by L. K. Hill
Hunt considered. He shifted his position. “I understand when Captain Thatcher interrogated Hammond, he gave you four different sets of names for his parents in under ten minutes.”
“Correct," Gabe nodded, remembering Shaun's interrogation.
Hammond nodded again. “That kind of detail is rehearsed. Obvious lies. When details change, especially rapidly, it’s a good bet there’s little truth being told. I’ve seen a great many of Hammond’s details change.”
“Including the ranch?”
Hammond shook his head slowly, face serious. “No. It’s the one thing he hasn’t changed. That’s why I’m focusing on it. I’m assuming it’s a truth and building from there. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. It’s the one thing he keeps coming back to. The one constant. Understand, Detective, the details might still be lies. Maybe it’s not a ranch at all but a house in suburbia somewhere. What’s important is this location, where or whatever it is, is fixed in his mind. It’s where he grew up. Where he formed his identity, no matter how twisted. This place is where his father raised him.”
Gabe sighed. Hammond’s father, who wasn't truly his father. His father the kidnapper and pedophile, who'd taken him from his biological family decades ago.
“I understand,” he said quietly.
“Another thing you can look for,” Hunt continued, as though oblivious to Gabe’s reaction. "Sometimes he looks down. Not at his hands, but chin to chest, as though examining his chest hair. He stays motionless until I move on. In those cases, he doesn’t want to lie, but is refusing to answer the question.”
Gabe frowned. “Why would he lie sometimes and not always?”
Hunt pursed his lips a moment before answering. "There could be many reasons.”
“You don’t think it’s because he simply can’t think of a lie in those cases?”
“No,” Hunt said firmly. “Detective, Hammond tries hard to paint himself as normal, simple. Even stupid. He's not. One thing I know for certain: he possesses a frightening intelligence. This is a maze he's built, and we're the rats in it. He’s controlling these interrogations to a much greater extent than I am.” Hunt sighed, looking resigned. “I know it’s awful. If we want him to give us answers, we must play by his rules.”
Gabe raised a hand. “I get it, Agent. How can we be sure he’s not jerking us around? What if he sends us on a wild goose chase?”
“You’re right to be suspicious,” Hunt gave Gabe an approving look. “Anything he tells us must be taken with a grain of salt. Chances are something about it is a lie or manipulation. Again, we have no other choice if we want what’s in his head.
Gabe nodded. Yeah, it sucked. “Okay.”
Hunt straightened. “Any other questions before I start?”
Gabe shook his head. “No. Thank you.”
“Of course, Detective.” He gathered up his notebook and file and turned toward the door. On the way out, he shut off the lights for Gabe’s benefit. The one-way glass allowed Gabe to watch and listen to the interrogation without being seen by Hammond. The darkness on his side made seeing into the interrogation room easier. Like a movie screen.
When the lights went out, the one-way glass threw his refection back at him with great clarity. Gabe studied himself. His short brown hair stood out at odd angles, as though he’d just rolled out of bed, and his brown eyes were bloodshot and larger than usual. His entire face had a gaunt, haggard appearance. Kind of like Kyra’s face when she wore her Supra makeup. For some reason, the thought made him chuckle. He desperately needed sleep.
The door to his right opened, and Cora appeared. “Hey,” she said.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
She crossed the room and pulled a chair up beside his. “It’s my day off. I have paper work to do and the house is too quiet. Thought maybe I'd keep you company while I did it.” She pulled two thick files from her briefcase.
Gabe threw her a grateful smile. If Cora had a day off—doubtful; none of them would enjoy a day off for quite a while with their current workload—she had better things to do than be here. “Thanks,” he said quietly.
In the room on the other side of the glass, a door to Gabe’s right opened and two hospital security guards led Hammond in. His wiry, gray hair stuck out in tufts over his ears. Little of it remained anywhere else. The same hideous yellow scrubs worn by all psychiatric patients here strained across Hammond's slight pot belly. His face looked older than it did mere days ago, but his eyes were more alert than Gabe had ever seen them.
His wrists and ankles were shackled together. In past days, he’d both attacked his interrogators and thrown himself into walls, attempting self-harm. The guard guided him to a chair on one side of the table and attached the shackles to the table itself.
A door on the left side of the room opened and Hunt entered. He sat across the table from Hammond as the guard moved to stand by the door.
“Good morning, Brad,” Hunt said, sounding congenial. “Did you have a good night?"
“My name’s Ellie,” Hammond snarled. Gabe’s eyebrow rose at the ferocity of it. “I told you that yesterday.”
Hunt, however, appeared entirely unruffled. “You’re right, Ellie.” He smiled as he would at a child. “My mistake. I’m sorry.”
Hammond appeared somewhat mollified. His expression quickly morphed into one of annoyance. “What do you want now?”
He muttered so softly, Gabe barely caught it.
Hunt sat across from Hammond, casually flicking open a file and laying his legal pad down beside it. “I thought about the ranch we discussed yesterday, Ellie. All night. I hoped you could tell me more. It sounds like such a lovely place.”
“It is not a lovely place, Hammond snapped.
Hunt raised an eyebrow, affecting genuine surprise. Gabe understood what made Hunt so good at his job. He felt suddenly grateful Hunt sat in there with Hammond and not him. Gabe couldn’t have masked his thoughts nearly so well.
“I’m sorry, Ellie. I didn’t mean to upset you,” Hunt said. “What makes you say that?”
Hammond sat back in his seat, staring at Hunt, and said nothing.
After a moment, Hunt gave a nod. “Perhaps we can start with something more specific. What kind of ranch did your father own?”
“In the desert.”
Hunt chuckled good-naturedly. “No, I meant what kind of animals. Horses? Cows? Gila monsters, perhaps?”
Hammond’s eyes went to the ceiling and his thumbs made small revolutions around each other. Hunt waited. Gabe waited.
Finally, Hammond’s thumbs went still and he sat forward. “Only pigs and chickens. Always a fox in the hen house.”
“I see.” Hunt made a note on his pad. “How did you feel about those animals, Ellie? Love them? Hate them?"
Hammond gave an exaggerated shrug. “Should I feel a certain way?”
Hunt shook his head. “No. It’s only a question. Did your father raise them for slaughter? Did you eat them?”
Hammond shrugged again. “They all deserved to be eaten.”
Gabe’s hackles rose. He studied Hammond. Strange thing to say about unintelligent animals raised for food, and in such a nonchalant voice—as though discussing the weather.
Hunt’s eyes flicked to Hammond, then toward the glass in front of Gabe. Hammond, peering down at his hands, didn’t catch it. Gabe hadn’t needed Hunt’s glance to tell him this conversation had become significant. He wished he knew what it meant.
“Why did the pigs and chickens deserve to be eaten, Ellie?”
“Anything too stupid to save itself deserves to be eaten, don’t you think?”
Hunt appeared to consider the question. “There are plenty of innocent creatures in the world who are incapable, at least at some point, of protecting themselves. Do they all deserve to die?”
“Of course they do. If they’re not smart enough or strong enough to survive, they won’t.”
“Come on, now,” Hunt said, voice still friendly. “You
were a baby once, Ellie. You couldn’t have survived on your own, yet still you are here. Are you saying you deserved to die as an infant?”
Hammond shrugged. “Plenty of unworthy things live in the world. Mostly it’s luck. But when put to the test, if they don’t have the means or will power to survive, they shouldn’t.”
Hammond's voice remained utterly passionless. Gabe shivered.
“Does that include the fox? Did you ever catch and eat him, or did he outwit you?”
“What fox?” Hammond asked.
“The one in the hen house.”
Hammond affected true confusion. “What are you talking about? We didn't have a fox.”
Without missing a beat, Hunt moved into another question. “Which did you prefer, Ellie? The pigs or the chickens?”
Hammond’s eyebrows narrowed in suspicion. “What do you mean?”
“Did you prefer the company of one animal or the other?”
“No. Both were equally nice. And stupid.”
“Did one taste better than the other?”
Hammond leapt to his feet. “I didn’t eat them!” he thundered.
The guard by the door moved as if to take hold of Hammond. A flick of Hunt’s pointer finger kept him in his place.
Hunt seemed as unaffected as a lounging house cat. He even smiled. “I don’t understand, Ellie. You said the animals were raised to be eaten.”
“Not by me,” Hammond hissed.
“Ah,” Hunt nodded and made a note on his pad, as though he’d already clarified the point. “Then who?”
“My father.”
Hunt nodded, and continued to scribble in the pad. He set the pen down and gazed up at Hammond, who still stood. “I understand now, Ellie. I apologize for the misunderstanding. Please.” He motioned toward Hammond’s chair.
Hammond, still looking angry, lowered himself slowly.
Hunt said nothing for a full thirty seconds. Gabe suspected he wanted to let Hammond calm down.
“If only your father ate the animals," Hunt finally said, "what was your job?”
Hammond leaned forward and clasped his hands, forearms resting on the table and face sullen. “To get them ready.”
“Ah,” Hunt nodded knowingly again. “You prepared them for slaughter.”
“To be eaten,” Hammond said, looking stubborn.
Gabe shifted in his chair. Why the differentiation? It all amounted to the same thing, didn’t it? Why did Hunt fixate so much on the animals? He needed to try and learn the location of the ranch. Obviously he thought they meant something other than the literal. Gabe wasn’t sure what. The answer lurked on the outskirt of his consciousness. He didn’t dare chase it.
“I see,” Hunt said.
Gabe wished he saw.
“How many were there, Ellie?”
Hammond’s eyes flicked from his clasped hands up to Hunt. “What?”
“How many chickens, how many pigs over the years? Did you keep a count?”
Hammond shook his head. “Only ever had two chickens. The rest were pigs.”
“Where did your father get them, Ellie? Did he breed them?
Hammond’s head snapped up, as though insulted. When Hunt only gazed benignly back, Hammond's look wilted.
“No. He went out and found them. Brought them back.”
“Where did he get them from?” Hunt asked, notating in his pad. “Buy them at a local market?”
Ah, good. Gabe leaned forward in his seat. Hunt was finally getting somewhere. If Hammond told them the location of the market…
“I don’t know,” Hammond thundered again, face reddening. This time he remained seated, though. “I never went with him.”
Damnit.
Hunt leaned forward, as if some point especially caught his interest. “Tell me, Ellie. Did you ever see any of the animals as pets? Give them names, perhaps?”
For the first time, Hammond appeared uncomfortable. He swallowed. “Didn’t need to give them names,” Hammond muttered.
“Oh,” Hunt asked, quizzical eyebrow raised. “Why is that?”
“They already had them.”
Hunt made the second display of his true emotion since the interrogation began. He didn’t flick his eyes toward Gabe this time, probably because Hammond watched him. Hunt's face remained entirely passive, but his body became utterly still, no longer lounging for a casual chat with Hammond.
“Can you tell me some of their names, Ellie?”
Hammond once again leaned back in his chair, gazed toward the ceiling and twiddled his thumbs. Only seconds passed before his thumbs stilled and he leaned forward again. “I don’t remember.”
Hunt nodded, having recovered his casual body language. “Tell me, Ellie. Was one of them, by chance, named Dillon?”
The glass in front of Gabe fogged up until he couldn’t see Hammond anymore. He didn’t remember leaving his seat. His nose and fingertips now pressed against the glass, willing Hammond’s answers to come faster. He vaguely registered Cora’s hand on his back, but ignored it.
Hammond sat back in his seat. Though his face remained unreadable, something about his stance felt…satisfied. “Might have been.”
“What happened to Dillon?” Hunt asked quietly. “Was he eaten?”
“They all were,” Hammond said simply.
Hunt nodded and scratched on his legal pad. It occurred to Gabe that the pad lay flat on the table. Hunt couldn’t be taking notes on what he thought Hammond’s words truly meant. Hammond could see them.
“I’m curious,” Hunt said. “Surely, your father didn’t eat the entire animal. Hair, skin, snout? What happened to the carcasses afterward?”
Hammond shrugged off-handedly. “Usually buried the bones.”
The tension in Gabe’s shoulders ratcheted up.
“May I ask where?” Hunt said.
Another shrug. “Sometimes under the house. Sometimes out farther. Father always let me pick the spots.”
“I see.” Hunt continued to make notes. “So you know where all the pig and chicken carcasses are buried.”
Hammond sat back in his seat. “Can’t say as I remember most of them.”
Hunt dropped the pen and smiled broadly, obviously trying to lighten the mood. “Tell me more about the ranch, Ellie. Is there a place on the grounds you loved? Somewhere you liked to play, maybe? A hill? A place to build forts?”
Annoyance instantly covered Hammond’s face. “I was hardly the type of child to build forts.”
“I see. What did you spend your time doing, then?”
Hammond leaned forward, his face intense. “Prepared the pigs.”
Gabe huffed in frustration. This indirect, congenial questioning wasn't working anymore.
Hunt smiled gently, studying his clasped hands. When his head came up again, it was as though he'd read Gabe's mind. He gazed directly into Hammond’s face. “Where is this ranch, Ellie? Here, in Nevada? Perhaps the southern desert? Or out of state somewhere?”
Hammond leaned back and glanced up at the ceiling. Only a glance. His thumbs barely moved before they stilled and he returned his gaze to Hunt. “Yes. Out of state.”
A lie then? Gabe wondered.
Hunt spread his hands. “There must have been some identifying structures of the landscape? Or perhaps other structures beside the house? A barn? A shed? A pen for the pigs? What about the hen house?”
“What hen house?”
“The one the fox got into.”
“I’ve told you there was no fox,” Hammond snapped. He leaned back and looked toward the ceiling. His thumbs began their rotation. “We only had the house and miles and miles of dirt.” His thumbs stopped and he dropped his gaze to Hunt. “Except for the stream.”
Hunt raised an eyebrow. “A stream of water.” He picked up his pen to make a note. “Any wells?”
“No. It was a little stream.”
Gabe breathed out. “Cora—”
“Yeah, I caught it,” she said from beside him. “Emphasis on little
.”
“Is he covering for something?” Gabe asked.
“No idea.”
“Did the stream have a name?” Hunt asked.
“No.”
“Did you play in the stream, Ellie?”
“Not exactly.”
Hunt smiled. “Surely it must have served some purpose, there on the ranch. You were in the middle of the desert after all, right?”
Gabe caught Hunt’s intent immediately: fishing to learn if the ranch truly lay out in the desert.
Hammond smiled maliciously, shrugged with exaggeration. "Sometimes the carcasses went into it."
Gabe shut his eyes and dropped his head. The pressure of Cora’s hand on his shoulder blade increased. She rested her other hand on his arm.
Hunt stared at Hammond for long seconds, face unreadable. He looked down at his hands. “Ellie—”
“I’m done talking for today,” Hammond interrupted him.
Hunt gave him a strained smile. “We’ve hardly begun.”
Hammond smiled back gently. He leapt to his feet, face contorting, and leaned as far across the table toward Hunt as his shackles allowed. “I TOLD YOU I’M DONE TALKING FOR TODAY YOU DAMN PIG!”
Beside Gabe, Cora jumped. Hunt didn’t even blink. He heaved a deep breath and sat back in his chair, never looking away from Hammond’s feral gaze.
The guards came up behind Hammond again, looking to Hunt for direction. Hunt gave a subtle nod and the guards each took one of Hammond’s arms.
Hammond lurched in their grip. Twisting, he sunk his teeth into one of the guard’s arms. The man cried out in pain and Hunt leapt to his feet. Gabe moved to run into the room and help, but the second guard acted swiftly. Pulling a night stick from his belt, he hit Hammond hard on the shoulder. The old man went down like a sack of potatoes. The guards easily pulled him to his feet and dragged him toward the door.
Gabe staggered slowly back from the one-way glass and dropped heavily into his chair. He vaguely registered Hunt addressing the guard Hammond attacked, advising him to see the prison doctor as soon as Hammond had been secured.
Just as they reached the door, Hammond spoke again, not bothering to raise his head. “Give Detective Nichols my regards.”