the only thing that’s keeping him from talking is the Onion King. Somehow, he’s convinced Murphy that the secret must be protected, at least for now.” He strums the steering wheel for a moment, deep in thought.
“I’ll bet that’s it,” he says a moment later. “I’ll bet the Onion King promised him something or said there’d be more recognition if the timing was right, if he waited until given the go-ahead.”
“What if the Onion King helped Murphy perfect this so-called fix?” I ask. “Wouldn’t that make him a coinventor? And if that was the case, he’d have some say in when they made the big announcement. The way Murphy idolizes him it wouldn’t have been hard to control him.”
And then a darker thought occurs to me.
“What if it was his idea to dissolve the bodies?”
Jimmy and I tend to do a lot of brainstorming in the field, and that’s all my comment was meant to be. But as soon as I say it, I can see the idea settling heavily on my partner. “Somehow it seemed better when we thought Murphy came up with that,” he says quietly.
We ride in silence for a few minutes, but all the while there’s another thought nibbling at the corner of my mind. It’s a question that first raised its head the day before yesterday, after Jimmy’s first interview with Murphy. Now it’s back, and this time it won’t be ignored.
I look sideways at Jimmy long enough for him to notice, and when he gives me a questioning look, I say, “Why are we so sure they’ve never met in person?”
“Murphy said so,” he replies. “Why? You think they have?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t want to ignore a possible lead. What if the Onion King is just as psychotic as Murphy? And if that’s the case, wouldn’t it be possible that they met at a treatment center somewhere?”
Jimmy chews this over and then states what I’ve been thinking. “You want to get a warrant for his medical records.”
I shrug. “Diane’s been mostly left out of this one, and she’s probably champing at the bit right now. It would be nice if we could give her something to work with. Besides, at some point we have to go home. You know how cranky she gets when she doesn’t get to play.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy replies with a snort and a good-natured grin, “just slightly crankier than she is on any other given day—birthdays and holidays included.”
“You can pick your friends,” I reply, “but you can’t pick your family and coworkers.”
“Uh-huh. Remind me again, which one is she?”
* * *
Several months ago, I began writing letters to my girlfriend, Heather. It’s not that she lives in France or some other far shore, it’s just that our jobs keep us apart far too often. Heather is the owner, president, HTML coder, CEO, and head blogger at a website that specializes in crime stories, which is how we met.
Right now she’s in Chicago researching a murder case that may have ties to Russian organized crime. Not exactly the type of case you want your girlfriend sticking her nose into, but if I mentioned this concern she’d start with her left hand and list all the serial killers I’ve helped chase down. And when she ran out of fingers, she’d switch to toes … and keep going until they were almost gone.
In any case, I write Heather letters so that she knows that I’ve been thinking of her during our time apart. Most of it is pointless observations, dreams, thoughts on the next first edition I want to add to my collection, and my feelings regarding the taste and texture of bok choy. The content is really irrelevant; it’s the letter itself, the handwritten words, and the sentiment behind them that matter. When I’m traveling and she’s not, often my letter doesn’t even arrive in the mail until I’m home, but this too is irrelevant. Heather is like a schoolgirl whenever she gets one. I’m sure the thrill will wear off with time, though she denies this could ever happen.
The road is fairly smooth along this section of U.S. 101, so I break out my folder and retrieve a pen from the clip on the side. The exposed page on the right side has two paragraphs at the top, which I wrote on Sunday. Reading them quickly, I pick up right where I left off.
The words come easily.
* * *
I’m almost to the bottom of the page when Jimmy breaks his brooding silence. “I forgot Jane’s birthday yesterday.”
The words come as if in answer to a question I didn’t ask, and it’s clear that he’s been chewing this over for some time, letting it gnaw at him and fester until he just couldn’t take it any longer. That’s the funny thing about Jimmy: just when you think you have him sorted out—you don’t.
See, I thought he was quiet and withdrawn because he was thinking about the upcoming interview with Murphy. Turns out he’s worried about something entirely different—and Jimmy can be pretty hard on himself, particularly when it comes to his family. Birthdays, holidays, school events, date nights—at some point he’s missed them all … and more than once.
“I called her last night,” he continues, “but the signal was weak, so I tried to keep it short. We talked for just a minute, and then she put Petey on. I think she was probably trying to get even with me for leaving her alone with him. The kid has completely lost his mind, and the closer we get to Christmas the worse it gets.”
I chuckle at this, only because I’ve seen Petey when he’s excited and I don’t think there’s an auctioneer on the planet who could outtalk him.
“Yeah, go ahead and laugh,” Jimmy grumbles. “He’s always been excited about the presents, but now that he’s six I think he has a whole new understanding of Santa. His wish list last year included a Nerf gun and a Play-Doh press that makes dinosaurs. Take a guess what the number one thing on his list is this year.”
“I have no idea—” I begin to answer, but Jimmy talks right over me.
“One of those Phantom drones, the ones that cost over fourteen hundred bucks—like I’m going to give my six-year-old a drone in the first place.” He hesitates, and in a more subdued voice says, “When did Christmas get so complicated?”
“Since you made a little miniature of yourself,” I reply with a clever smile.
He grimaces at me, but then relents and returns the smile. “Careful. Someday you’re going to be in my shoes,” he warns. The wicked grin that follows suggests that the Ghost of Christmas Future visited him last night and gave him some special insights.
“Anyway,” he continues, “after talking to Petey, I completely forgot to say happy birthday to Jane.” He shakes his head. “We were supposed to go to Anthony’s for dinner, and she’s been bugging me to take her to the Upfront Theatre.”
“So, what you’re saying is that you’d give up girls-in-a-barrel and Murphy’s house of horrors just to go to dinner with your wife at Anthony’s, followed by some comedy show?”
“Absolutely!”
I smile at the force behind his answer. “Well, it’s a lucky thing you’re married to the most understanding woman in the world. You could miss a hundred birthdays because of this job and she’d tell you not to give it a second thought.”
Jimmy’s quiet a moment. He knows it’s true, but it still doesn’t sit well with him. “That doesn’t make it right,” he finally replies.
I can’t argue with that, so I don’t.
* * *
We arrive at the Clallam County Jail at nine.
Sergeant Martin Thomas greets us and, after verifying our credentials and securing Jimmy’s Glock, buzzes us through the security door into the facility. He pauses on the other side, waiting for the hydraulically loaded door to slowly close. When it finally seals into its casing and locks with a loud metallic clunk, it’s as if a tomb were closing—on
ly this tomb has lights.
With a wry smile, Sergeant Thomas presses a second button and the tomb begins to open on the other end, letting the world back in, only this world is vastly different from the one we just left.
The sparse intake hall is occupied by two inmates who are cuffed to separate steel benches, each irrevocably bolted to the floor.
“If you don’t mind hanging out here a moment, I’ll see if one of the interview rooms is free,” the sergeant says. “We’re a bit short-staffed, so things aren’t movin’ and shakin’ as silky-smooth as we like, but we’ll find a spot for you. If you call ahead, we can usually have things ready when you arrive.”
“I should have thought of that,” Jimmy replies. “It was a long night.”
“Tell me about it,” the sergeant replies, giving a weary sigh as he wheels around and wanders off in search of a vacant interview room.
Jimmy leans against the wall and watches him go. Pulling out his phone, he starts checking his messages and emails. I envy him. He’s always been comfortable wherever he finds himself, but it’s a little maddening that he can be so relaxed standing in the intake hall of a county jail with two inmates seated fifteen feet away.
I’m the exact opposite.
Just standing here I feel ill at ease. It’s nowhere near as bad as being in the woods, which gives me anxiety that’s often hard to manage, but the confined nature of a jail is so … confining. If I ever find myself on the wrong side of the bars, I’ll be the first one lining up to cut a deal or snitch on my cellmate—whatever it took to get out.
I’d probably get shivved in the shower for my trouble.
* * *
“All right, sorry about that,” Sergeant Thomas says, bustling back a moment later. “Looks like you lucked out. One of the public defenders just finished in room three. This way.” He motions for us to follow.
I fall in behind Jimmy and march down a perpendicular hall and through another controlled door. Three doors down on the left, Sergeant Thomas deposits us in a sterile room with a metal table in the middle that’s bolted to the floor. “That was a Mr. Murphy that you wanted to talk to, right?” he says from the doorway.
“No, his first name is Murphy, Murphy Cotton.”
“Cotton—right.” Something clicks in his head, and he asks, “Is he the one who had the girl in his trunk?”
“That’s him.”
“What was that all about? Ex-girlfriend or something?”
“No,” Jimmy replies. “A little more complicated than that.”
Sergeant Thomas accepts this and doesn’t press further. “Give me a couple minutes and I’ll round him up for you.” Before closing the door, he asks, “Can I get either of you something to drink? Water, soda, maybe some orange juice?”
Jimmy declines, but an orange juice sounds good to me right about now and the sergeant seems happy to oblige.
* * *
A few minutes go by … then five … then ten.
We hear the footsteps before we see him; just one set of feet. Sergeant Thomas opens the door and steps halfway in, letting the door continue swinging open, as if preparing an exit for us. “Did this Murphy guy know you were coming?” he asks.
“No,” Jimmy replies. I can’t tell if it’s concern or impatience that I hear in his voice. My first guess is that Murphy is with his lawyer, which could mean we’re going to be here awhile. It could also mean that Murphy will follow the advice of said lawyer and refuse to speak to us. That’s his constitutional right, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less disappointing when you’re sitting on my side of the table.
“Is he with someone?” I ask.
“Might be,” Sergeant Thomas replies. When he doesn’t elaborate, I shoot him a piercing stare that somehow reconnects his brain to his tongue. “What I mean to say is that if he is with someone I wouldn’t have any way of knowing.” He opens both palms to heaven in a supplicating gesture. “He’s not here.”
“What do you mean, he’s not here?” Jimmy snaps.
“He made bail last night.”
“How’s that possible? The judge set bail at a million dollars, and there’s no way he’s had a bail reduction hearing in the time since.”
Sergeant Thomas is shaking his head. “Bail was two thousand; I just looked it up. He posted through one of the local bond agencies.”
Jimmy’s stupefied. “What the hell’s going on?” he practically spits. “The guy’s a serial killer and you let him walk out the front door!”
The sergeant is taken aback. “No one said anything about him being a serial killer,” he snaps in return. “And it wouldn’t have mattered if they did. We’ve never had a mix-up on bail amounts. If the computer says bail is two thousand, bail is two thousand.”
Jimmy takes in a long, deep breath and lets it settle through his system. “You’re right,” he says a moment later in a much calmer voice. “Sorry for yelling. This is just—”
“Frustrating,” I finish.
Jimmy points a finger at me in acknowledgment. Rising from his chair, he gathers his things. “Can you contact the sheriff immediately and let her know that Murphy is out? After that, contact whoever handles your information technology—”
“That would be the county IT division,” Sergeant Thomas replies quickly.
Jimmy just nods. “Tell them we need a complete history of the bail record on Murphy: when it was entered, when changes were made, everything, and we need it in the next hour. Finally, get a hard copy of the arraignment document setting bail, and any updates, as well as the bail transaction details. Call the bonding agency and find out everything you can.”
“Where do I contact you?”
“Not me,” Jimmy replies, “Detective Sergeant Jason Sturman. You know him?”
He nods, and then says, “It’s a small county.”
As we exit the door and start up the hall, he calls after us. “Where are you going?”
“To catch a serial killer,” I reply.
“Again,” Jimmy adds in a low voice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Meetings are hell.
I know this because when I was fifteen I read Inferno by Italian poet Dante Alighieri. In the book-length poem, Dante recounts his journey through Hell in the company of one of ancient Rome’s greatest poets, Publius Vergilius Maro, better known as Virgil. His imaginative descriptions of the nine circles of Hell have stuck with me, and in recent years I’ve found myself applying them to meetings, of which I’m no fan.
As it turns out, Limbo is the First Circle of Hell. It comes from the Latin limbus, meaning edge or border, and, in Dante’s masterpiece, represented the edge or border of Hell. Over time, limbo has come to represent a state of waiting or oblivion and is also regarded as an imaginary place to which forgotten or unwanted things and people are relegated.
It may be just me, but I find it an apt description for most meetings.
Inferno is also where we get the phrase, Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. As Dante and Virgil pass through the gates of Hell, the disquieting statement is inscribed above, as if perched like some eager vulture eyeing the newcomers.
The phrase is often presented as a warning, but it’s not. A warning implies you have a choice, as if you arrive at the gate, see the ABANDON ALL HOPE sign, and say, Eh, I think I’ll go somewhere else.
There’s no escaping Hell.
Another thing meetings and the fiery abyss have in common.
* * *
I’d like to say that the meeting Jimmy and I walk in on at the sheriff’s office is a First-Circle-of-Hell-type meeting, but that would be a stretch. Pitched words slam into us as we walk through the conference room door, propelled this way and that by at least three different voices all speaking at once and talking over one another in increasingly louder intonations.
I study the room quickly, knowing that Jimmy’s doing the same.
Sheriff Angela Eccles is sitting quietly at the head of the table; I can’t tell if she’s angry or
just disappointed. To her left is a bald man in his midfifties who I recognize as Undersheriff Warren.
On the other side of Angie sits Detective Sergeant Jason Sturman. If Angie’s face is ambiguous, Jason’s is very clear: he wants someone’s head on a platter, perhaps garnished with a kidney. Nate is seated beside him, but he’s clearly intent on keeping his mouth shut and presenting as low a profile in his chair as he can manage without actually sitting on the floor.
At the opposite end of the table is a bespectacled woman in her forties who is flanked by three associates who even without identification badges or pocket protectors would be readily recognized as IT-types. The IT boss, Becky, seems like a nice enough person, but what comes out of her mouth dispels that silly notion in less than three seconds.
Clustered on both sides of the table between these opposing forces sit ranking members of the Clallam County Jail, including the chief, two lieutenants, and the unfortunate Sergeant Thomas, who looks like he’d rather get a root canal or a colonoscopy than sit in this room any longer than absolutely necessary.
When Angie sees us, she motions to a pair of empty chairs next to Nate. The room grows suddenly and inexplicably quiet as Jimmy and I move around the table and take a seat. I don’t like being at the center of attention, so as every eye in the room follows us across the carpet and into our respective chairs, my anxiety rises up like bad tequila.
“This is FBI Special Agent James Donovan and Operations Specialist Magnus Craig,” Angie says by way of introduction. “They’re the ones who led the hunt that resulted in the capture of Murphy Cotton.”
She looks around the room, taking advantage of the temporary cease-fire. “Before we start assigning blame, I suggest we go through what we know. Everyone seems to have a different piece of the puzzle that explains how Murphy was released, so let’s put it all together before we decide who to lynch.” She looks directly at Becky and asks, “Does that sound like a plan?”