The Nick Lawrence Series

by Brian Shea

  Jasper stopped at the intersection with Rio Grande Street. The track had taken them on a straight line west, but it appeared that it might be lost. Jasper shifted his body.

  “Do you want me to call it?” Calhoun asked, after giving this latest location over the radio. Calling the track would announce that it was over.

  “Give him a minute. He’ll tell me when it’s done. And he hasn’t yet,” Harrison said, awaiting the familiar look from Jasper that the scent was gone. The dog’s head continued to push around the ground, bobbing up and down slightly.

  The pull of the leash caught Harrison off guard. The track had resumed, still pushing west. They doglegged south onto North Lamar Boulevard, but only for a block until they pushed west again. This time on West 11th Street. Jasper stopped at the T-intersection with Baylor Street, scanning the tiered rise of concrete ahead. The brightly-colored walls of the Hope Outdoor Gallery were set in the middle of the old Austin neighborhood. Graffiti artists shared their talent without reprisal. A unique and vibrant visual representation of Austin’s massive artistic patronage.

  Jasper left the street, hitting the dirt-covered path that intertwined with the kaleidoscope of images. His movements were more erratic now as he zigzagged up the slow rise. This time when he stopped, Harrison saw his furry partner’s ear twitch and matched the direction of his gaze. Then he saw it. The surrounding walls shadowed the form sprawled on the ground.

  “Platz,” Harrison said. The command given, Jasper took a prone position at his foot. “Blieb.” With that last utterance, Jasper would not move until told to do so. Then Harrison directed his attention to Calhoun. “Let’s go.”

  The two men approached slowly, not wanting to scare the girl. She did not react to their approaching footsteps. Both officers crouched low, and it was Calhoun who spoke first.

  “Hey, sweetheart, I’m Darius. We’re here to help you.”

  His words were kind and his voice smooth. They’d be a welcome sound to anyone in distress.

  Unfortunately, the small girl’s ears would never hear those words. As Harrison gently rocked her shoulder, he could feel the damp stickiness of her blood-soaked shirt. Panicking, he rolled her from her side to her back to check her vitals. She was cold to the touch. Those vacant eyes would never be able to capture the beauty of her surroundings. Harrison and Calhoun exchanged pained glances, the two strong men momentarily emotionally crippled by the girl that lay before them.

  Rusty bent forward, placing his hands on his knees. The dead girl brought up an image he’d long since repressed. It dizzied him. He swayed, fighting back against the memory.

  8

  It was quiet except for the crunching and slurping of the small girl hunched over the tray of food. While chewing, she would lift her eyes and scan the room’s interior. The walls were a dull color, like an offspring of beige and gray. No pictures. No windows. A square table and some cheap plastic chairs were its only furnishings. She swallowed and returned to the mountain of food in front of her. She forked a mouthful of syrup-covered pancakes into her mouth, breathing through her nose.

  “Look at her. She eats like a Coyote in Spring,” Deputy Parsons watched on the monitor.

  The camera affixed to the corner of the interview room relayed the live feed of the girl’s ravenous consumption of the food generously provided by Jackie Masternick of Ma’s Diner.

  “I wonder how long it’s been since she last ate?” Anaya Patel said this with genuine concern. “She could make herself sick.”

  “The doc said it was hard to tell, but at least a few days without food and water. The IVs really helped. I thought she was a goner. A few more hours and she probably would’ve been,” Parsons relayed.

  “I’m going to go in and say hello.”

  “I don’t think she speaks English,” Parsons said.

  “Why do you think that?” Anaya asked.

  “Cuz she didn’t say nothin’ to me.” It was a defensive response by the lawman.

  “Maybe she didn’t like you,” Anaya said, lessening the blow with a smile and wink.

  “I’ll be watching from out here if you two need anything,” Parsons said, accepting his role.

  “Will do. Thanks for the call, Bill. Hopefully, we can get her some help.”

  The door opened slowly, and Anaya Patel’s slender body stood at the threshold. She did not enter the room. The girl looked at her but said nothing. Anaya allowed the girl time to evaluate her. Damaged children were like stray dogs. They needed time to acclimatize to new surroundings and new people. Anaya knew this better than most and she was patient. The girl’s eyes shot back to the food. The initial threat assessment was apparently over.

  “Can I come in?” Anaya asked the small girl. The first step to establishing trust was to empower.

  No words. The girl only moved her head in the slightest of nods.

  “Thank you,” Anaya said, genuinely.

  Nothing. A long slurp of water filled the silence.

  “I know you’re hungry, but you may want to slow down. Too much food too fast could make you sick,” Anaya said.

  Anaya had a gentle way. It came naturally to her. Her kindness was a byproduct of her own childhood trauma.

  The small girl paused, contemplating the words. The fork balanced between her thumb and forefinger. It hovered above the diner’s generous portions. She put it down on the table. The subtle standoff over, she cast her eyes toward Anaya but ensured that she avoided making direct eye contact.

  “I’m Anaya. I work for an agency called Child Protective Services. My job is to help children like you. And I want you to know that you’re in good hands because I’m very good at what I do,” Anaya said, knowing the importance of establishing primacy. She needed the girl to believe in her abilities if any early trust was to be built.

  Anaya had gauged that the girl had an excellent grasp of English without ever asking. She had appropriately responded non-verbally to everything said up to this point.

  “I would like to know your name so I have something to call you by,” Anaya said, softly.

  Nothing.

  “Is there something people call you? It doesn’t have to be your real name.” Anaya said, using a line she’d used many times before.

  Anaya knew this girl might fear some reprisal if her legal name was given. Kids in her position often worried about their captors finding them or getting deported. She always liked to give the nickname option as an icebreaker.

  The small girl seemed to make herself even smaller as she said, “Mouse. My name is Mouse.”

  Anaya was correct. This girl had an excellent command of the English language.

  “Mouse it is then. Thank you for that,” Anaya said, satisfied that the first connection had been developed. She smiled at the little girl.

  Mouse’s cheeks twitched momentarily, but she did not smile. In the safety of her temporary surroundings, she allowed some of the tension to release. But she remembered that she still had promises to keep.

  9

  Nick pulled into the parking garage of the massive building that rose up in the heart of downtown Austin. He’d already coordinated with the booking sergeant prior to his arrival so they could arrange to have Richard Pentlow prepared. Nick entered through the secured law-enforcement-only entrance to the facility after showing his credentials to the jailer. The bustling movement of police officers, jail personnel and inmates looked like an ant mound that had been poked with a stick. Must have been a busy night.

  Nick walked to the main desk area and again showed his credentials. “Agent Lawrence to see inmate Pentlow. I spoke with Sergeant Willis on the phone and he said he’d have him ready for me,” Nick said.

  “He’s in interview room number three. I’ll take you to him.” The jailer was friendly but direct. The interview of Pentlow was obviously low on his priority list, and it was evident he wanted to get back to the task of preparing for the morning’s arraignments.

  “Busy night?” Nick asked, making smal
l talk as the two walked into the brightly-lit corridor containing a row of closed doors along the right-hand side.

  “Pretty typical fallout from a Saturday night,” the guard said and shrugged as if the volume of newly-arrested people was barely a blip on his radar. “Here you go. The room has a camera system that will record your interview. We can get you a copy before you leave. One of our deputies, Dan Shelton, is inside with him and will standby outside the door while you do your thing.”

  “Thanks. I’m not sure how long this will take,” Nick said, knowing that every interview was different, and the timeframe was dependent on so many factors.

  “Well, he’s set to see the judge at around ten, so you’ve only got about an hour,” the jailer said, opening the door to the interview room.

  The county did daily arraignments. A judge would hear any new arrests that came in through the night and early morning hours. The probable cause for the custody would be reviewed and a bond would be set.

  “I guess I’d better get started then,” Nick said, with a smile.

  Nick entered the room and nodded at Shelton, who exited without saying a word. As the door clicked shut, Nick stood for a moment acclimatizing to the room and the man nervously seated a few feet away. Nick took the seat across from him. The man’s head remained down, the top thinned, with wisps of dirty blond hair laying over his bald spot.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pentlow. I’m Agent Lawrence with the FBI,” Nick said, extending his hand.

  Richard Pentlow seemed shocked by the Agent’s greeting. Nick knew why. Nobody liked a pedophile and his treatment had probably been less than hospitable since his arrival. Nick knew this and, by design, knew the importance of his outreached hand. Pentlow wiped his clammy palms on his pants and took the agent’s hand, giving it a weak shake.

  “How are you holding up? Can I get you anything?” Nick asked, in a tone that sounded genuine.

  It was an act. Nick would like nothing more than to reach across the table and choke the life out of the man. He’d learned that would do more harm than good. Kindness and compassion, even when well-faked, were instrumental in developing rapport. The key ingredients to getting a confession. Nick had mastered the ability of putting aside his personal feelings in these investigations. He’d found the appropriate release for that harbored rage. It was not now and definitely not here.

  “I’m fine, I guess,” Pentlow said, meekly.

  “All right. Well, let’s get the formalities out of the way,” Nick said as he slowly pulled a sheet of paper from his folder.

  Nick went through line by line of the Miranda warning, reading it aloud as Pentlow followed along silently. Nick verified that Pentlow understood each piece through verbal confirmation and annotation in the form of his initials. Pentlow signed the bottom of the page, authorizing Nick to speak with him.

  “How long have you lived in the Austin area?” Nick asked, catching Pentlow off guard.

  People based their idea of what a police interview should look like from poorly developed Hollywood scripts. Television and movies rarely showed this aspect of an interrogation. They cut to the dramatic confrontation, but Nick knew the likelihood of confession was built in these subtle moments of connection between suspect and interviewer.

  “Huh? Oh, about three years,” Pentlow answered.

  “Where did you move from?” Nick asked. To an outsider, it would appear that Nick was genuinely interested in Richard Pentlow’s life.

  “Oregon. Grew up there, but then a job opportunity presented out this way,” Pentlow said, meekly.

  Pentlow was comfortable talking about his job. It was a safe area. Nick needed these contextual points to fall back on if the bond weakened at the later stages of the interview.

  “Was your wife supportive of the move?” Nick asked, gauging Pentlow’s reaction to the introduction of his spouse into the conversation.

  Pentlow gave a miniscule grimace. Too early to tell if the facial tick was related to his present circumstance or a general disdain for his wife.

  “I guess. Well, not really. She had no friends or family out this way. Since we got here, she’s pretty much become a recluse,” Pentlow said, lowering his eyes.

  “That’s got to be tough. How is your relationship with her?” Nick asked, taking an early risk.

  He was under a time crunch and needed to extract as much information as he could before the arraignment. The chance of Pentlow talking after that would drop drastically. In Nick’s experience the best opportunity to confront an arrestee was after booking, but before intermingling with the judicial process. Once bond was posted, suspects did not typically feel the need to speak with police. Their initial desperation would be dashed with the injection of a defense attorney’s advice.

  “Relationship?” Pentlow showed the first signs of emotion. Anger.

  “Not good?” Nick prodded.

  “That’s an understatement. All she does is care for her kids. I’m the odd man out in the house,” Pentlow said, spitting his frustration at Nick.

  Nick caught something in Pentlow’s statement and inquired further, “You said her kids. Are you not their biological father?”

  “Her son and daughter are from two different dads. Not mine. I really do care for them though.”

  Pentlow said this last part for effect. He was trying to win Nick’s approval. That was a good thing. It meant that subconsciously he valued Nick’s opinion of him. That could be manipulated to an advantage as the conversation progressed.

  “I’m sure you do. I have no question about your dedication. I mean, look at all you’ve done for them. You took this job out here to give them a better life. To give your wife more. Does she appreciate the sacrifices you’ve made?”

  Nick asked this by design. He needed Pentlow to see Nick as someone who understood his plight. He’d be more likely to talk to a supportive ear.

  “No. She’s treated me like shit since we moved here.” Pentlow paused for a moment and then continued, “Sorry for the language. I don’t mean to sound crass, but it just upsets me.”

  The irony was not lost on Nick. A man in custody for raping an eleven-year-old girl had just apologized for cursing. “Treated like shit?” Nick broached.

  “Well, it’s kind of personal.”

  “I’d really like to understand you better. It’s important to me. Your well-being is important to me,” Nick said.

  It was an absolute lie. He wanted to shove his fist down the perv’s throat but that would do nothing to help the case. It would do nothing to help those girls.

  “Thank you. Do you know that you’re the first person to treat me like a human being since this morning?” Pentlow said, sadly.

  This comment was a verbal confirmation that Nick had struck interrogator gold in the rapport phase of the interview. He could slowly apply the pressure. Slowly break the man seated across from him.

  “Richard, we are under a time crunch this morning. You’re going to be seeing the judge in less than an hour.” Nick paused for effect and then continued, “I’m not going to sugar coat this. You’re facing some very serious charges and the cards are stacked against you.”

  “I didn’t do anything! I told the cops that I heard a girl scream and I went in to help. I didn’t touch that girl!” Richard said, desperately. His eyes widened, pleading for Nick to believe him.

  “If you’re going to stick to that story, then I’m going to leave.” Nick closed his notebook and slid the chair back slowly.

  Richard Pentlow’s head dipped and his body slumped. Nick observed this pathetic display of defeat as he made his way toward the door.

  As Nick reached for the door handle, he looked back and said, “I’m your only chance at getting you any consideration with the court. This door closes behind me and the opportunities leave with me.”

  “Wait!” Pentlow shot a glance at the agent.

  “Would you like to talk? To really talk about what happened?” Nick asked, firmly. The feigned kindness he’d shown
Pentlow was dissipating.

  “Yes,” Pentlow muttered, softly.

  Taking his seat, Nick stared seriously at the man in front of him. He sighed, as if annoyed at this game, and began the renewed conversation, “Look, there’re some things you need to understand before we begin again.”

  Pentlow nodded but didn’t speak.

  “You were caught in a room with an eleven-year-old girl tied to a bed and six others locked in the bathroom. Not sure there’s any way you can spin that to your advantage,” Nick said, holding back his contempt for the man before him. He continued, “Your friends and family will abandon you. The prosecution will destroy you. And prison, well, prison will be a living hell for you.”

  “I can’t go to prison! You’ve got to help me,” Pentlow whimpered, rubbing his face wildly as if trying to wake from a terrible nightmare.

  “I don’t make the deals,” Nick said, coldly.

  “Then what good are you to me,” Pentlow said, lashing out in frustration.

  “I’m the guy who talks to the prosecution. I’m the guy who tells them you’re fully cooperating with my investigation. And if you don’t bullshit me, then maybe, just maybe, I can arrange to have you set up in isolation so you don’t have to be in gen pop,” Nick said.

  “Gen pop?” Pentlow asked.

  “General population. Do you know how many inmates have children? Even the nastiest of prisoners will hate you. They’ll find out what you did. They always do. And when that happens, it’ll be a fate worse than death,” Nick said, allowing Pentlow’s racing mind to fill in the gap. The unsaid threat.

  “Maybe I’ll beat this thing. Maybe my attorney will fix it,” Pentlow said, weakly.