by Paul Bishop
He held her eyes until she looked away. “I hate you,” she said quietly, and fifteen minutes later she was gone.
Ash didn’t have the energy to move, so he stayed on the bed while trying to sort through his emotions.
Depression was a funny thing, he thought, the inherent contradiction almost making him smile.
This time, he knew Holly wouldn’t be coming back. There wasn’t enough time left. By the time she came around to returning, he would be gone.
He touched the tick under his right eye. His finger felt the nerve jump. It was infrequent, but becoming slightly noticeable. Ash was well aware of what the condition heralded. He only hoped he had enough time for one last monster hunt.
That was all he asked.
One last hunt.
One last chance to practice the skills God had dispensed to him. One last chance to rid the world of an aberration. And now it looked as if there was one right in his own backyard – the continuation of a case the bureau had abandoned.
Ash knew all about monsters. He knew they didn’t go away. They hid in the dark until it was time to come out and play again.
Eventually, he slid off the sheets and pulled on a pair of jeans. An upright piano stood against one of the bedroom’s inside walls. Ash sat down on the bench and ran his long fingers slowly down the keys, picking out a blues riff. The movements of his hands were graceful and sure, caressing a lover who would never forsake him.
When the tune was done, he stood up and walked across the bedroom to open a pair of stained glass doors. He stepped out onto the balcony, embracing the night air, hoping it would dry his tears.
Twenty minutes later, he was still standing on the balcony, the natural elements continuing to act as a balm for his all-too-human pain. The soft page of his beeper penetrated the dark mood, but it was still a few moments before he moved. He’d been anticipating the summons. Even, in a morbid way, hoping for it. It was that kind of night.
Death was calling.
And Ash was supposed to be the answer.
Chapter 5
Fey believed an interrogation was an intricate verbal ballet. It was far different, far more complex, than a simple interview. An interview was designed strictly to get information. Compared to interrogation, interviewing was a game for amateurs. Some detectives, however, never get beyond that level. They know how to ask questions, but they don’t know how to ask the right questions.
For Fey, interrogation was an art form. It was a complete and personal interaction between detective and suspect. Each had to give a little bit of their own personality in order to get a bit of the other’s personality in return. The sticking point would come when the only piece the suspect could give back in return was the admission of his or her guilt.
The days when interrogations were conducted with bright lights and rubber hoses had long since disappeared from the mainstream of American law enforcement. As a result, an interrogation of a truly innocent suspect was a simple, if arduous, process of maintaining that innocence. If a suspect is innocent, the truth will eventually win out. Circumstances will eventually be explained, and physical evidence will confirm the truth of the statements made within the oppressive walls of the interrogation room.
If a suspect is guilty, however, then he or she must hide the guilt as if it were the most prized of their possessions. And it is the process of misering away this guilt, stashing it amongst the deepest of mental shadows, that an interrogator must detect – and once detected, seize upon it like a loose thread which will unravel the whole garment.
A guilty suspect longs to scream the condemning evidence of guilt from the rooftops. Guilt is almost a physical thing growing inside of them, forcing its way to the surface as if it were a bubble in a caldron destined to explode on the surface. A detective who has the skills to recognize the guilt below the surface can coax and wheedle it out as if it were a timid animal in search of sustenance.
When Fey and Monk let themselves into the interrogation room where Darcy Wyatt awaited them, they were both filled with suppressed anticipation. They were hunters with their quarry firmly in their sights. They had only to find the right trigger, the correct provocation, which would gain them a trophy-sized confession.
“Good morning, Mr. Wyatt,” Fey said.
“I want – ”
Fey jumped right into the middle of Wyatt’s first statement. “There are many things we all want, Mr. Wyatt, and we’ll get to each of them in time.”
The last thing Fey needed was for Wyatt to say he wanted a lawyer. If those words crossed his lips, their best chance at gaining the truth was effectively over. Fey had to get him to talk to her. To trust her. To think he could convince her of his innocence and walk away.
Fey also knew the microphone in the room was hot. Everything being said was being recorded for later use in court. Fey and Monk had to play everything just right so there could be no taint to shift a jury’s sympathy. If it even remotely looked like the police were badgering the suspect, one or more jury panel members could be turned to the suspect’s side.
There would be time later to put all the physical evidence together, but a confession was still the most dramatic kind of evidence to use in court and amongst the hardest to refute. The plain fact was in cases where a confession was obtained there was almost never a trial. With a confession in hand, the case would be plead out long before twelve members of a jury had a chance to hear it.
“I’m Detective Croaker and this is my partner, Detective Lawson,” Fey formally introduced herself and Monk. “We want to ask you a few questions to see if we can clear up this misunderstanding.”
“Do you know who my father is?” Wyatt asked, aggression oozing from him like a tangible object.
Fey was well aware of the specter of Hiram Wyatt hanging over the interrogation. The fact that he was Darcy’s father, however, was mildly interesting. It may have kept him out of deeper trouble when he was younger, but it appeared there was currently a rift in the family.
Fey had anticipated this question and was ready with her comeback. “If you’re nineteen years old and working as a delivery boy for a pizza parlor,” Fey said quietly. “I don’t think it’s going to matter to me very much who your father is because it doesn’t appear it matters to him.”
Wyatt had been leaning forward in his chair when he’d made his statement, but Fey’s words visibly deflated him. He scooted back in the hard, wooden chair set opposite Fey, but on the same side of a scarred table. He crossed his legs and folded his arms.
By placing both herself and Darcy in chairs on the same side of the table – her own closest to the door – Darcy could not use the table as a physical or emotional barrier. With his back to the wall and Fey sitting in front of him, Darcy had nowhere to go. Physically, he couldn’t. Emotionally, he couldn’t hide.
Monk stood quietly, almost blending into the wall of the room. His job was to observe, to get Darcy to forget he was even there. Center court was reserved for Fey and Darcy.
By watching Wyatt’s body language, Monk knew Fey’s words had struck home. Wyatt’s daddy had money with a capital M and power with a capital P, but it also looked like daddy had written off his good-for-nothing offspring. If nothing else, Wyatt wasn’t sure enough of the situation to believe daddy would immediately ride to his rescue.
Fey was also watching Wyatt’s body language. She’d successfully deflected his initial bluster and changed him from aggressive to defensive. Now, she had to untie the knots into which he had physically and mentally tied himself. She had to get him to the point where telling the truth would be the only option.
Along with Wyatt’s motorcycle helmet, Fey had brought a large stack of files into the interrogation room. Most of them had nothing to do with the case. They were simply a prop to make Wyatt think there was a huge weight of evidence against him. Without saying anything further, she put her glasses on and began paging through the files.
“Can I have a cigarette?” Wyatt asked eventually,
the silence getting to him.
Fey set aside the files. “Sorry. Even I can’t smoke in here.”
She watched Wyatt shudder slightly.
Fey made brief eye contact with Monk. He’d also seen Wyatt’s response. It was a sign of anxiety…of guilt.
“How are you feeling, Darcy?” Fey asked. Switching to Wyatt’s first name. She noticed the visible pulsation of the carotid artery on the right side of Darcy’s neck.
“Okay,” Darcy said.
“Good.” Fey smiled gently. “However, I’m sure you want to get home. You’ve had a long night.”
Wyatt looked at her directly for the first time since slipping into his defensive body language.
Fey continued as if she hadn’t noticed the birth of hope in Wyatt’s attitude. “Perhaps you can straighten out this whole situation if you answer a few questions for us.”
Wyatt may have had a couple of prior arrests as a juvenile, and his daddy may be a top hot-shot lawyer, but Fey was banking he was cocky enough to think he could talk himself out of trouble.
“You can ask,” Wyatt said, copping an attitude of cool.
This was the tricky part. Fey had to get Wyatt through the next couple of minutes. If she could get a waiver, she knew she could crack him. “Before we continue, I’d like to advise you of your rights.”
“You better,” said Wyatt, still cool. “I got rights.”
What about the rights of the women you attacked, Fey thought without any outward change of expression. Everybody was always concerned about their sacred rights, but they didn’t care about their responsibilities.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Fey opened with the expected rhetoric, then softened it. “This means you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to, but you can talk to me if you do want to. I know you’ve got some questions for me, which I will be happy to answer. I also have some questions for you, which I hope you will answer.”
This extended explanation sounded good on tape, as if the detective was making sure a suspect understood, but in reality, it was a distraction. In essence, Miranda told suspects to keep their mouths shut. However, Fey’s explanation told them they could talk.
Fey quickly continued. Timing was everything. “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, an attorney will be appointed for you without charge before questioning. Do you know what an attorney is?”
Again on tape it would appear Fey was explain Wyatt’s Miranda rights in detail, but it was another distraction. Getting the suspect thinking about how to define an attorney took their mind off asking for one.
“I know what an attorney is,” Wyatt stated flatly.
“What is it?” Fey asked.
Wyatt looked stumped for a moment. “It’s a dude who’s on your side in court,” he said finally, a frown on his face.
“Good,” Fey said and paused.
She always waited a few seconds before going after the waiver. It gave suspects time to forget the initial impact of being advised. It also gave the detective time to reestablish the rapport.
As long as the suspect was advised of the Miranda admonision, and the waiver questions were asked and answered, everything was legally sound. Nothing was said about the time span involved.
“Can you get us all a cup of coffee,” she asked Monk.
“Sure,” he replied. He took no offence at being given the errand to run. Monk knew what Fey was doing and quickly went about filling her request.
While Monk was out of the interrogation room. Fey asked a series of questions not specific to the case.
“How does your face feel?”
“It all right,” Wyatt said.
Too bad, Fey gave silent range to her thoughts, I was hoping it hurt like the blazes. Aloud she asked, “How bad was your motorcycle messed up?”
Wyatt shrugged.
“Did the officers impound it or leave it at the scene?”
“They impounded it?” Wyatt answered.
Fey played into giving Wyatt renewed hope. “When we get done, I’ll see if I can waive the impound fees.” Not a chance, she thought.
“Thanks,” Wyatt said, chewing on a hangnail.
When Monk came back with the coffee. Fey asked, “Do you understand your rights, Darcy?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to give up your right to remain silent? Do you want to talk to me?” Fey asked both questions in quick succession, personalizing the issue from an interrogation into a conversation with a sympathetic listener.
“I’ll talk to you,” Darcy said.
Fey let out a half breath. She was almost home. “Do you want to talk to me right now, just you and me, without an attorney?”
Darcy paused for a second, looking at Fey. “Sure,” he said. “I got nothing to hide.”
How many times had Fey heard the exact same lie. Your father is going to kill you when he finds out, Fey thought, as she watched Wyatt smirking at her. You’ve got plenty to hide, and I’m going to find out exactly what it is.
Chapter 6
Fey sipped her coffee and then put the cup down on the table.
“How long have you worked for Fratelli Pizza?” she asked.
“About three months.”
“What do you do?”
“I deliver pizzas and clean stuff up.”
Fey fiddled with her coffee cup. “You’ve got a father who’s a heavy hitter. How come you’re delivering pizzas?”
“He doesn’t give a crap about me. Never did.”
Fey pulled Darcy’s juvenile rap sheet from the pile of files on the table. She glanced at it. “He rescued you in the past.”
Darcy shrugged. “Didn’t want to soil the family name, so he stuck me away.”
“In Vista del Sur?”
Darcy face scrunched in distaste “Concentration camp for juvenile embarrassments. I never raped that old lady. She came on to me.”
“A lot of old ladies come on to you?” Fey asked.
Darcy smirked. “Some broads like slumming. How about you?”
Fey ignored him and asked another question. “For how many Fratelli Pizzas do you deliver?”
“Four. I’m the relief driver.”
“When you make deliveries, do women come on to you?”
“Sometimes.” Darcy’s arms and legs were still crossed, but loosely. Fey was building his ego, and he was responding.
Fey was instinctively reading Darcy, looking for a chink in his armor. While verbally dancing around the violent rapes, she was analyzing everything she knew about Darcy and the crimes.
She believed the key might be the strong animosity between Darcy and his father. When Fey first confronted Darcy, he had thrown his father in her face. When Fey called his bluff, Darcy sullenly backed off behind an attitude of indifference. Fey had seen this happen with so many suspects and knew Darcy’s cool exterior was a brittle twig.
Darcy didn’t want to be captured, but now he wanted the whole mess to be exposed. Darcy resented his father and on some level wanted to use the situation to get his own back.
Darcy wasn’t a master criminal. His crimes had not been planned any further than choosing victims who would have trouble identifying him. The rapes were disorganized, angry, violent outbursts. Fey was banking Darcy’s anger had less to do with sex or women and more to a transference of frustrations centered on his father.
Fey had seen this transference in action before. A year earlier, she’d handled a case where a sixteen-year-old boy was badly beaten by his father. When the beating finished, the boy loaded up a rifle and went into the residential neighborhood shooting the first male adult he saw. He couldn’t face shooting his father, instead settling for a father substitute. Darcy case had a different outlet, but the process of transference was the same.
There were other key points. Despite the rift, Darcy was still a lawyer’s son. He may be naive, but he knew better than to waive his rights. Darcy wanted to confess, needed crimes made public, needed to strike back at
his father in an indirect, yet shaming manner.
Hating her own deceased father, Fey understood the powerful need to find something, anything, related to love behind the hatred. She also knew fulfilling the need was as impossible as touching the end of the universe.
Understood Darcy, however, didn’t mean she felt compassion or sympathy for him. He made the choice to rape and bludgeon. Hating his father was no excuse, but Fey would let him think that it was. She would let him rationalize all he wanted as long as he gave her the confession she wanted.
“Darcy, do you know why you’re here?” she asked.
Darcy shrugged.
Fey smiled inwardly. She was already halfway home. He wasn’t denying anything. He was going to make her work a little harder, make her put the pressure on him so he could justify the confession, but he was going to cough in the end. Of that Fey was sure.
In the corner, Monk was holding himself very still, barely even breathing. He knew Darcy’s whole attention was focused on Fey, and there was no way he wanted to do anything to break that connection. If he had been a betting man, Monk would back Fey every time when it came to getting a confession. She was a wizard at manipulation and judging a suspect’s response. She couldn’t win them all. Nobody could. But she won more that she lost, and in the final accounting that was all that mattered.
Fey casually picked up Darcy’s motorcycle helmet and examined it. She wrapped one hand around the mouth-guard and very slowly and deliberately raised the helmet up in the air over her head. And just as slowly and deliberately, she brought it down to touch with feather softness against the open palm of her other hand. The movement was silent and graceful and would never be picked up by the room’s hidden microphone.
Darcy turned his head away from Fey as she repeated the movement.
“We both know why you’re here, Darcy.”
Fey raised and lowered the helmet again. This time it slapped a little harder into her open palm.