by Josh Lanyon
“Boyd, for chrissake. He was cleared. He was completely cleared.” Gervase scrubbed his face in his hands. He looked up at Jason. “I guess I do remember you now. A scrawny kid with long hair and a mouth full of metal. Why didn’t you say right away who you were?”
“I did—I wasn’t hiding anything. I had no idea I was ever considered a suspect.”
“They dragged you in for questioning,” Boxner said.
“They didn’t drag me. And if they did, they dragged you too. They dragged all of us, everyone who knew Honey.”
Boxner recoiled as though this had slipped his mind. Maybe he had grown so used to thinking of himself as a police officer, he had forgotten there ever was a time when he stood on the outside.
“Are we done here?” Kennedy sounded bored.
“Done?” Gervase and Boxner echoed.
“Well?”
Gervase threw Boxner a not-exactly-apologetic glance. “Well, Boyd, it does seem like—”
“We’re not even going to question him?”
“Question me about what?” Jason demanded.
Boxner started to explain what, but Kennedy broke in.
“West is a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Which means he’s passed the most rigorous physical and psychological testing in the country with flying colors. The Bureau takes only the best. We don’t make mistakes.”
“You’re talking about yourself too, you know,” Boxner said.
Kennedy grinned. “That’s right. I am.”
Boxner gaped at the sweeping arrogance of that. Even Jason was a little impressed.
Gervase said in his steady, even way, “Nobody can be above suspicion. Of course no one’s suggesting Agent West—”
“Of course not,” Kennedy said. “Because that would be fucking ridiculous. So let’s call it a night. We’ve all had a hell of a long day, and enough time has been wasted on this nonsense.”
Gervase’s jaw tightened. “Anything you wish, Special Agent Kennedy.” The words were tinged with sarcasm.
Kennedy nodded to Jason, and Jason opened the door and walked out. His heart was still pounding with frustrated fury—a tidal wave of adrenaline crashing against the rocks of common sense. You could not punch people for saying outrageous, stupid things. No matter how much you wanted to—and they deserved it.
The door slammed behind them, and he could hear Boxner’s raised voice through the wood.
“Well, that was interesting,” Kennedy said as they walked out the front doors of the station. His tone was sardonic but also weary. They were all exhausted, all depressed over the outcome of the day’s search.
Which made the last half hour all the more surreal.
“Thanks for what you said in there.” Jason’s voice was tight with the effort of not giving in to his own ranting.
Kennedy threw him a look of disbelief. “Believe me, that wasn’t personal. A federal agent under that kind of suspicion? Not acceptable. I can’t get over the fact you didn’t think this was information you needed to share.”
“You already knew I spent summers here as a kid. And the rest of it… I never knew I was a real suspect.”
Kennedy’s expression was disbelieving. “They gave you a lie-detector test.”
“They gave all of us, every boy, every man Honey knew, a lie-detector test. Her father. Her brothers. I’m sure Boxner took a lie-detector test too. Every guy Honey ever dated—not that there were that many—took a polygraph. It never occurred to me I was any more of a suspect than anyone else. I’m not sure I was. That could be Boxner’s take.”
Now, looking back, Jason wondered with a sense of shock whether his parents’ sudden decision to sell their vacation home and never return to Kingsfield had something to do with Jason falling under suspicion.
It was not a thought he liked.
The night air was cool. Moonlight reflected off the hoods and rooftops of the cars still crowding the parking lot. Most of Kingsfield PD would be working through the long night—and more nights to come.
They climbed into the silver sedan. Kennedy started the engine and said, “This is getting messy. I don’t like messy.”
“I’m not compromised,” Jason said. “Gervase said himself I was completely cleared.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You think I like it?” And he was going to like it even less if Kennedy tried to use this as another excuse for getting rid of him.
Kennedy did not put the car into gear. “What about Boxner? What’s the situation between the two of you?”
“There is no situation.”
“West, pull your head out of your easel. Boxner hates your guts. Why?”
“Because I’m gay.”
The silence that followed was as stark as the report of a rifle.
“No.” Kennedy shook his head. “It would have to be more than that.”
That answered one question. Kennedy had already worked out Jason’s sexual orientation. Not that it was a secret, but in the Bureau everybody played it straight. It went with the territory.
“Would it? You didn’t know Boxner when he was a kid. Believe me, if he wasn’t homophobic, he was pretty damned close.”
“Yeah. Well. The adolescent male ego is a fragile and frightened thing.” Kennedy sounded almost philosophical. “I don’t get the feeling Boxner is a homophobe per se. I’ve known guys like him. He probably even regrets some of the shit he pulled as a kid. But not where you’re concerned. His dislike and distrust of you shines like a beacon.”
“Then it has to be because Honey and I were best friends.”
Kennedy sighed. “West, I don’t have time to drag it out of you word by word. Tell me about that summer.”
“Boxner had a crush on Honey. Honey…wasn’t interested.”
After a moment, Kennedy said, “I gather you’re being modest. Continue.”
“We were kids. Honey was sixteen, I was seventeen. We were both lifeguards at Holyoke Pond that summer. And we were involved in the park theater program. I was just stage crew, painting backdrops and props, but Honey acted in the production. We were doing Barefoot in the Park.”
Patiently, Kennedy said, “And where does Boxner fit into all this?”
“He was a friend of Honey’s older brother Dougie. He was just always around.”
“He wasn’t a lifeguard?”
“No.”
“He wasn’t involved in the park theater productions?”
“No.” God no, Boxner would have said at the very idea.
“Okay. So basically you and Honey were inseparable, and Boxner felt thwarted and jealous.”
“Basically, yes. I would guess.”
“Hm. Maybe.” Kennedy seemed to be thinking aloud. “Maybe if he saw you as an obstacle to Honey’s affections.”
“No,” Jason said. “He knew I was not an obstacle. He knew before I did. And partly he knew because…” It was one thing to privately reflect on the old hurts and humiliations. To have to say it aloud was more painful than Jason had expected.
Kennedy sounded uncharacteristically startled. “God almighty.” He threw Jason a quick look, although it was unlikely he could see much in the weird light of the dashboard. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“As a heart attack. Which is about how healthy that was.”
Kennedy made a terse sound that could have been humor.
“So to add to Boxner’s frustrations, he had to worry about the fact he was attracting the wrong kind of interest, which is always going to be an issue for an insecure male. Especially an adolescent. Yeah, it fits. It makes sense. What was Boxner’s relationship to the second victim, Theresa Nolan?”
“I have no idea.” Jason tried to read Kennedy’s face in the dim light. “I didn’t know Theresa. You’re not thinking Boxner—”
“I think Martin Pink is—was—the Huntsman. But it’s our job to keep an open mind.”
Jason had to admire that level of open-mindedness. Kennedy must have balls o
f steel if he could contemplate with equanimity having jailed the wrong man ten years earlier. If that was the case, it would be the second and perhaps mortal blow to his career.
Abruptly, Kennedy shifted into gear, and they pulled out of the parking lot.
He said thoughtfully, “I think maybe it’s time to pay an old friend a visit.”
“What old friend?” Jason was thinking uncomfortably of Honey’s family. He had made no effort to see her parents since his arrival in Kingsfield, and he really should at least stop by. See how they were. He had spent an awful lot of time under the Corrigans’ roof and at their dining table.
So it was with shock he heard Kennedy say, “I think it’s time for a field trip to MCI Cedar Junction. I think we need to talk to Martin Pink. Let’s have a chat with the Huntsman.”
Chapter Ten
Though both manacled and shackled, the bald and bearded man seated at the stainless-steel table in the prison interrogation room looked like a real and present danger. Pink had bulked up during his years of incarceration. He was not tall, but he was all muscle, and despite the chains and cuffs, he exuded a confidence that was frankly disturbing given how much time he had spent in solitary confinement.
What really disturbed Jason was how much he wanted to walk into that room and bash Pink’s head against the table until his brains poured out. He had not expected such a violent reaction to seeing him again. Not expected to feel this level of hatred. He despised violence. He believed he was smarter than that, better than that. A civilized man. After seeing Martin Pink in the flesh again—he knew just how thin the veneer of civilization was.
He let out a slow, calming breath and nodded. The prison guard opened the heavy steel door, and Jason walked into the eight-by-ten well-insulated room.
Pink was smirking. “Long time no se—” He broke off. His smirk vanished. “Who the hell are you?”
“Special Agent West.” Jason took the chair across the table from Pink.
“Where’s Kennedy?”
Fair question. Kennedy was talking to the prison shrink. For reasons known only to himself, he had decided Jason would be the one to interview Pink. At least, that was the story. Maybe he was on the other side of all that surveillance equipment positioned out of Pink’s line of vision, waiting to see some sign Jason actually was, as Boxner had suggested, Pink’s disciple.
As ludicrous as the thought was, it bothered Jason. He forced himself to concentrate on Pink, unemotionally taking in the shaved head and silver goatee. Pale, dead eyes and a cupid’s bow of a mouth. At least Pink had received proper dental care in prison.
Jason said, “I work with Senior Special Agent Kennedy.”
Pink glared. “I don’t care if you’re Special Agent Fox Mulder. I agreed to talk to Kennedy. Nobody else.”
“Kennedy’s busy.”
Pink’s lips parted as though he was stunned. After a second, he said, “He’s afraid to face me.”
“Yeah. You got him cold,” Jason said. “He’s terrified.” He opened his file.
Pink didn’t like that. “I’m not talking to a piss-ant junior G-man. I’ll talk to Kennedy and nobody else.”
“Then you’ll talk to nobody.” Jason slapped shut his file, rose, and signaled to the guard.
Pink eyed him in open disbelief.
“Let me know if you change your mind,” Jason said.
Please change your mind. I can’t walk out of this room without something…anything…you asshole…
Pink’s expression grew derisive. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Bah-bye,” he drawled.
Jason walked to the reinforced steel door. The guard buzzed Open.
Shit. It had taken him all of two minutes to blow this opportunity. Kennedy was going to nail his hide to the wall. And Jason didn’t blame him.
Maybe Pink would back down?
There was only silence from the other side of the room.
Jason strode out. The door closed behind him with a heavy and final-sounding slam.
Kennedy, finally turning up after his meeting with Dr. Fuchs, took it well.
Surprisingly well, in Jason’s opinion. Had he anticipated this outcome?
“All right. Don’t sweat it. Let’s get something to eat,” Kennedy said. “We’ll figure it out over lunch.”
They found a diner a safe distance from the prison and ordered burgers and soft drinks.
“At least Fuchs isn’t a complete bleeding heart,” Kennedy said, as they waited for their meals. “He doesn’t like solitary confinement on principle, but he’s not kicking in Pink’s case.”
“I can’t think of a better place for Pink than isolation,” Jason said.
“He seems to have hit a nerve with you.”
A nerve? Yeah, Pink had hit a nerve. He had murdered someone Jason loved. But the last thing he wanted to do was confirm any ideas Kennedy might have as to his ability to remain objective and impartial.
The waitress brought their soft drinks. Ginger ale for Kennedy and Coke for Jason. Jason peeled the paper off his straw and said, “So according to Fuchs there isn’t any chance Pink might have formed a friendship with another inmate who was subsequently released?”
“No. Not a chance. Pink is in that cell twenty-three hours a day.” Kennedy was definite. “The only time he’s not is when he’s escorted to the shower or to exercise outside in that human kennel with the other lifers. What we can’t be equally sure of is how much contact he has with the world beyond the prison gates.”
In theory he had zero contact—aside from radio, television, and curated reading material. In practice, guards could be bribed and messages could be secretly transmitted through a variety of methods and mediums.
“Is he allowed visitors?” Jason asked.
“He’s permitted two visits a month from family members.”
“Does he have family members?”
“No.”
They paused while the waitress deposited the thick white plates topped with burgers and fries in front of them. She asked if they needed anything else. Kennedy requested mustard and ketchup. Jason requested ranch dressing for his french fries.
Drinks were refilled, the condiments were delivered, and Kennedy said as though there had been no interruption, “He’s also allowed two phone calls a month.”
“Does anyone call?”
“Yes. His fiancée, Coral Nunn, and—”
“His fiancée?”
Kennedy said through a mouthful of burger, “She was a student involved in one of these Innocence Project organizations.”
“Why the hell would they waste their time on someone like Martin Pink?”
Kennedy swallowed hastily, cleared his throat, and said, “Clarification. Her class did not take on Pink’s case, but that’s how they met. Although met is not exactly the right term. They do correspond, and she does phone him.”
“He raped and murdered seven teenage girls.”
Kennedy’s brows drew together. He said, “I know. But everyone in this restaurant doesn’t need to.”
Jason glanced at the astonished faces in the booth across from their table, and grimaced in apology. “Right. I just can’t believe—”
“Yes you can. You had all the psych classes. You know it happens. Hybristophilia. Also known as Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome.”
Yes, Jason did know. Every serial killer seemed to have some woman who loved him—though usually not the one he was married to before his crimes were discovered.
Kennedy said, “He also gets the occasional call from a doctor in Boston. Doctor Jeremy Kyser.”
“Never heard of him. What’s his field of medicine?”
“He seems to be a psychologist. He’s working on a book about the brains of serial killers.”
“Why is he allowed contact with Pink?”
Kennedy said mildly, “Presumably because the more we know about the brains of serial killers, the safer we’ll all be.” He took another large bite of his burger.
Jason
dunked his skinny fries in the ranch dressing and brooded. He admitted finally, “I didn’t play it right. I didn’t play him right. I should have buttered him up, appealed to his worser nature.”
Kennedy studied him. “Not necessarily. It’s what he’d expect, yes. What he would look for. He’s going to want to talk. He’s been waiting to talk for ten years. I think he’ll take what he can get. Unless he thinks you were bluffing.”
“I was bluffing.”
Kennedy’s eyes met his. Kennedy grinned. The effect of that broad white display of perfect teeth was startling. He looked younger and a lot friendlier.
“Everybody bluffs. You were willing to walk away from the table. That, he won’t have expected.”
“We’ll see.”
Kennedy remained unconcerned. “We couldn’t shut him up in the old days. He’s spent most of the last decade all by his lonesome. I think we’re going to hear from Martin Pink before the day is out.”
As it turned out, they heard from Pink—or at least the warden—before they finished eating lunch.
When Kennedy clicked off his cell phone, his smile was his usual sardonic one. “Congratulations. You’ve been granted another audience.”
Jason was relieved. Partly. He hated thinking he’d blown it. At the same time he wasn’t looking forward to another meeting with Pink. He wasn’t afraid for his personal safety. And he wasn’t afraid he was going to lose control and try to strangle Pink. It wasn’t anything like that. There was something disturbing, unsettling, about Pink. In simply knowing what the man was capable of. Man? Pink was a monster. A monster in men’s clothing. Of course it wasn’t the politically correct or psychologically informed view, but it was the truth as far as Jason was concerned. To do what Pink had done to Honey and the others was inhuman. Worse than animal.
A good portion of his unease was knowing Pink was still capable of monstrous acts. Age hadn’t softened him. Solitude and reflection hadn’t redeemed him. You had only to look into those dead eyes to know that if he got the chance, Pink would do it all again. Only he’d try a lot harder not to get caught.
That was not insanity. It was pure evil. There was a difference. A big difference.