by R.J. Ellory
'So I'll call Lavelle, tell him we want to speak to McKee some more, and that we'll pick him up outside South Two when he's done at work.'
Parrish glanced at his watch: it was a little after two. 'Screw it . . . ask Lavelle if he'll let him out now.'
Radick called, didn't get Lavelle but reached Raymond Foley. Foley didn't have a problem, said McKee could have the time to do whatever was needed. He said he would speak to McKee right away, tell him that Parrish and Radick needed his help with some further information.
'We're up,' Radick said as he ended the call. 'Foley is letting him out now. We're going to go pick him up at South Two.'
'Good enough,' Parrish said. He got up, put his jacket back on, and walked to the counter to get a take-out cup for his coffee.
They were outside South Two within fifteen, and McKee Was already there, hands in his pockets, collar turned up against the chill breeze, waiting patiently.
In that moment Parrish felt a sense of urgency about Richard McKee. What it was he could not identify or define clearly, but it was definitely there. That intuitive thing, as if his line of sight had suddenly shifted and he could see back of the man. See what he could really be like. See what was potentially within. But, then again, he knew there was no reason for him to feel that way. Maybe this was just desperation. And there was a fine linebetween desperation to resolve a case and the obsessiveness that destroyed careers.
Did McKee look anxious, or was Parrish imagining it? Perhaps hoping he looked anxious? When McKee got in the car he was already asking questions. What did they need? What other questions were there that he needed to answer? Was he being arrested for something?
'It's okay, Mr McKee,' Parrish assured him. 'Really, it's okay. There's a good few people at South Two we needed to get more information from. You just happen to be the first because you remember something about these cases. This is just a helping hand for us, okay? Please don't worry.'
With that McKee seemed a little less nervous, but as they drove Parrish watched him in the rear-view mirror. McKee was on edge, no question about it. It was not uncommon for people to react this way. Questioned about one thing, they immediately thought of all the things they really wouldn't want to be questioned about. The simple matter of having to deal with the police could bring on a lot of stress. It was simply the potential of the situation. The police possessed authority, and if they took a dislike to you they possessed the power to arrest, charge, try, convict, incarcerate, even execute. It had happened to innocent people, and it would more than likely happen again many more times before the law and the justice system started to get their shit together. When it came to the police, people became a statistic, and it was this that scared them.
Either that, or they were in fact guilty, and in McKee's case Parrish had to prepare himself to be badly disappointed.
FIFTY-THREE
An interview room in the basement of the 126th Police Precinct, Brooklyn South, was perhaps one of the most airless and unwelcoming places within which to find yourself. Tiny louvered vents high above the door permitted little more than a minimal escape route for the sweat-drenched air that clouded the room; these same louvers didn't seem to allow any fresh air back in.
Radick asked McKee if he wanted coffee. McKee said yes. Parrish showed him to the chair, and immediately apologized for the room.
'If I had an office of my own we'd be in it,' he said, 'but I'm just your standard government mule.'
'Same with us,' McKee replied. 'Dozens of us in one big open space. Doesn't lend itself to discretion, does it?'
Radick returned with coffee. He sat down between Parrish and McKee at the end of the table, Parrish and McKee facing one another. A few moments of awkward silence before Parrish leaned forward and brought the palms of his hands together as if making a small prayer.
'Richard,' he started. 'I can call you Richard? Is that okay?'
McKee nodded. 'Of course, yes.'
'I wanted to ask you some more about your involvement with Jennifer Baumann and Karen—'
'Involvement?' McKee interjected. 'I didn't have any involvement with either of them.'
'I think you said you'd heard of Jennifer, even knew her case officer. If I remember rightly, you said he'd gone to the Probation Service.'
'Yes, I did say that. I knew of the Jennifer Baumann case, but I didn't know the girl. Never met her, never spoke to her. Same with Karen Pulaski. The name rang a bell, but I didn't even know she'd been murdered.'
'But now you do.'
'Do what?'
'You do know she's been murdered.'
McKee frowned. 'Yes, of course I know she's been murdered. You told me yesterday.'
Parrish nodded. He smiled understandingly. 'Yes, of course I did. I did tell you that. But before I told you that you had no idea that she'd been killed.'
'I knew Jenny Baumann had been killed. I told you I was aware of that—'
'Jenny?'
'Yes, Jenny Baumann.'
'I thought you didn't know her.'
'I don't - didn't - whatever. No, I didn't know her. Just her name. Had heard that she was killed, but this was the better part of eighteen months or two years ago.'
'You remember when you heard?'
'Yes, I do. It's not every day that you hear someone has been killed.'
'And do you remember how she was killed? The circumstances of her murder?'
'No, not particularly. Why?'
'I just wondered, Mr McKee, nothing more.'
McKee frowned again, seemingly utterly perplexed by the direction and tone of the discussion.
'I'm sorry, Detective, I really think I might have misunderstood your purpose here,' he said. 'You've brought me here because you think that I might know something else about these girls and the circumstances of their deaths. You asked me to come here and I came voluntarily. I came of my own accord, and I came to help, not to be harassed. I'm starting to wonder whether I need a lawyer.'
Parrish didn't speak for a moment, and then he leaned forward and closed his hands around his take-out coffee carton.
'Do you have a car, Richard?'
'A car? Yes, I have a car.'
'What kind of car?' 'A Toyota. Why?'
'What kind of car is it? A compact? A coupe?'
'No, it's an SUV.'
Parrish nodded slowly. He glanced sideways at Radick.
'And you are single?'
'Yes, I told you that yesterday.'
'I'm sorry. I spoke to so many people yesterday, and after a while I forget specifics.'
'You didn't forget that I knew Jennifer's case officer.'
'You're right, Richard. I didn't forget that, did I? I'm sorry. So let's get back to your car, your SUV.'
'What about my SUV?'
'Wouldn't you say it's generally the sort of car you have for a family? Throw the kids in the back, go away somewhere for the weekend. You know the sort of thing, right?'
'I do throw the kids in the back. We do drive somewhere for the weekend.'
'I'm sorry?'
'When I have the kids. We do go places. We do go to different places.'
'You have children?'
'You know I have children, Detective. I told you in the interview. I told you I had two children. Is that a crime now?'
Parrish laughed, it should be for some people, yes.'
'But you are single?' Radick interjected.
McKee sighed, a slightly exasperated sound. 'I am single now. I was married. I have two children ... I say children, but they are in their teens now.'
'Divorced or separated?' Parrish asked.
'I said already. I'm divorced.'
'Amicable?'
'When is a divorce ever amicable, Detective? It was noisy, let's put it that way.'
'Who divorced who?'
'I divorced her.'
'Because?'
'Why did I divorce her? What the hell does that have to do with the fact that these girls have been murdered?'
; Parrish smiled. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I'm divorced too. I also have two kids, perhaps a little older than yours. It's just that so many of us make the same sort of mistakes, and sometimes it's reassuring to know that there are other people who've had the same difficulties—'
'I divorced her,' McKee said. 'She was sleeping with someone else.'
'I'm sorry to hear that.'
'Why? It wasn't your fault.'
'We're off track here,' Radick said, sensing that Parrish had elicited as much as he was going to about the familial arrangements of McKee without instilling a greater degree of paranoia and suspicion in the man. He could see what Parrish was doing, and he knew Parrish would bring the man back to the subject soon enough.
'Yes, we're off track,' Parrish echoed. 'We were talking about the circumstances of Jenny Baumann's death.'
'No, we were talking about why I had an SUV.'
'You're right, we were, but before that, Jenny Baumann . . . not Jennifer?'
'Yes, fenny Baumann,' McKee said. 'It is very common, I believe, for girls named Jennifer to be called Jenny.' There was an edge of sarcasm in McKee's tone which Parrish ignored.
'Do you remember how you heard she had been killed?'
'I told you. Lester Young told me about it.'
'And he was her case officer?'
'No, Jennifer was never an active case here. Lester was the case officer for another girl, and there was a potential sexual abuse thing, and Jennifer was believed to have been a witness, someone who could corroborate the girl's story. That was all. As far as I know the case was never pursued by the police.'
'And Lester Young went into the Probation Service.'
'Yes, he did.'
'Did you ever speak with him about Jennifer?'
'No, I did not.'
'And how did you know about Karen Pulaski?'
'I knew of her, not about her. As I said yesterday, I had no idea that she had been murdered.'
'Yes, you did say that. So how did you know of her?'
'Just in passing. There was a change in the whole administrative system at the start of the year. We used to be Family Welfare South and Family Welfare North. I was in South, of course. They split each division into eight sections, and now I am South Two. We had to handle all the file transfers, hard copy and electronic. It was a huge job. We divided it up alphabetically and there were enough of us to have only two letters of the alphabet each and I got P and R. It was about three hundred files. Karen was amongst them, but she went elsewhere, not to us at Two. I think she was from Williamsburg or Ridgewood or someplace.'
'It was Williamsburg,' Parrish said.
'Right. Anyway, she was South originally, and now she'd be South Seven or Nine or something.'
'So why would you remember her out of three hundred or so files?'
McKee smiled awkwardly. 'This is going to sound foolish.'
'I don't mind how it sounds, Richard, I'm just curious as to why she stuck in your mind.'
'Because of her name.'
'Her name?'
'Karen Pulaski.'
'Yes, I know what her name is, Richard, I just wondered why—'
'My ex-wife's name is Carole. Her maiden name was Paretski.'
No-one spoke for a moment or two.
'Carole Paretski,' Radick said matter-of-factly.
'Yes, that was her maiden name. That's the name she's gone back to now. I remember looking at the Pulaski girl's file and thinking how similar their names were.'
'And what does she do . . . your wife?'
'She works for a law firm out near Lafayette Park.'
'She's a lawyer?'
'No, she's a secretary.'
'And how long since your divorce?'
'It was final in the early part of 2005.'
'And your kids are how old?' Parrish asked.
'My daughter, Sarah, is fourteen, and my son, Alex, is fifteen.'
'And they live with their mother?'
'Yes, during the week they do. I have them Saturday and Sunday alternate weekends, and Sunday the other weekends. That's because I work Saturdays once a fortnight.' 'Which is why you were at work this Saturday.'
'Right.'
'Why not have them all weekend every weekend?' Radick asked.
'I need the money. It's still a lot of money I have to give her every month.' McKee looked at Parrish. 'You have the same, right?'
'I did,' Parrish replied. 'They're old enough to make their own way now, but until recently it was a lot of money, yes.'
Radick leaned forward. 'Is there still bitterness and animosity between you and your ex-wife, Mr McKee?'
'Still?' McKee asked. 'We were married for over fifteen years, and I think the first year or two was the only time there wasn't bitterness and animosity.'
'But you stayed together for the kids?'
'We did. We put on a brave face for the world, and we kept it together for as long as we could. It was the last affair she had that was the final straw.'
'You want to tell us about that?' Parrish asked.
'What do you want to know?'
'Anything at all, whatever's on your mind,' Parrish said.
'I don't have anything to say about it. What happened happened. It's over.'
'And she is with someone else now?' Parrish asked.
'I presume so. She's not someone who can ever be alone.'
'But you don't know for sure?'
'The kids tell me this and that. Got to a point where I didn't want to know so I asked them not to tell me any more. I could see what it was doing to them, the constant unpredictability, the instability it caused in the home. It's not a good environment for kids, but what the hell, eh? The law is on the side of the mothers, not the fathers, right?'
'Right, yes. It is.'
'So that's where we are. I see them for a day or two every week. I do what I can to brighten their lives a little. I wait patiently for them to be old enough to go to college or whatever, and then I will see them more frequently and make sure that they get a little bit of stability and sanity in their lives.'
'And you have no wish to get married again?' Parrish asked.
'Married again? No, I don't think so. Hell, what am I saying? I'm a sucker for women. If I got another relationship and it seemed right, and she wanted to get married, then yeah, sure, I'd probably give it another go.'
'But no-one in the crosshairs at the moment?'
McKee smiled at the expression Parrish used. 'No, Detective, no-one in the crosshairs.'
'So let's go back to Jenny Baumann. Lester Young was Family South, and he dealt with her directly.'
'Well, he was present at the police interview, that was all. Jennifer was questioned by the police, and because this other girl was present in the interview they had Lester Young along as her Welfare representative.'
'And you knew Lester?'
'Yes, somewhat. Not a great deal more or less than anyone else at South. There were a hell of a lot of people there, which is why we got this most recent shake-up and the division of the two sections into sixteen units. It was long overdue, and I think that once the confusion has all settled down then it will work a lot better.'
'Let's hope so, eh?' Parrish said. 'Let's hope that these girls can be looked after a little better.'
'I don't think that's entirely fair, Detective,' McKee said, a defensive edge in his tone. 'I think - given the resources and facilities we have - that we do as good a job as we can under the circumstances—'
Parrish raised his hand. 'I'm sorry, Richard. That came out wrong. We're looking at it simply from the view that there are six dead girls, and there's the possibility that they might all be connected through Family Welfare. If they are, and if it's someone within the organization, then there's going to be a great deal more shaking up to deal with. I think it will turn things inside-out and upside-down more than anyone can imagine.'
'I find it so hard to imagine that there's someone within South Two doing these things. I know most of them reaso
nably well, and the vast majority have been there at least as long as I have—'
'And if you had to ask some questions, Richard, if you had to make a decision about who it might have been, then where would you go with this?'
McKee laughed nervously. 'I'm not going to even try and answer that question, Detective. That's a terrible, terrible thing to consider.'
Parrish smiled understandingly. 'I really appreciate your time, and your honesty,' he said. 'I think we're done. You want us to have someone drive you back to work?'
McKee inhaled deeply and placed his hands flat on the table. 'No, I'm okay,' he said. 'I'll get some lunch now and head back myself.'
'Okay. If we need anything else we'll be in touch.'
Parrish got up. He shook hands with McKee.
McKee reached the door, and then he hesitated. He turned back and looked at Parrish. 'The Baumann girl,' he said. 'When was it that she was actually murdered?'
'Why do you ask?'
'Because I heard of her death from Lester, but I don't think he ever told me when she died.'
'It was January,' Parrish said. 'Her body was found on the fifteenth of January 2007.'
McKee nodded slowly, and then he reached into his jacket for his pocketbook. From it he took a number of creased and dogeared photographs, and leafing through them he isolated one. He looked at it closely, and then he smiled as he held it out towards Parrish.
'And this is . . . ?'
'This,' McKee said, 'is a picture of my kids at Disneyland. I took it.'
Parrish took the photo. The kids were visible, but barely. They were way in the distance, appeared to be sharing a few words with a six foot Mickey Mouse.
'And you're showing me this because—'
'Because of the date. My camera prints the date in the bottom right-hand corner of the photos.'
Parrish looked at it. 01-12-07, it read.
'We were at Disneyland that week. In fact we were there from the tenth to the nineteenth. It was the last holiday I took the kids on.'
Parrish looked at the numerals there in the right-hand corner. He returned the photo to McKee.
'Thank you, Mr McKee,' he said.
McKee returned the photo to his pocketbook. He smiled at Parrish, then Radick stepped forward and opened the door for him.