I Know Everything

by Matthew Farrell

  “We’ve been over this already,” Sidney snapped. “He doesn’t know where this man is.”

  Adler ignored him. “Is Hooper working for you? With you? Or is he already dead?”

  The smirk on that woman’s face made Randall want to slam her head into the table. The nerve. The condescending voice. She had no right. She had no idea what he’d been through. A little smirk and a game of cat and mouse in the interview room were hardly enough to scare him. He bit the inside of his cheeks and closed his eyes against the pain that was spreading in the back of his skull. “I don’t know where Hooper Landsky is. As I’ve stated before, you can give me a polygraph if you want. I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Okay.” Adler pulled a file and opened it. “Dr. Brock, were you on the Quarim University campus the night of your wife’s accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “The day before?”

  “Yes.”

  “The day before that?”

  “I’d have to check my calendar, but yes, probably. Peter and I are practically living there with the case study preparation.”

  “So you’re on campus a lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have access to any of the sports equipment?”

  Randall was having trouble hearing what she was saying. The pain in his head had moved to the center and was throbbing. His pulse thumped in his ears. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why would I?”

  “Do you own bolt cutters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pliers? Screwdrivers?”

  “Yes.”

  Sidney plopped both arms on the table in an exaggerated expression of exhaustion. “Investigator Adler, can we get to the point?”

  Adler pulled out two photographs and placed them next to each other on the table so Randall could see.

  “The hole in your yard contained what we assume to be the missing computer from your wife’s Mercedes and this field hockey stick. Judging from the tape on the handle, it’s safe to assume it came from Quarim University. I’ll state, for the record, that the medical examiner noted that the potential murder weapon used to kill Amanda would be something like a bat or a pipe. Something that had weight at its edge and was rounded. No one thought of a field hockey stick, but here we are.”

  The headache consumed almost half of his skull now. Randall’s vision blurred at the edges, the room seeming darker now. “I . . . I didn’t dig that hole. I don’t know where those things came from.”

  “They came from your house.”

  “I mean before that! I didn’t take the computer out of Amanda’s car. I wouldn’t know how. I didn’t do this.”

  “Then tell us all, on the record,” Adler said. “Who did?”

  Randall thought about Sam’s warning.

  I’ll remind you one last time. No police.

  Tears formed in his eyes. He wanted so desperately to go home.

  If you tell the police about me, I’ll incinerate everything you hold sacred. Your life. Your reputation. What’s left of your career. Your friends and their wives and their children and their grandchildren. And then, once you’ve seen all the death and you know you’re the one responsible, I’ll kill you. Slowly.

  “Dr. Brock?”

  “I . . . can’t,” Randall muttered. “I can’t tell you.”

  Adler stood from her seat and leaned across the center of the table. “If you know something, you need to tell us.”

  “I can’t!”

  There was a knock on the door, and a trooper poked his head in. “Crosby needs to see you.”

  “Now?”

  “He told me to come in and get you.”

  Adler nodded, then looked at the two men sitting across from her. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “I suggest you talk things over while I’m gone. We have you, Dr. Brock. Now it’s just a matter of how much you’re going to cooperate and how much we’re going to push.”

  37

  Crosby was sitting behind his desk when Susan came into the office. Tommy was in one of the chairs opposite the desk.

  “What’s up?” Susan asked. Her breath came quickly as if she’d been running. In fact, she had been running. “You pulled me at one helluva time. I was just about to press him, and I think he was cracking. He knows what we’ve got, and he’s shaken. I can tell.”

  Crosby snatched a sheet of paper from a pile in front of him. “I wouldn’t have pulled you like that, but this couldn’t wait. We received the results of Dr. Brock’s background check, and you need to see it.” He handed the paper to Susan. “This is Dr. Randall Brock. Born in Hackensack, New Jersey, in 1969. Died at Hackensack Medical Center in 1994. Was diagnosed with lung cancer while still in medical school. Never made it out of his twenties.”

  Susan looked at the sheet of paper. A photograph of a young man stared back at her. Tight curly hair. Small eyes. A large birthmark that stretched across his left cheek and forehead. “Are you sure this is the right person?” she asked.

  Crosby nodded. “We’re sure.”

  “Then who’s in my interview room right now?”

  “Our Randall Brock uses the same birthdate, social security number, and medical affiliation,” Crosby explained. “The reason no one picked up on anything is the fact that our guy hasn’t practiced medicine since coming back East with Amanda. There was no need for anyone to take a closer look at his credentials.”

  “I thought he was a professor at Quarim.”

  “He’s not. Tommy called the school. Apparently, he’s just a partner with Dr. Reems in this test study they’re conducting. Reems is the one who got him his clearance for campus access.”

  Susan looked at the paper again. She ran through the facts about the real Randall Brock. Born in Hackensack. Went to Bergen County Christian Academy, then moved on to the University of Pennsylvania for both his undergraduate and medical-school degrees. He was diagnosed with lymphoma at the age of twenty-two and died three years later in his hometown. He was buried in Maple Grove Park Cemetery. A life stolen in more ways than one.

  Crosby pulled another report from his desk and handed it over. “As to the question of who’s sitting in your interview room right now, we got an immediate hit on NCIC from the prints we ran when you brought our guy in.”

  Susan flipped through the report. “You got a hit that fast? Who is he?”

  “William Feder. Dr. William Feder. The same Dr. William Feder from the Gary Anderson murders in Queens.”

  Susan found the picture of the man she’d thought all this time was Randall Brock. She could see it now. His hair was darker than it used to be. His nose and chin were thinner. He’d had some plastic surgery. But his eyes were the same. Haunted. Desperate. “William Feder,” she whispered to herself. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Tommy raised his hand. “Sorry, who’s William Feder, and what are the Gary Anderson murders?”

  “Are you serious?” Susan asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “It was a national story.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” Tommy replied. “Never heard of it.”

  Susan sat down in the other chair and spread the papers out on her lap the best she could. “It happened about five years ago. William Feder was a prominent professor and researcher at Fordham University in the Bronx. One of the patients he was treating through his research was a guy named Gary Anderson. William was trying to help Gary overcome some serious childhood abuse he’d suffered at the hands of his psycho father when he was a kid. Real sick stuff. Broken bones, torture, rape. It was vicious. Anyway, over time, through all the one-on-one sessions and the treatments, Dr. Feder started to become like Gary’s father figure or protector or something. Things were going well. Gary was getting the treatment he needed. All seemed good. Then one day he just snapped. Gary called Feder and told him that he was having a total breakdown and needed help. He was crying and screaming into the phone, threatening his wife and daughter, talking about killing himself and his family if Fed
er didn’t come.”

  “Sounds fishy,” Tommy said. “All of a sudden this guy goes nuts? Like, out of nowhere?”

  Susan shrugged. “Dr. Feder eventually got him calm, but Gary wouldn’t stop threatening suicide, so Feder agreed to head over to his house so they could keep talking. He never called the police. Just figured he’d handle it doctor to patient. Feder gets to the house, and he’s ambushed. Knocked out cold. When he comes to, he’s in Gary’s basement, chained to the foundation wall, and Gary’s got his wife, Rose, and his twenty-two-year-old daughter, Lily, chained up right next to him. Three prisoners in one spot. Gary had some kind of full-on psychotic break and just totally flipped out. I’ll spare you the details since it’s all online anyway, but our guy in that interview room basically spent the next twelve days chained in Gary’s basement getting tortured and being forced to torture and rape both women. Repeatedly.”

  Tommy was pin straight, listening to the story. Crosby’s office was silent but for Susan’s voice.

  “One night a neighbor was walking home late from work. Got off at the bus stop half a block away. Conditions must’ve been just right or the wind was blowing in the right direction or something, because the neighbor started hearing a faint screaming coming from inside the Anderson house.”

  “Like it was meant to be,” Crosby whispered.

  Susan nodded. “Exactly. Up until then, all four of them had been reported missing, and the NYPD had been by the house three separate times. But Gary had cameras hidden outside, and when he saw the units pull up, he’d make everyone stay silent. NYPD never went in after the second time through because there was nothing to find. Turns out Gary had built a wall separating the basement and his torture room, so when the patrolmen came down to investigate, they walked through and it looked empty. Never saw the door that was disguised to look like brick foundation.”

  “Damn,” Tommy said. His eyes were wide, unblinking. “They were right there.”

  “Both times,” Susan replied. “But on this particular night, after the neighbor called in, they came and tore the place apart. They found the hidden room, but by then Gary had killed his wife and kid, shot Feder in the stomach, then shot himself in the head. That’s the official story, anyway. Dr. William Feder survived after a couple of surgeries. He quit Fordham and kind of disappeared. I guess now we know he stole a new identity and moved out to the West Coast.”

  Tommy thought for a moment. “You know, all that trauma could mess with a person’s well-being. Maybe he didn’t need motive to kill his wife. Maybe some kind of PTSD triggered something, and Dr. Brock, or whoever this guy is, just up and killed her. Maybe he flipped a switch like Gary did.”

  “It’s possible,” Susan said. She looked at Crosby. “Now that we know who our suspect is, I’d like to order his medical records from the Anderson incident. I remember he was seeking psychiatric help after everything he’d been through. I’d like to take a look at the notes from the treatment.”

  Crosby stood from his seat and pulled at the waist of his pants. “I’ll write up a request for judicial sign-off,” he replied. “I’m sure they’re sealed even past the normal HIPAA regulations. I’ll get them to you as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Okay, so now you know what we found. I think it’s time you proceed with your interview.”

  38

  Randall’s lower back was starting to hurt. He slid closer toward the edge of his seat and stretched the best he could in the tight space. The room was so hot. He could feel himself sweating beneath his suit, and his migraine continued to pound in his skull. Sydney was writing on his legal pad, scribbling notes, one after the other. Neither of them spoke.

  The door opened, and Adler came in carrying a new stack of papers. She placed them next to her files and sat down.

  “I appreciate your patience.”

  “I hope it was worth it,” Sydney said. He stopped writing and folded his arms across his chest. “My client has matters to attend to. We can’t sit here all day.”

  “Your client is being questioned around the potential murder weapons found at his house in relation to his wife’s death,” Adler replied. “If I were him, I wouldn’t be worried about other matters at this time.”

  Sydney sighed a laugh. “Are you going to continue?”

  “Have you two had a chance to talk about where you want to go with this case? Are you going to cooperate, or are you going to force me to do things the hard way?”

  “We are cooperating,” Sydney said.

  “I want the truth.”

  “You’re getting it.”

  Adler smiled and looked at Randall. “I want the truth from Dr. Feder.”

  The name hung in the room. Randall knew he heard it, but at the same time he felt detached from what was happening. Images flooded his mind. Slowly at first, but then the floodgates began to open. The basement. The chains. The women. The blood.

  “Who’s Dr. Feder?” Sydney asked somewhere in the background.

  The screams. The crying.

  Adler pointed to Randall. “Sydney Windsor, I’d like you to meet your client, Dr. William Feder. Yes, the Dr. William Feder of the Gary Anderson case in Queens.”

  From his periphery, Randall could see Sydney turning in his chair and looking at him, but he wasn’t in the interrogation room at the moment. He was back in Gary’s basement, chained to the wall like some animal. He could smell the dampness and the mold and the stink of sweat.

  “Dr. Feder,” Adler continued. “I’m sure you know it’s illegal to steal someone’s identity, dead or alive. I can arrest you on that charge alone, so no more dancing around the truth. Talk. Now.”

  Sydney rubbed his forehead, his eyes darting back and forth. “Hold on. I need a moment with my client.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no? I’m entitled to consult with my client, and I wish to do so.”

  “I said no.”

  Sydney slammed his hand on the table, but before he could say anything, Randall grabbed his arm. “It’s okay.”

  “What do you mean, it’s okay?” Sydney asked. “None of this is okay.”

  “She’s right. It’s time for the truth. All of it.”

  “Investigator Adler, I need to talk in private with my client to ensure he’s not about to implicate himself in anything. I don’t know what’s going on here.”

  Randall shook his head. “No, we’re fine.” He looked at Adler. “So you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then there’s really nothing left to hide.” A single tear slipped down his cheek. “Yes, I stole the identity of Randall Brock. I paid good money to obtain proper identification that was already on file with the state of New Jersey. I used his social security number and birthdate to start a new life in San Francisco. Big enough city. Not a lot of scrutiny when it comes to getting a driver’s license and a lease for an apartment. I was a little more concerned when I came to New York, but by then I had a five-year track record and an established life that was traceable, so as long as no one ran my prints or did an in-depth background check, I could get a new driver’s license. I could get married. Amanda already had the house, and she bought the cars, so no extensive credit checks that I had to worry about. By then I was Randall Brock. William Feder was dead. He died in Gary Anderson’s basement the moment he came to that house hoping to help a patient in need. What happened to William is the past.”

  “What happened to William is what happened to you. And it’s relevant, Dr. Feder. It’s motive.”

  It was as if Randall were floating out of his body and watching the interrogation as a spectator. His headache was pounding, gaining strength. “I won’t answer to that other name, so you can stop using it. That man is dead. You’ll address me as Randall Brock, or I won’t answer. I’m serious.”

  Adler nodded. “Fine. Randall, did you kill your wife?”

  “No.”

  “Did she find the truth about your past? Is that why she had to die?�
�

  Randall wiped his tears and closed his eyes. “She did find out about my past. But I didn’t know that until after she was dead. I found the proof she was keeping in a safe-deposit box I never knew existed. That was why she was going to leave me. She found the truth and couldn’t deal with the fact that the man she married could be capable of what went on in that basement. I was forced to do things, Investigator Adler. Terrible things. I’ll never forgive myself, and I don’t blame Amanda for wanting to run away from me.”

  “Where are the papers now?”

  “I burned them. I couldn’t let evidence of my past exist outside in the open.” Randall took a deep breath, forcing the next sentence from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his lips. “However, now that you know the truth, I can tell you this: I believe I know who might’ve killed Amanda.”

  “Who?”

  “You mentioned Sam to me the last time I was at this place. I said I didn’t know what you were talking about, but I lied. I don’t know him, but he exists. He came to my office the day after Amanda was killed, using my little brother’s name, which means he also knew about my real past. My real identity.”

  Sydney raised his hand. “This is too much. I need to consult my client.”

  Randall ignored his lawyer. “I never met this guy before. I saw him at Amanda’s award ceremony the night before, but we didn’t speak. Next time I saw him he was at the office. He was the one who first told me she’d been murdered. He told me before you did. He knew. He also knew about Amanda’s affair and her reworking of the will and the divorce. I don’t know how, but he knew everything.”

  “What did he want?”

  I’ll kill you. Slowly.

  “He said he wanted to show me Amanda’s truths so I could tell him mine.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? What truths?”

  “I guess he wanted me to admit who I really was.”

  Adler fell back in her chair, gently tapping her pen on the table. “Did this Sam look familiar to you in any way? Maybe you met him at one of your wife’s past charity events?”

  “I don’t think so. Just at the award ceremony. I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I saw him.”