“Yes.”
“And you understand your rights?”
“Yes.”
“Just because you waived your right to an attorney, that doesn’t mean you can’t ask for one at any time. You know that.”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t need an attorney. Correct?”
“I want to be helpful. I need to get home and rest.” She touches her pregnant belly as explanation.
“Of course. You have nothing to hide. We really appreciate your help. Honestly, the way I see it, you are a victim in all this. But that’s over now. You’re safe here. You need a pillow for your back? You want to put your feet up maybe? I can get another chair.”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, I’ll get these questions out of the way fast as I can and get you on your way.” Ruther’s mustache is calm. He opens the folder in front of Svetlana, like sweetly displaying the first spread of a picture book for a cherished child. It’s a photo of Ginny Flores next to a dumpster. Ruther explains, “I’m sorry to tell you this. This is Ginny Flores. Have you ever heard that name?”
“Never.”
“I didn’t think so.” He kindly pats her hand where it rests on the table. “Ginny was pregnant. She was choked to death. Your husband met her where she worked in the laundry of the International. He gave her gifts. Expensive gifts. Jewelry and more intimate things like lingerie. The kinds of gifts one would give a lover. Gifts designed to impress a young girl in love for the first time. They started an affair.” He pauses, flips to a close-up photo of Ginny’s brutalized throat. “According to Ginny’s mother, the relationship lasted several months.” He turns to Svetlana, who has gone still. “I’m sorry to do this. I know it must be difficult. I hate to spring this on you, to put you through this. But we need to get a complete picture before we charge your husband, Kaz.”
“I understand,” she says. “It’s such a shock.” She makes sniffling sounds.
Ruther produces what looks like a crisply ironed handkerchief from the pocket of his blazer.
“Thank you.” She bends into it, makes more sniffling sounds.
Ruther glances at the camera while patting her shoulder gently. “I’m so sorry to upset you, especially in your state. Moments like these, they make me want to quit this job. Making good people face horrible things makes me feel like a bad person,” he says. His voice drips with need, desperate to be forgiven and understood.
“No,” she says. She sits up, a determined look on her face, giving a convincing rendition of an innocent person’s attempt to be strong. “It is not your fault. You have to do your job. Kaz is the one.” She holds the handkerchief over her face. The move looks comically melodramatic through the monitor. She’s overconfident, Whistler thinks. Trying to play Ruther. She declares resolutely, “I must be strong for Ginny. She never had a chance to be strong for herself. I will not let him hurt anyone anymore. Including me.” She squeezes the handkerchief in her fist to demonstrate the strength of her commitment.
“So brave,” Ruther says. “Thank you.” He turns his attention back to the case of Ginny Flores. “This much seems clear. She got pregnant and intended to keep the baby. We think that may be why he killed her, the thing that triggered him. He had two women pregnant at the same time. But only one was his wife. You see?” Ruther places his hand over the crime scene photo as if to shield Svetlana from so much harsh truth. He leans a bit closer. “Had she lived, Ginny’s baby would have been your unborn child’s sibling.”
“Half sibling,” Svetlana corrects him.
“Of course. Half.” He moves the photo aside to reveal the next victim. “This is Anna Beth Harpole, in town from California for a conference. Went for a morning walk. Kaz spotted her and attacked her and left her body next to a dumpster. Same as Ginny.” He lets her sit and stare at the photo. She passes the wad of handkerchief from one hand to the other. “We have video evidence of his van.”
Whistler appreciates how Ruther wields partial truths.
Svetlana rocks in her chair, folding her arms over her belly. Either buying time or genuinely bothered. It’s hard to tell over the monitor. Whistler sips a bit of coffee. The stitches in his scalp pull.
Svetlana says, “Was she pregnant also?” She doesn’t look at Ruther. Whistler wishes he could see her downcast eyes. He has a flicker of regret at the way the job is shaping his worldview. But it slips away as he focuses back on the monitor.
Ruther says earnestly, “She was not pregnant. Thank god for that.”
“Yes,” Svetlana solemnly agrees.
Ruther taps the photo of Anna Beth. A photo Whistler took himself with the digital tablet. Whistler can almost smell the rotten dumpster and sweet flowers. He sets his coffee aside. Ruther redirects. “Did you have any indication your husband could be so violent? Any hint this kind of thing was going on?”
The reply is not immediate. “Yes,” Svetlana says. Whistler can see her wheels turning. She’s clearly feeling comfortable enough to improvise. “Kaz was sweet when we met. He bought me gifts. The kinds of gifts you say he bought for the girl Ginny. These earrings.” She brushes her hair aside to show a dainty silver hoop. “I was in love. He was charming, you see? And I am much younger than him. He insisted we marry right away. I was happy. I got pregnant. My father died suddenly. Kaz took over the business. That’s when things started to change, slowly at first. Kaz would yell about the house being dirty. He would get so mad. Grabbing me hard, leaving bruises. Bruises on my wrists. Finger marks on my arms. Once he nearly crushed my throat. His grip was hard.” She touches her neck.
“You’re safe here,” Ruther reminds her.
Svetlana starts to cry, gasping for breath.
Ruther says, “We should stop. It’s okay. You can come back tomorrow. ” But he doesn’t close the folder or give her space. He hovers and waits. In the AV closet, Whistler waits too. He can feel the turn coming.
“It’s just. Looking at these pictures,” Svetlana says. “I knew he was capable of violence. I never dreamed it could be this bad. Not murder. I married a nightmare. He deceived me. Looking back, it makes sense.” She sobs and cradles her belly. “He could have killed me, killed my baby. Like these poor women, like Ginny’s baby.” She honks her nose wetly.
“You need water?”
“No.” She stops crying. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. You’ve had so much to contend with: your first pregnancy, your father’s passing, running a business, and a manipulative husband. I remember when my wife was pregnant, her hormones went out of control. She couldn’t think straight. She cried watching a Hamburger Helper commercial. Once she went a little crazy at a restaurant because the pepperoni on her slice wasn’t evenly distributed. ‘Why can’t people be more careful?’ she wanted to know. Was it like that for you?” Ruther places a hand on Svetlana’s shoulder again.
“Yes.” She rattles her head. “I didn’t know what he was up to. How could I? Because of the pregnancy.” She turns slightly to present her belly. Strokes it in circles like polishing a bowling ball,
“You sure you don’t want some water? Let me get you some. It’s no problem. I want to help.”
“Yes,” she acquiesces.
Whistler watches Ruther leave the room. There is a rap of knuckles on the door. Ruther opens it and snatches the bottle of water.
“You taking notes?” he asks. He winks, thoroughly enjoying himself. He closes the door before Whistler can respond.
On the monitor, Svetlana is not crying. She looks relaxed, in control. There is a knock on the door. She brings the handkerchief to her nose and blows loudly.
Ruther walks in. He drags his chair to the opposite side of the table. He plunks the water bottle down. She’s taken aback. He says, “So you were so confused that you attacked one of my detectives? Knocked him clean out, split the back of his head open?”
“He didn’t identify himself. He had a gun on the father of my child.”
“Bu
t you had met him before? Right?”
“His back was turned.”
“Yes, I see. That makes perfect sense. When you saw who he was, after he fell, you must have been in shock? Yes?”
“Yes. I was shocked.”
“Of course. And is the shock why you didn’t call an ambulance? Is it why you left him to bleed out without calling anyone for help?” Her mouth moves with no sound, trying to form a response. Before she can start to lie, he says, “After leaving him wounded, you drove home to pack a bag, ten thousand dollars cash, and your passport, because you were confused?”
“Yes. Very confused.”
“So confused you ransacked the journalist’s bag and found her phone, saw the text about Rosa Zhang being out of her coma? How confused do you have to be for that to happen?”
“I’m pregnant, with hormones.”
“My wife was pretty loopy, but she never committed the attempted murder of a Chicago detective, conspired to commit the murder of a witness to a crime, or try to flee the country to avoid prosecution. I’ve heard of hormones but that is a serious case of hormones. She did get worked up about that pizza, though.”
Svetlana knows she’s been played and gives a defiant look.
“So,” Ruther goes on, “when your husband told me you directed him to go to the hospital and kill the only living witness?”
“It’s a lie. It was him. I knew nothing. I was confused. So pregnant. So scared.” She rubs her belly to remind him of her vulnerable state. But she knows it’s too late. Whistler can see it in her face.
“I suppose you didn’t nail Moe Diaz in that bathroom so you could make your escape? She’s lying about that?” Svetlana starts to speak, maybe to lawyer up. “Wait right there,” Ruther says, and leaves before she gets the chance.
Fifteen seconds later, he bangs into the AV closet. He burns a DVD. His mustache is in total control. He smiles at Whistler, toggles a switch to change monitors to a view of Kaz Gladsky. “Watch and learn,” he says again. Then he wheels a TV out of the room. A minute later, Whistler sees him arrive in the room where Kaz is waiting.
Ruther says, “Women. Can’t live with them, can’t get away with choking them to death.” Then he plays the DVD of Svetlana claiming her innocence, blaming Kaz for the whole thing. Whistler watches Gladsky’s face droop as he realizes Svetlana is hanging him out to dry.
“Fucking bitch,” Kaz says.
Ruther says, “You are under arrest for the murders of Ginny Flores and Anna Beth Harpole, and the attempted murder of Rosa Zhang, Moe Diaz, and Calvert Greene.”
“I want a lawyer,” Kaz says.
“You’re going to need a good one.”
Hot Shrimps
Two nights after the arrests, Whistler explains it to Moe over a big plate of hot shrimps.
“Ruther sat me in front of a monitor in the AV closet. ‘Watch and learn, young Padawan,’ he said.”
“What’s a Padawan? A nerd thing?” Moe asks, her fingers orange with spicy sauce.
“From Star Wars. A Padawan is a Jedi in training. It’s common knowledge.”
“Like I said, nerd thing.”
“I knew what he meant.”
“Exactly, a nerd thing. Got it. Proceed, young Padawan.”
“I watched the monitor as Ruther interviewed Svetlana.”
“Sociopathic bitch.”
Whistler rubs the line of prickly suture ends along the back of his skull. “You plan to keep interrupting?” He swigs beer to cool his mouth.
“You plan to make a point soon?”
“You’re sassy. Can I assume your love interest agreed to a date?”
Moe smiles a smile he remembers from their shared childhood, genuine and a bit bashful. It looks right on her. “Get on with it,” she says.
“Ruther was masterful. The way he worked those two. I learned a lot.”
“He got a confession?”
“They implicated one another. The lawyers will sort it out. With the evidence we have—it’s a matter of sentencing. See who the jury thinks deserves how much time. Convictions look very likely. They may take plea bargains. But it won’t save them from decades in prison. Though Svetlana will have that baby soon. I feel bad about that part. The baby didn’t do anything. You know. Svetlana is trying to leverage it for sympathy. But I doubt it will save her.”
Moe knows a hair tie with Anna Beth’s DNA had been found over the gearshift of Kaz’s van, a grim memento. Along with one taken from Rosa.
“Can I quote you? On any of this?” she asked.
“It’s mostly educated guessing about how it will play out. It is out of my hands mostly. Except for testifying in court.” He swigs the last of his beer. “What the hell. If I say anything newsworthy, you can call me an unnamed department source. Let me read it before you post it.”
“Of course.” She licks her fingertips one after the other, enjoying her life. She finishes her beer and waves the empty in the air so the server will bring another.
“So listen,” Whistler says, “I met this girl. But she’s like half a foot taller than me. Blonde. You think I have any shot?”
“You want me to be honest?”
“It’s always dangerous to open that door. But go for it.” Cold beers are placed on the table.
Moe smiles at her cousin. “She’d be lucky to have you. You could always use a step stool.”
He shakes his head. They knock their beers together and drink, not saying much but happy to be together.
“Here’s a funny thing: I’m actually enjoying my editing duties. It forces me to consider what I do deeply enough to teach it to others. You see what I mean?”
“I think so. Sounds like a good thing.”
“I was talking to Dale a while back. Gave him some advice. I told him the first story isn’t the whole story. That got me thinking about Precious Sharp and Maria Reyes. Remember them?”
“Sure. What about them?”
“I made pretty quick assessments of their deaths without a lot to go on. Mostly my gut. I decided they weren’t related to the Anna Beth Harpole murder, and I moved on.”
Whistler gets a sly look. “Same thing you accused the cops of doing.”
“I know. So because the first story isn’t the whole story, I’m going to take another look.”
“That’s good. I may have learned a lesson from Ruther about interrogation.”
“What’s that?”
“After he played Kaz and Svetlana against each other and they asked for separate lawyers, he told me something that made a lot of sense. He goes something like, ‘I realized a long time ago I have a face people are unimpressed with. People who think they’re smart figure I must be dumb. People who think they’re hard assume I’m soft. On and on. It’s my gift. I project an unimpressive mediocrity, and that gives everyone I interview the idea they are in control. It gives me an unbelievable advantage. I know exactly who I am, but no one else does.’ What do you think of that?”
“That is deeper than I expected,” Moe admits.
“Which proves his point.”
“I guess so,” she says.
They drink their beers and pay their bills. Outside Moe says, “I’ve been thinking about what Ruther said about projecting mediocrity. Maybe you have the same gift, Whistler.”
“I’d tell you to fuck off, but I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
Diaz Family Reunion
Three weeks later, at her dad’s insistence, Moe organized a barbecue. She invited Whistler and his coworkers, her uncle Sebastian, Vivian, Jerome, and the ankle-biters. She also invited Cyn.
Now Moe parks her new used Jeep Renegade and grabs the ice her dad insisted they needed right after she introduced him to Cynthia Regan. She knew the ice was a ruse; Francis wanted a chance to get to know the woman she was dating. Cyn seemed comfortable with the arrangement and had even blown Moe a kiss as she left.
Moe uses her foot to knock open the gate and waddles across the yard, a twenty-pound bag gripped in
each hand. Cynthia is cranking an umbrella open over one of the tables. Francis holds his hand above the grill to test the heat. Moe feels like celebrating. She has spent much of the last several weeks researching and interviewing and writing. She’s not clear on all the angles, but from her cousin’s and her own digging, she knows new details of the case—by far the biggest story she has ever broken.
It started with Ginny Flores. When Svetlana discovered Kaz was having an affair and that Ginny was pregnant with his child, she convinced him to end it in the most permanent way possible. Then Svetlana got the idea that her husband should kill another random girl, someone who could never be connected with him, in the same way as Ginny. “She thought it would make him less likely to be suspected,” Whistler told Moe. They agreed it was a crazy kind of logic. But Kaz had found he enjoyed stalking new victims and planning attacks. A psychosis was born: he kept killing and began collecting mementoes.
Kaz had confirmed, as part of his plea deal, that his second victim was Maria Reyes. He’d seen her crossing the playground on her way to get her piccolo; when she came out, he called out to ask her for directions. She wanted to be helpful. He’d passed Precious Sharp in the aisle of a corner market, followed her home, gotten to know her routine; he’d drawn the process out a good long while. Moe had been wrong about Precious’s boyfriend, wrong about the school custodian too. But her second look at the murders had put them on Whistler’s radar. Whistler had tipped the DA, who offered Kaz some minor concessions for coming clean. So Moe got it right in the end. She was glad their stories had been told and their killer found. Mostly she was relieved that Loretta Sharpe had a little peace. Mr. Reyes, however, had seemed as tortured by his unexpressed grief as the first time she’d spoken to him. She liked to think it was a good thing she had done. One other thing she’d been able to pull off was to push the instrument rental store to write off the loss of the stolen piccolo and cancel the debt.
Her articles had brought public pressure. The mayor weighed in, like a crime fighter in an impeccably tailored suit. Had anything changed? Maybe not. Moe knew some victims would get far less attention and effort than they should. But she could keep writing. And her cousin, the police detective, would keep detecting.
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