by John Cutter
“That was our understanding of it, too,” Medveded said evenly. “What’d you do while he was killing her?”
“I went upstairs to look for money, to make it look like a robbery. We got about four hundred dollars.”
“Four hundred and forty, by the receipts we pulled up,” Medveded said, making up a number.
Anderson shrugged. “I don’t know; could have been,” he said dismissively. “Anyway, when he was done Adam put the box cutter in her hand and wiped it off with a paper towel, and we got out of there. We got a room at some shitty little motel, cleaned up, and got out of California.”
“Right, well, that makes sense with what we knew about the La Jolla incident,” Medveded said, making sure his voice was edged with just the right tone of impatience. “The others are a bit more complicated, I expect.”
“Not much,” Anderson said with a slight yawn.
“Well, let’s talk about that next,” Medveded said calmly. Inside, it felt as though he was exploding. Not only had he just taken a confession on a crime none of them had been aware of, but he could sense Anderson’s prideful detachment from the crimes he’d committed, and behind the impenetrable front of Medveded’s empathy, he hated the young murderer. It was inexpressibly difficult, this part of the job—sitting in a room for hours with a person so reprehensible, they made you sick; listening to them recount horrific acts with cold indifference, all the while acting as though what they were saying was the most normal thing in the world to you. But Medveded had mastered it.
Anderson sat quietly a moment. Before he could get too into his thoughts, Medveded leaned in.
“You know, Brian,” he went on, “we’ve seen a lot in this line of work, and in the grand scheme of things, what you did there? It wasn’t so bad. Obviously, it was mainly Adam’s doing, this whole thing, and your part in it was completely secondary—but besides that, you know, I get it.” He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper, looking toward the door. “I mean, I know what it’s like to grow up wealthy; I grew up in Lake Success, over in Long Island. Always had money in my pocket. And did I get respect from women? No. And why? Because deep down, they’re all bitches, my friend.” Anderson smiled slightly, nodding his head in agreement. Medveded continued. “Far as I’m concerned, they all deserve a little of that. You can’t take it as far as your friend Adam did, but that wasn’t you. And you said she enjoyed it—didn’t you say that?”
“Yeah, I think she did,” Anderson smirked.
“And the others?”
“Harder to say, but yeah, I think so.”
“Well, I’ve got news for you, Brian,” Medveded said, nodding. “They almost all do. It’s not talked about, but it’s true. Trust me, I’ve seen a lot of these types of cases, and I’m sure that if you thought they were enjoying it, it’s because they were. But I’m getting off-topic,” he said, allowing himself to appear the slightest bit flustered. “What happened when you guys got back to Boston?”
“Well, Adam got obsessed with what had happened in San Diego. I mean obsessed. He even went online and was researching murder and sex crimes from the past.”
“So was that when you guys planned the New York murders?”
Anderson held up a finger. “I didn’t. That was all Adam—he just kept telling me about all this stuff he was reading about, and what a rush it had been back in California. I didn’t like how it had ended, but he said it’d be different. He kept saying the next woman would be better, prettier, sexier—he said we’d make sure she was someone who’d excite him.”
“So tell me about the first,” Medveded said.
“The one in Queens,” Anderson said thoughtfully, to Medveded’s secret gratification. So the Queens woman had been the first, as he’d suspected. “That was really similar to the San Diego one, actually; at least in how it started. We’d gone to see the tree in Rock Center that day. When we were leaving, driving down Fifth Avenue, this cute blonde cuts us off. Adam beeps at her, and she flips him the bird”—Anderson raised his middle finger demonstratively—“and suddenly it’s like déjà vu all over again. Here we are, following this broad all the way to Queens. I know the area okay; I’ve got a few relatives in Jamaica Estates.
“So anyway, she pulls into her driveway. Her house is completely dark—no sign of life. Adam parked around the corner, near a house under construction, and we walked back to her house. We’re waiting out front, kind of talking about what’s going on—I just wanted to make sure it didn’t go as far as the last one, but Adam was really getting excited—and she opens the front door. I think she was throwing something out. She was pretty startled; I mean, we were standing right in front of her door. She tried to slam it on us, but Adam was really fast, and I helped him, and together we were too strong.” Anderson got a strange look. “We’ve always been a team, him and me. I mean, he was in charge of all this,” he was quick to add, “but it’s hard to stop helping someone when you’re so used to it, you know?”
“Of course I know,” Medveded said. “How do you think these police-brutality things happen, where there’s more than one cop involved? You get one bad guy, doing one bad thing—how does anyone else go along with it? It’s the camaraderie. You work, or live, or go to school with someone long enough, you can’t just turn on them when things get complicated; it’s just human nature. But please,” he said, forcing another friendly smile, “go on.”
After two and a half more hours of interviewing, Brian Anderson had confessed to four murders. One more to go, and Alex Medveded would have done his job to the absolute best of his ability. Not that he hadn’t already; looking on from the next room, a number of detectives were all but taking notes on the techniques he’d been using. The man was an absolute artist—he’d been so convincing in the course of the interview, some of his own colleagues had caught themselves wondering whether he didn’t have a side of himself he’d been hiding from them all along.
“So, Brian,” Medveded was saying, as patiently and deliberately as in the beginning, “we have the woman in La Jolla, one in Jamaica Estates, one on Sutton Place, and one on 63rd Street in Manhattan. I really appreciate your cooperation in telling me all this; it’s going to be crucial in the case against Adam, and in helping you however we can. Now we just have one more to talk about: the woman from Twenty-First and Park Avenue South.”
Anderson looked at Medveded like he’d suddenly sprouted a second head.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
It was the closest Medveded came to betraying surprise in the whole interview, but he kept his composure. “Come on, Brian,” he insisted. “We’ve really had an open communication between us over the last several hours. I feel like we understand each other really well. Don’t tell me you’re not going to tell me about this one, after all that?”
“I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Anderson said, shaking his head vehemently. “We only did the ones I told you about—nothing else.”
Now came the second real surprise for Detective Medveded: he felt instinctively that Brian was telling him the truth. Perhaps Adam had done this one on his own—? He decided to take Anderson’s word, and feel out that possibility.
“Don’t you think Adam could have done it without you? I mean, from what you told me, he was never able to perform while you were there anyway; you even said you’d started calling him Dead Dick, after the one in Queens.”
Anderson laughed. “Yeah, that’s right—he was a dead dick mother-fucker, all right. But I don’t think he’d have done it on his own; I mean, I’m sure he could have,” he caught himself, “but I just don’t know when he would have done it without my knowing. I can’t remember the last time we weren’t together. When’d it happen, anyway?”
“Three days ago,” Medveded said immediately, knowing the rapport he’d built with Anderson was worth infinitely more than the “you don’t ask the questions, I ask the questions” stance a lot of cops would take.
“No way,” Anderson said. �
�We haven’t left Boston for a week.”
“All right, I believe you,” Medveded said, meaning it. His mind was racing. “Listen, Brian, can I get you something to eat? I know we’ve been at it a long time.”
“Sure—I’m pretty hungry,” Anderson agreed. “Something good.”
“Sure—whatever you want,” Medveded said. After everything Anderson had just given up, he’d buy him a goddamn steak dinner if he asked for it. “I’m going to grab someone to order for you; think about what you want in the meantime. And Brian,” he said on his way to the door, “I think you appreciate that I’ve said some stuff in here that I would rather not have spread around. You know I’m here to help you; can I have your word that you won’t repeat what I’ve said to you?”
Anderson smiled. Medveded could practically see the wheels in his head turning around the leverage he thought he had.
“Absolutely, Detective,” he said. He put up his right hand in mock sincerity. “I swear it.”
“Great. We’re going to return you to the holding cell in the meantime, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course.” Anderson’s face was conspiratorial, the face of someone used to being an accomplice.
Medveded let himself out. When the door closed behind him, he gestured to one of the BPD cops standing by.
“You can move him back to the cell,” he said. “I’m done with him. Let’s get him something to eat—just get him whatever he wants. Let’s keep him comfortable and on our side for the time being, until we nail down his friend.”
Medveded headed over to Polk’s office, where Morrison was waiting for him.
“Well? How’d it go?” Morrison asked, knowing very well how it always went with Medveded.
“We got him, Cap,” Medveded said. “He gave up everything.”
“Incredible,” Morrison said, marveling as much at the detective’s modesty as at his superlative ability. However many hours in a room by himself with a sociopath, and the guy was still saying we. Consummate team player, that was for sure.
“One problem, though,” Medveded added. “They didn’t do the one in Gramercy.”
“Are you sure?”
“Definitely.”
“All right—well, shit.” When Alexander Medveded was sure, there was no room for doubt. “Who the hell did it, then?”
“I don’t know, and I’m pretty sure these guys won’t be able to tell us,” Medveded said. “But if we have a copycat still running around in New York, Cap, the clock’s ticking.”
24
While Medveded’s interview with Anderson was underway, preparations were being made a few doors down for a very different line of questioning. As Adam Rutherford was led into his interrogation room, Captain Morrison was holding a last-minute briefing with the Coke Brothers when Tina Koreski walked in.
“Cap, can we talk about this?” she said. “I really want to talk to this guy. I wanted it before we got them, but since the ride back to the stationhouse, I’m convinced it’s the right thing.”
“Why do you say that?” Morrison asked.
“He wouldn’t shut up on the ride back—he was trying to get all suave and sophisticated with me, talking all kinds of shit. I think that’s going to be his weakness here.”
Morrison turned to Kasak and Marchioni, who, as usual, had been standing there the whole time without saying a word.
“Would you wait outside the office for a moment?” he asked them.
They nodded placidly and walked out without dispute, secure in their assignment. For Morrison to hand over the interrogation to Koreski was unheard-of; it would be like swapping out a ten-time all-star for a utility player in a Series game.
“Tina,” Morrison said once the door was closed, “we both know what happened to you. I wouldn’t ever want you having a meltdown from someone bringing back those memories, but we really can’t risk it happening now. This case is just too important for all of us.”
Koreski was visibly struggling to hold back her anger. “Captain,” she said carefully, “I’m not that woman. I can handle this, I know it. I need you to trust me on this.”
“Of course I trust you. But even aside from all that, I already told the Coke boys that they’d get the first shot at this guy. I can’t take that away from them; you know that.”
“But if—”
“Enough,” Morrison said firmly, holding up his hand. “Kasak and Marchioni get him first. If they struggle with the guy, you’ll get your chance.”
“All right,” Koreski said through clenched teeth. Morrison opened the door and poked his head out.
“Okay, boys,” he said to the two waiting outside. “Let the games begin.”
Leo Kasak was the first to enter the room. The shorter of the Coke boys was nevertheless imposing. Built like a brick wall, he had the street-smart toughness to back it up. His family had come over from Poland to settle in the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn, where many Polish immigrants had settled before them; and he still remembered the late nights outside of bars on Humboldt where, as a young man, he would sit and watch as men brought their disputes out to settle them in the street. Back then they didn’t use guns or knives, or even their fists; they quite literally used their heads. Squaring off outside the bar, they’d run head-on at each other like stags, slamming heads until one or the other of them couldn’t get back up. Once the dispute was settled, they would invariably return to the bar together and buy each other a drink, with as little talk afterward of retribution as of post-concussion syndrome. In this old-fashioned atmosphere of honor and raw power, Kasak had come into his own, and it was easy to see him applying the philosophy still.
His partner, detective Michael Marchioni, was right behind him. Mike was slightly overweight and balding, though he never seemed willing to accept the fact. He liked to say he had a receding hairline, and went to great lengths to keep what little hair he had left slicked back in an ’80s tough-guy style to match his pencil moustache.
Like the rest of their shtick, the Coke Brothers’ hardline persona had proven rather slow to adapt to changing times. They were certainly the oldest detectives on their Major Crimes squad, holdovers from the era of the Son of Sam and two-thousand-homicide years in the city. Legends in their own minds, they were extremely resistant to change—a fact that, for men who’d come into their own as cops during a time when the blackjack was a way of life, was sometimes a problem in a community that no longer accepted police brutality as part of the job.
Yet as Morrison knew—and as they continued to prove to their detractors—Marchioni and Kasak were generally quite good with the background details. They developed their cases slowly, often using tactics unique to themselves; but when they struck, it stuck. For this they were well known throughout the department, and beyond. Some called them the Old Bulls—a nickname that had its origin in a joke Bill Morrison sometimes told to explain them to newcomers. An old bull and a young bull are sitting on a hill, overlooking a herd of cows. Let’s run down and fuck one of those cows, the young bull says excitedly; to which the old bull calmly replies, Let’s walk down and fuck them all.
They found Adam Rutherford sitting comfortably in the interview room when they entered. He looked up at them with a smug smile when they sat down, and both could tell immediately that Rutherford would be a tougher nut to crack than his friend down the hall.
Kasak was the first to speak, in the agreeable, old-friends-reuniting tone with which he began every interview. It was the easiest way to size up a suspect, and invite them to reveal any weaknesses or tells that might give the interviewer leverage. For now, Marchioni sat silently beside him, notepad at the ready.
“Hello, Adam,” he said. “I’m Detective Leo Kasak, and this is my partner, Mike Marchioni. We’d like to talk to you today about some things that happened recently in New York City.”
Rutherford shifted in his seat, pulling himself back from the table where he’d been leaning. The Coke Brothers took mental note: it was tell number one.
“Ask away detective,” he said confidently. “I have no problem answering any questions you might have. Though I’m not sure what you’d want to hear about from me, unless it’s what parties I’ve attended there, or how many girls I’ve fucked.”
Kasak smiled, unshaken by the ugly turn in Rutherford’s tone. “So, you do visit New York City, then?” he asked, maintaining his civil tone.
“Sure. Doesn’t everyone who’s anyone visit it?”
Answering questions with questions was usually a stall tactic, making time to think of what to say next. Kasak made note of that, too.
“And you’d say you usually visit the city to party?” he asked.
“Yeah, like I—”
“Have you been to Sutton Place, over the past several months?” Kasak asked quickly, throwing Rutherford off-guard. Rutherford looked away. Marchioni scribbled something on his notepad.
“Where’s that?” Rutherford asked obliquely. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Upper East Side. You know—lots of pretty women, known for nice buildings with expensive price tags.”