“Okay, well, why don’t you sit down? You’re making me nervous. Denise, will you please grab a chair from the kitchen?” Becca said. She pointed sternly in response to her daughter’s lack of immediate action. What sorts of questions do you have? What do you need to know?” Becca asked.
“What do you know about this kid? What’s his name, Ben? His personality is going to provide some hints as to the best way to conduct the interrogation. More broadly, I guess, I’d say you’d be better off trying to put him at ease. A lot of cops- agencies and individuals- make the unfortunately common mistake of trying to force things. They are stuck in the 60s. The whole Joe Friday thing. ‘All we want are the facts, ma’am,’” he said, doing his best imitation of the old detective.
Lawrence cleared his throat. He silently went and took a seat in the proffered chair. “So, yeah. A lot of cops still have two-ways mirrors, cameras ominously positioned in the corner. They have people being paraded around in handcuffs nearby. They go in and offer constant reminders- subtle and overt- that they’re police. All of that just reinforces the potential consequences. Why wouldn’t you lie or prevaricate? You tell the truth, really bad stuff happens. You hold out and keep making stuff up, what? You’re a little uncomfortable? Sure, a lot of people wear down eventually. But we’re in the work smart, not hard age,” he said.
“Prevaricate,” Becca said, smiling.
“Hush. Yes, I’ve been reading more. I actually kind of like it,” he said.
“Okay, well, I mean, how does that help me? I go knock on Ben’s door. I try to invite myself in. What you’re telling me isn’t exactly helpful,” Becca said. She snuck another spoon of soup while she waited for his response, relishing the bold flavors.
“Until I know more, say, about his personality, I can’t really tell you. What I can say is that you need to do your best not to constantly remind him that this whole thing was a murder. Don’t try to threaten him with the cops. ESPECIALLY since you’re not one. The threat is even less effective when it’s done by a civilian. So, yeah…” he rubbed a hand over his head. “I’d say he’ll probably be a lot more comfortable in his own home. So, that’s good. You want him as relaxed as you can possibly get him. You do need some levers, though. Something to ratchet up the pressure when it’s needed. You said he was an ex-lover? I’d go with that. Gives you a way to make him uncomfortable and off-guard without getting into shut-down territory,” he said.
“How would I record it so it’s admissible? I mean, will a confession to me help with a criminal trial?” Becca asked.
“No, of course not. I mean, you could just tell him that you were recording it for some reason. To refresh your memory later or whatever. But we’re a two-party consent state. So, you would definitely need to get permission. How you do that is largely up to you. But it could be as simple as saying, hey, I’d like to record this. Do you mind?” he said. He shrugged. “Personally, I don’t think it matters, at this point. If you want to take this to the police, you probably already have enough. However, I’m taking it you’re still kind of on the fence,” Lawrence said.
“I am,” Becca said.
“Well, tell me a little about the guy. How did he act when you were with him? He’s kind of a small guy, right? So, no real psychical threat? You have to think about stuff like that. People can start behaving irrationally when they’re under pressure,” Lawrence said.
“What if he has a gun?” David asked.
“Good question. But, given his age and other factors, I can already tell you it’s unlikely,” Lawrence said, frowning. “You know, that does get into a good second point, though. Again, generally. It’s never a bad idea to have two people in on an interrogation. Now, from what I’ve read and how I was trained, it’s best to have the second person behind the suspect, being as unobtrusive and invisible as possible. You can do the whole good-cop, bad-cop thing, but that’s honestly more of something for the tv shows,” he said.
“So, basically, I should go with her,” David pressed.
“That’s probably a good idea. Just in case,” Lawrence said.
“Okay, I mean, I don’t really know much about Ben. I didn’t even know he was my neighbor until yesterday. His mom said he really likes plants. A fact that I can confirm. From what little I’ve read on serial killers and sociopaths, he has the hallmark characteristics. He probably got started with small animals. He wet the bed. And he lit fires. So, do with that what thou wilt. But I do think that might be indicative of something,” Becca said.
“Oh, it is. It certainly is. And I’d say he might be a PSYCHOpath. Not a sociopath,” Lawrence said.
“What’s the difference?” Denise asked, suddenly piping up. She seemed intrigued.
“Who really knows? The smart people say that there is a difference in the origins. However, the biggest, perhaps primary, difference seems to be in how organized one is. Psychopaths tend to be a lot more organized. They plan things out. Sociopaths, on the other hand, are more impulsive,” Lawrence said.
“What makes you think he’s more on the organized side?” Becca asked.
“Well, I mean, the whole plant thing. Poison, in particular. One has to go to some real work to not only study these things, but then to go through the whole process of actually growing the plants… seems the exact opposite of impulsive, to me,” Lawrence said. “I don’t know, though. I’m not the biggest fan of the psychobabble. I’d probably be one or the other. The terms are intentionally ambiguous. They’re so overly broad that they allow anyone to be diagnosed, as-needed. Saying that you can’t question the rules or try to get ahead is fishy, to me. These same people claim that all cops are racist. How crazy is that? Not one thought is given to the effects of that inimical theory. I mean, it’s absurd. You can’t blame any group for what some of its members do. Nonetheless, when you say that, it has very real-world consequences. And do the psychologists care? Only if they want to become expert witnesses and work for the cops,” he said.
“Okay, well, I can do without THAT. Since you’ve been reading so much lately, you’ll know what editorializing is. Look, I mean, I just want to get this all over with. So, tell me what to do, Lawrence,” Becca said.
“I say just go over there. Take some treats. The whole poisoning thing seems to me to suggest that the kid will avoid physical confrontation. His motive seems to have been revenge. He’s probably very smart and calculating. So, take the treats, say you talked to his mom. But not what about. Leave him with some tension. That’ll probably pique his interest just enough to get him to let you in,” Lawrence said.
“What does he even like? I don’t know what kind of treats to bring him,” Becca said.
“Everyone likes brownies,” David said.
“Okay. I suppose we can do that. But, I mean, it’s already past seven. It’d be pretty late to go over there if I baked them myself,” Becca said.
“Look, don’t overthink it. You don’t necessarily have to get him tonight. Even if you just get in his head, that’s okay. Seriously, we only need him to mess up once. If that takes a couple of days, who cares? Your employer thinks some Sicilian hitman is responsible.” Lawrence said.
“I guess. Well, maybe we’ll just go buy some brownies at the store. I hate the thought of store-bought, but, for this, I can justify it,” Becca said. “Since you’re accompanying me over there, you want to come with, David?” Becca asked.
“Wait, you didn’t ask about Emma,” Lawrence said.
“Oh. I guess I didn’t. Well, it can wait for another time,” she said, waving a hand dismissively as she got up. “I’m really focused on trying to put this whole ordeal behind me. This is REALLY getting on my nerves,” she said.
Chapter 21
They waited in the dark.
A cool breeze sauntered past, brushing across Becca’s bare arms. As she stood on the stone porch, concealed by the shifting shadows, she shivered. Turning slightly, she glanced back at David. Offering a tense smile, she gave a small shrug to signify that she
didn’t know what was going on. Reaching out, she rang the doorbell again. Inside, she heard a faint chime. Well, it works, Becca thought.
A car turned the corner and slowly moved down the road behind them. Becca swiveled around too fast to confront the intrusive noise. She shook her head when she saw it pass, wondering when it was that she’d become so jumpy. Returning her attention back to Ben’s house, she issued a frustrated sigh. They’d been trying to get the young man to answer for at least five minutes. But Becca had devoted so much time and thought to trying to extract a confession that she just wasn’t willing to give up.
Stepping down off the porch, Becca delicately avoided the open trash can resting by the edge. Remembering how gingerly Ben had handled the poisonous plants still growing in his front yard for all the world to see, she didn’t want to risk upsetting the garbage receptacle and coming into inadvertent contact with the contents inside. Finding a window, she cupped her hands and leaned forward, getting close to the cold glass and peering inside. A faint, jaundiced cone of light shone from somewhere nearby. Becca observed what appeared a black, vaguely humanoid shape obscuring part of the illumination.
Grunting, she wondered why Ben was so deliberately avoiding her. Unless he has headphones in, Becca thought. Returning to her position on the porch, she smiled sympathetically at David, who stood patiently holding the purchased tray of brownies. He appeared oblivious to the whole thing. Unperturbed on the surface, he seemed like he could remain there all night. “Where do you get your energy? I need some of that,” she said quietly.
“You don’t want to know, Miss B,” David said, smirking.
Disregarding that cryptic statement, Becca decided to just reach out and try and the door. A lot of people in their quiet city kept the doors unlocked. Precisely because they remained blissfully unaware of the existence of people such as Ben and Mario. Turning the knob, a small shiver of excitement surged through her as she pushed her way inside.
The stale, sour smell of old clothes and garbage attacked her senses as soon as she crossed the threshold into the house. The home’s halitosis bullied her nostrils. Waiting a second to get acclimated, Becca took the time to observe her surroundings. A cheap faux-gold coat rack stood at a jaunty angle next to the door. A thin gray trench coat hung on one of the hooks. Resisting the urge to reach into the pockets and search for any clues that might be contained therein, Becca turned away. A framed portrait of his mom, with warm yellow sunlight filtering in from behind, adorned the ugly green wall.
“Excuse me,” Ben said, rushing forward, his fists clenched.
Stepping quickly around Becca from behind, David deftly handed off the brownies as he got in front of her. He put his hands up, palms facing forward. He gave off an aura of controlled confidence. “Hold up, bud,” he said quietly.
“I’m not your bud. And you’re in my house,” Ben said, his voice turning shrill. He glared at Becca. But he stopped in his tracks, keeping some distance between himself and David.
“Your mom called. We were just worried about your mental health, Ben. Hey, we brought brownies,” Becca said, raising her voice to try and sound chipper. “May we come in?”
“I already ate,” Ben said, sounding petulant. His entire demeanor screamed his discomfort in the presence of David. He shook as he remained fixed in place, his feet rooted to the carpet underneath his slippered feet.
“That’s okay. It’s never too late for brownies. And you don’t have to eat them now. You can save them for a snack later,” Becca said.
“I guess you can come in. But it’s really messy,” Ben said.
You don’t say, Becca thought. But she forced herself to smile. She needed to put the boy at ease. And that meant putting on her best performance yet. Adopting the most amicable manner she could muster in the moment, she strode forward. She exchanged a small, grateful glance with her future son-in-law as she passed him, relieved that he was there. She didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but Ben scared her. There was just something about him that seemed off.
Entering the small, cramped living room, Becca cringed. With nowhere to sit conveniently or comfortably, she elected to remain standing. Half-empty cardboard boxes sat everywhere, their disgorged contents resting on the frayed carpet. The décor looked like it had been extracted straight from a bad sixties adult movie, with a mix of old items sold off at a government auction. Two rusty file cabinets in the corner appeared to have come from a now-defunct Soviet agency, having made the trip across the world when the Russian bureaucrats were forced to work for their previous Cold War adversaries.
Focusing on a collection of moist tracts scattered across the floor, Becca squinted as she tried to read the covers. The thin paper pamphlets revealed themselves as gardening guides. Some of them appeared to be army field manuals on survival and the like. “Planning on heading out to the forest? The apocalypse?” she asked.
As she waited for the boy’s response, she caught sight of something that jolted her from her calm. There, sitting atop a stack of papers, was a worn copy of an obscure textbook. The title: Analyses of Criminal Poisoner Profiles.
She blinked when she realized Ben was speaking. She hadn’t heard anything he’d said for what felt like a full minute. She’d been so traumatized by the presence of the book. The fact that the young man could be so coldly calculating that he’d been reading up on the psychological profiles of… himself was profoundly disturbing to her.
“Anyway, now that you mention it, can I have one of those brownies? Are they homemade?” Ben asked.
David stepped forward, gently removing the tray from Becca’s hands and giving it to Ben. Then he resumed his place in the background, a silent observer.
“Uh, yeah. I mean, no. No, they aren’t homemade. I would have. I, uh, I would have preferred that. I, uh, I don’t know if you remember, but I actually am a professional baker. So, it did bother me that I had to buy them,” she said.
“Had to? Hey, something wrong? You seem upset all of a sudden,” Ben said, removing the wrapper and biting into one of the brownies. Thick crumbs rained down on his stained striped shirt as he chewed noisily with his mouth open.
Becca needed to get it all over with. She couldn’t act anymore. Something about the whole thing, the noisome setting, the nasty way he ate, the fact that he was so openly comfortable with his own murderous ways, it all conspired to set her over the edge.
“What’s that book over there, Ben? The one about poisoning profiles?” Becca asked, pointing. She took a deep breath. “Is that monkshood in your front yard? Did you ever stop and think that maybe one of the kids in the neighborhood, one of the dogs, they might just see the pretty colors and wander over and have a touch. Maybe even a taste?” she asked.
“I’m going to go use the restroom,” Ben said suddenly, going pale. He hastily got up and retreated from the living room, disappearing down a dim, narrow corridor.
“Well,” Becca said, blowing out air. “I guess that’s it, then.”
“He’s going to bolt,” David said quietly.
“What? How do you know that? I mean, where would he go?” Becca asked. She shook her head, frowning. “Let’s just wait a second,” she said.
David just smirked in response.
As the seconds stretched into minutes, Becca grew increasingly apprehensive. Her frayed nerves were on edge. She glanced around, her eyes darting every which way as she trembled with anticipation. Adrenaline was already beginning to surge through her veins. She jumped when she heard a sound. Turning toward the noise, Becca thought it had come from a book falling. She smiled in a self-deprecating manner.
“There it is,” David said, his voice taut.
Hearing a car starting in the nearby driveway, Becca tensed. Turning without a word, she headed toward the door. “Run over and get the station wagon started,” Becca said.
“We’re taking my Jeep,” David said in an authoritative manner as he fled the scene.
They raced across the yard, reaching th
e Jeep parked on the street just as Ben sped away in his comical little Volkswagen Rabbit.
Pulling out her phone as she struggled up into the passenger seat, she dialed Saffron’s business phone. Becca chided herself for never having asked for the woman for her personal number. As the vehicle lurched forward, Becca listened to the ring tone. She fought the urge to punch the dashboard as she waited.
Finally, the dispensary owner picked up. When she did, she sounded sleepy. “Hello?” she answered.
“Hey, Saffron. It’s me, Becca. Did I catch you at a bad time?” she asked, trying her best to maintain some of the usual pleasantries, despite the urgency of the situation.
“Well, I’m at home. Business is all closed-up. Luckily, I have it set so that the business phone rings directly over to this line. Anyway, what’s up? I’m assuming you’re not calling about cannabis,” Saffron said.
“Yeah. Very good powers of deduction. Uh, so, we went over to talk to Ben. And now he’s taken off. Where might he be going?” Becca asked.
“Wait… you did WHAT?” Saffron asked, suddenly growing angry.
“Oh, don’t play these games, Saffron. Your son is a murderer, and you know it. I’m investigating Giovanni’s death. If you never wanted me to see your son as a suspect, you should have never told me what you did. And, Heaven forbid, why let him move in literally right next door?” Becca said. She grunted. “Enough with the games. He needs help. You said it yourself, Saffron. I’m not the police. I’m not out to get him. Though, to be honest, he really does scare me. Did you know he spends his free time reading up on police procedures and all that?” Becca asked.
“Promise you’ll try to get him help,” Saffron pleaded.
“Yes, Saffron. Like I said, I am not the police. I just need him to confess that he’s actually the killer,” Becca said. She braced herself as David took a sharp right turn, ignoring the traffic signal as it turned red.
“What if he does confess? What, then? You tell Mario, he’s just going to have Ben killed. My boy…” Saffron said, her tone growing maudlin.
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