False Witness

by Andrew Grant

  “It’s too late for your friend, I guess.” Devereaux turned to the shorter guy. “He’s made his choice. But I’m not sure about you. I was watching when he was telling you what to do just now. You seemed hesitant. Like you needed some persuading. Am I right? Or am I just a hopeless optimist?”

  “No, you’re right.” The short guy’s eyes were bulging. “I didn’t want to do it. I told him it was a bad idea, but—”

  “A bad idea because you thought it wouldn’t work?” Devereaux paused. “Or a bad idea because you thought it was wrong?”

  “I thought it would work. He’s done it before.” The guy looked up at the sky. “I just…taking someone’s car? That’s too much.”

  Devereaux opened the Porsche’s passenger door. “Get in.”

  “Why?” The short guy backed away. “Where are you taking me?”

  “The patrol car will be here in…” Devereaux checked his watch. “Sixty seconds. Max. If you’re still standing there when it arrives, you’ll be going to jail.”

  The guy climbed cautiously into the car. Devereaux closed the door and stood in the parking lot until the patrol car arrived. He talked to the officers for a minute, watched as they scooped the taller guy up off the ground and drove away, then got in behind the wheel.

  “Good decision.” Devereaux slid the key into the ignition, but held off from starting the engine. “Now, let’s start with your name.”

  “Taylor. Taylor May.”

  “All right, Taylor, let’s see some ID.”

  The guy pulled a driver’s license out of his pants pocket and handed it to Devereaux.

  “This says you’re twenty-one. Is that right?”

  The guy nodded.

  “And you live in Chicago, Illinois?”

  “No.” The guy looked away. “Not anymore. I’m from Chicago, but I just moved here a month ago. I haven’t gotten around to swapping out my license yet.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re from Chicago.” Devereaux stressed the middle syllable.

  The guy shrugged. “I pick up accents quick, I guess.”

  “I guess you do.” Devereaux gestured to the license. “So, Lakeview Avenue? Sounds like a nice address. I went to Chicago once. Good city, I thought. I don’t remember that street, though. Where is it? East side, I guess? Not the west side, where all the gang problems are?”

  “Right. East side.”

  “Good. And how about those skyscrapers? I loved them. But remind me, which is the crazy tall one—the Citicorp, or the Chrysler?”

  “The Citicorp.”

  “OK. So that gives you two problems. First, do you know another name for the east side of Chicago?”

  “Uptown?”

  “Try Lake Michigan. There is no east side. And those two buildings? They’re both in New York. So you know what I think? You’re not twenty-one. You bought a fake ID to get into bars. And it’s from Illinois because they’re the easiest to forge. Am I right?”

  The guy closed his eyes, then nodded.

  “OK.” Devereaux kept his voice calm and level. “Let’s start again with your real name.”

  “It’s Mike Jedinak.”

  “And your address?”

  “1902, 3rd Avenue, Pleasant Grove. Are you going to tell my parents about this?”

  Devereaux pulled out his notebook and wrote the guy’s details down. “How old are you, Mike?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Then, no. I’m not going to tell them. There’d be no point. You’re at an age where you have to figure things out for yourself. You’ve obviously made some poor decisions, up to now. Surrounded yourself with the wrong kind of people. Which means you have to decide—do you want to carry on down that same path? In which case you’ll end up either dead, or in jail. I guarantee. Or do you want to turn your life around? Which won’t be easy, but will at least give you a shot at a future.”

  Jedinak stared out of the side window.

  “I know.” Devereaux paused. “You’re thinking, who does this old guy think he is, telling me what to do? Well, I’m not telling you what to do. I’m offering to help, if you want me to. Because believe it or not, I’ve walked in your shoes. Only the shit I waded through was way deeper. I had no parents, for one thing. And some of the crap I pulled? You simply couldn’t get away with it these days. The only reason I survived was that I had help. A guy—a police officer, actually—looked out for me. And I’m willing to do the same thing for you.”

  Jedinak turned to look at Devereaux. His face was blank, and he still didn’t say anything.

  “Here.” Devereaux held out his card. “Take this. Memorize the details. And if you ever need help, call me. OK?”

  “I guess.” Jedinak reached out his hand.

  “Just be clear about one thing.” Devereaux didn’t let go of the card right away, holding it tight until Jedinak met his gaze. “This isn’t a free pass. I’ll be talking to the officers who patrol this area, all the time. And if you put one toe over the line, I’ll come back and throw you in jail myself.”

  “I get it.” Jedinak jammed the license back into his pocket, along with Devereaux’s card.

  “Good.” Devereaux’s finger hovered over the button that unlocked the doors. “Because this isn’t a one-way street, either. If you see my number come up on your phone, you better answer. I might have a little job for you to do, from time to time. And you better not ever let me down.”

  Sunday. Early morning.

  Sick Building Syndrome is a thing, right? Devereaux thought as he rode up in the elevator. So what about Sick Room Syndrome? Could that be a thing, too?

  Devereaux didn’t loathe the whole headquarters building. Parts of it were fine. The spacious suite on the third floor where the detectives had their desks, for example. But the fourth-floor conference room? It was an appalling place. Devereaux hated going to it. Maybe all the boring bureaucratic briefings he’d been subjected to over the years had left some kind of psychic residue behind. Maybe the crime scene photographs and other pieces of evidence they taped to its walls at the height of their most complex cases had tainted it with the implied human wickedness. Or maybe it was just because the room was so badly furnished and equipped. Take the blinds that were supposed to cover the wide expanse of windows as an example. They were hopelessly twisted and broken, leaving everyone on one side of the long conference table with no protection from the sun. And everyone on the other side with nothing but their willpower to stop them from gazing outside.

  Never look out of the window in the first half of a briefing, a long-serving detective had told Devereaux the day he’d got his shield.

  Why not? Devereaux almost blushed to think how naïve he’d been back then.

  Because then you’ll have nothing to do in the second half…

  —

  With Garretty still in the hospital, Devereaux was first to arrive. He took a seat, sipped his coffee, and was joined after a couple of minutes by Lieutenant Hale and two visitors: Special Agent Linda Irvin, profile coordinator with the FBI’s Birmingham Field Office, and Donald Young, Battalion Chief with the Birmingham Fire and Rescue Department. Devereaux had worked with both of them before—recently—so Hale skipped the introductions and got right down to business.

  “Did anyone see the papers this morning?”

  Everyone shook heads.

  Hale pulled a copy of the Tribune out of her briefcase and held it up in front of her. “They started with the Birthday Killer. Now the press is calling him B/DK, after that BTK asshole Dennis Rader in Kansas. It’s all over the web, too, of course. And there have been pictures. The way the bodies were wrapped up has really caught people’s imaginations. Speculation is running wild. It’s turning to panic. Twenty-year-olds with birthdays coming up are freaking out. So are their parents. Even people who’ve recently turned twenty-one. Parties are getting canceled. Bars are complaining. So are restaurants and stores. We’ve had all kinds of false reports phoned in. The mayor’s putting pressure on the captain,
and you all know what that means. He wants to announce that we’ve caught the killer. Which I’d be delighted for him to do—as long as we really have. Which is why I asked you all to come in this morning. I need to know—is Billy Flynn our guy? And what about the fire at his house? Was that a coincidence? An accident? Arson? Or what? Chief? Maybe you could get the ball rolling.”

  Young pulled a sheet of paper out of his messenger bag, stood, and stuck it on the wall, near the door. “This is a floor plan of Flynn’s house. The degree of damage is indicated by the color: Red is the most severe, through orange, to yellow. As you can see, the rear of the house was hit the hardest. That’s where the kitchen was. But we don’t think that’s where the fire started. The point of origin was most likely the living room, where the victim was found. That’s where the initial ignition occurred, and then the flames spread from there.”

  “Was it started deliberately?” Hale asked.

  “I’m not signing off on this yet because I still need the results of more tests, but the preliminary indications are consistent with the fire resulting from a gas leak. It started high. It spread fast. And the worst of the damage was in the kitchen, where the range was. This is what I think happened. It’s pretty simple. Mr. Flynn came home. He went into the living room. Lit a cigarette. And—boom.”

  “And the gas leak,” Devereaux said. “Was it accidental? Or was something tampered with?”

  “It’s too soon to say. I’m waiting on the lab. We sent them the remains of the range, and they’re still examining it. Don’t hold your breath, though. It was badly dinged up. And the perennial problem with arson investigation, as you know, is that fire destroys its own evidence. And if this was something as simple as opening a gas tap, there won’t even be any evidence. This isn’t like searching for traces of accelerant, which is much easier to find.”

  “Don’t ranges have some kind of safety feature to stop gas pouring out and collecting?” Irvin rubbed the small of her back.

  “Newer ones have. Or should have. But Flynn’s range was old. And that kind of safety mechanism can easily be defeated, with just a little technical knowledge.”

  “This whole question is really bugging me.” Devereaux frowned. “We show up to arrest Flynn for murder, and his house chooses that exact moment to blow up? Try and sell me a coincidence like that, and my hackles are up instantly. But on the other hand, what motive could there have been for someone to torch the house?”

  “Could a relative of one of the victims have figured out he was the killer?” Irvin said. “Or found out we were looking at him? And decided to take matters into their own hands?”

  “Possibly.” Hale sounded hesitant. “I’ll have some uniforms canvass the neighbors, see if they noticed anyone going in or out. But causing a gas leak is so indiscriminate. What if someone else triggered the explosion?”

  “Flynn’s mother doesn’t smoke,” Devereaux said.

  “But she could have been in the house when Billy lit up,” Irvin said. “So could the kid brother. That would mean at least running the risk of taking both of them out, as well as Flynn. That indicates a whole other level of ruthless. Let me think about that. See how it fits the profile.”

  “So are we leaning toward it being an accident?” Hale asked. “How about you, Chief? If you were pressed, which side would you come down on?”

  “It’s impossible to say, Lieutenant. It’s even money. I can’t do better than that.”

  “I understand. Thanks anyway, Chief. I really appreciate you giving up your Sunday morning to help us. You’ll let us know when you hear from the lab?”

  Young nodded then excused himself, and when the door had closed behind him Hale turned to Devereaux.

  “Any word on Flynn’s condition?”

  Devereaux shook his head. “There’s no change from yesterday. He’s still unconscious. They have no idea how long he’ll be out for. And he’s pretty messed up. There’s no guarantee he’ll wake up at all.”

  “Did you get anything useful from the mother?”

  “Nada. She claims he didn’t know either victim. Aside from that, it was the usual mother crap. He was a hard worker. He did what he was told. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. You get the picture. I did press her on his juvie record, though. According to her, when Flynn was fifteen, he broke into his high school. Surprise, surprise, he got caught. He was accused of B and E, vandalism, the usual stuff. The public defender had him play it like a prank gone wrong, which might not have been a terrible idea because Flynn got off with a warning. But his mother had a different explanation for why he did it. She said he was tired of the other kids always calling him stupid, so he was trying to sneak a peek at the questions for an upcoming test. She said he just wanted to get a better grade.”

  “So he was enterprising, at least,” Hale said.

  “Did you ask her about the significance of the twenty-first birthdays?” Irvin asked.

  “I did.” Devereaux shrugged. “She had no idea, so I tried prompting her a little. I suggested that maybe he’d been dumped by a girlfriend on her twenty-first birthday. Or rejected by a girl at her twenty-first-birthday party. Or bought a girl a really thoughtful present, which she’d scorned. Things like that. But she said Billy had never had anything to do with any girls. Cars, yes. Guns, yes. Girls, no. That was her verdict. I asked about male friends, too, and she said he didn’t really have any. Only Lucas Paltrow, who’s obviously older. She said Paltrow is about the only person ever to be nice to Billy, or to try to help him.”

  Irvin pressed her fingertips against her temples for a moment, then dropped her hands to the table. “I just wish we could talk to him. I have to say, though, he does sound like a candidate. From what I can tell from the crime scenes and the victims themselves, we’re looking for someone who can be overtaken by anger that is driven by feelings of rejection and not being appreciated. But not someone who has no conscience at all. Whoever he is, he feels deep remorse after the frenzy has worn off. We can tell that by the way he wraps his victims, covers their modesty, and leaves them in places associated with taking care of the dead.”

  “Cooper?” Hale brushed a loose strand of hair away from her eyes. “You don’t look convinced.”

  “No.” Devereaux held up his hands. “It’s not that. Everything Linda said makes perfect sense. I’d just be happier if we could tie up some of the loose ends, and the fire makes that so much harder. What if Flynn killed the women at his house? Without a confession we’ll never find out. Their clothes and possessions could have been there. We haven’t found those yet. And the bedding. Now we can’t match his sheets with the ones from the crime scenes. It’s so frustrating.”

  “Here’s an idea,” Hale said. “It might be crazy, but we’ve heard that Flynn might have been a couple sandwiches short of a picnic. What if he realized we were closing in, tried to torch the house himself to get rid of the evidence, and blew himself up with it by mistake?”

  “That’s possible,” Irvin said. “But unless Young pulls a rabbit out of his hat, we’ll never know without talking to Flynn.”

  “What about the witness?” Hale asked. “Didn’t she report seeing Flynn abducting the second victim?”

  “Mrs. Goodman described someone generically similar to Flynn,” Devereaux said. “We’d need to show her a photograph to be sure. Any photographs that were in the house were burned up. And his face is all covered with bandages now, so we can’t get a new one.”

  “What about the car?” Irvin asked. “The one that belongs to that celebrity guy? Were Flynn’s prints found in it?”

  “They were.” Devereaux nodded. “But he drove it to the celebrity guy’s house. And that’s another weird thing. His were the only prints. There were none of the owner’s. And none of the victim’s. So that doesn’t help us, either.”

  “OK.” Hale rubbed her chin. “I still have a good feeling about Flynn, but I agree there are too many unanswered questions for us to be certain. I’ll keep the captain away from the press for as lo
ng as I can. Linda, can you keep working on the profile? See if you can pin down why these particular women were targeted. Cooper, see if you can figure out where their paths crossed with the killer’s.”

  “Will do, Lieutenant. I’ll talk to Deborah Holt’s mother again. We’re trying to track down Siobhan O’Keefe’s parents as well, so I’ll chase them up.”

  “Good. Any other ideas?”

  “Yes,” Devereaux said. “Two things. I’ve reached out to some fences I know to see if we can get any hits on the women’s missing jewelry. And I’m going to take another look at Lucas Paltrow’s alibi for Thursday afternoon, when Deborah Holt disappeared. He showed me tickets for the movie theater, but that doesn’t mean he necessarily went.”

  “Good. Keep me posted. And Cooper—one more thing. If you see any more infernos, stay away from them. The captain wanted to suspend you for ignoring departmental protocol. And honestly, for once he had a point. It wouldn’t have helped Fire and Rescue if you’d given them a second body to drag out of there. And it wouldn’t have helped me if you were benched again. We’re just lucky the press showed up when they did. It wouldn’t have looked good to punish Birmingham’s newest TV hero.”

  Sunday. Morning.

  Alexandra chose the rearmost pew at the Trinity Presbyterian Church for the second week running.

  That day she knew Devereaux wouldn’t be joining her, so she wasted no time hanging around in the shade of her favorite oak tree, waiting for him. She just parked her Range Rover at the side of the lot, dragged Nicole past the line of spherical bushes at the side of the driveway that she normally liked to run and hide between, and hurried inside the simple, single-story building. There were still ten minutes before the organ was due to begin playing. Nicole had no problem passing the time. As usual she’d brought a couple of Barbies with her, and quickly set about continuing whatever scenario she’d sketched out for them. Alexandra glanced at her daughter to check that everything was OK, and after dismissing a flash of frustration when she noticed that one of the dolls had lost an arm—they were made far more robustly when she’d been a child, she was sure, because none of hers had ever broken—she settled herself and tried to clear her mind ahead of the sermon.