The Widening Gyre

by Chuck Grossart

  Half an hour later, though, when he saw the same kid stumbling across the parking lot toward his car, alone, he remembered.

  He watched as the kid slipped in the snow, fell, and glanced back toward the room. He crawled, then got back up, and ran to his car. He looked back at the room again before he slammed his car door shut.

  The clerk walked around the desk and watched the car speed out of the lot, slipping and sliding, with only the kid in the front seat. No girl.

  The kid seemed frantic to get away. And the way he kept looking at the room . . .

  Part of him wanted to go check and make sure the girl was okay, but no, he was just overreacting. A big part of his job was to mind his own business. He checked people in, took their information, and that was that. He shrugged his shoulders and went back behind the counter. He looked at the clock: 9:30 p.m. on the dot.

  The clerk waited. One hour passed, then two. Still no sign of the kid. He wasn’t sure why, but seeing the kid drive away like that, alone, had been eating at him for the last two hours. Something wasn’t right. He grabbed his coat, and his master key, and stepped out into the storm.

  A minute later, after knocking on the door repeatedly with no answer, he swiped his key and went inside.

  The smell hit him first, then he flicked on the light, and saw.

  He fell to his knees, and vomited all over the front of his coat.

  PART IV

  . . . THIS WAY COMES

  25

  Taggart stood behind one-way glass, studying a young man who sat motionless, staring down at his hands. The kid hadn’t moved for the last fifteen minutes.

  “Where’d they find him?” he asked his partner.

  “Less than a mile away from the scene,” Jack Mauger said. “Seventy-Second and Cass, right behind the old Crossroads Mall.” Taggart and Mauger had been partnered for the past five years, and together they’d solved a number of horrific cases both would just as soon forget. “The car was sitting halfway on the sidewalk,” he continued, “running, completely covered in snow. Kid was sleeping in it when a patrolman pulled over to investigate.” Mauger handed Taggart a manila folder.

  Taggart tucked it under his arm, and stuffed a plastic evidence bag he’d been holding into his pocket. “He’s waived counsel, right?”

  “So far. Says he doesn’t need a lawyer because he’s done nothing wrong.” Mauger ran his fingers through his crew cut, and shook his head. “We’ll see about that.”

  Jack Mauger stood barely five eight, and weighed just enough to keep his feet on the ground on a windy day. His physical size was deceiving, because it only took one glance into his intense, slate-gray eyes to see the caged tiger prowling inside. He was an ex-Marine, a sniper by trade, and along with being the best marksmen the department had ever seen, he was disciplined, thorough, and tenacious. A damned good cop.

  “Have you read this guy’s history, Jack?” Taggart asked.

  “Zach Regan, nineteen, lives at home with his parents. Attempted suicide as a juvenile. Slit his wrists.” He paused, then added, “With a box knife.”

  Jack Mauger had the ability to approach cases from different angles, to view evidence from outside the box and catch things others would miss, but occasionally he would clamp his jaws down on suspects, just like a pit bull, and shake until they cried uncle. From the deepening scowl he saw on his partner’s face, Taggart knew this might be one of those times. He couldn’t blame him, though, considering what they’d both seen that morning.

  “Let’s go hear what he has to say,” Taggart said. The two detectives walked through the interrogation room door.

  Taggart sat at the table, placing the manila folder in front of him. Mauger stood by the door, leaning against the wall.

  Zach didn’t look up at either of them.

  Taggart set a small tape recorder on the table and pushed the record button. It made a barely audible whirring sound as the tape started turning.

  “Mr. Regan, my name is Detective James Taggart, and this is Detective Jack Mauger. We need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Is Rakel okay?” Zach said. His voice was weak, tired. His hair was a mess, plastered to one side of his head, and his clothes were wrinkled and disheveled.

  No blood, though, Taggart noticed. Anywhere on the kid. “Do you mean Ms. Rakel Anders, Mr. Regan?”

  “Yes, Rakel Anders.”

  “We were hoping you could shed some light on that, Zach,” Taggart said, intentionally using Zach’s first name. If the kid felt at ease, he was more likely to open up. To confess. “You need to tell us what happened last night.”

  “I told the officer I don’t remember,” Zach said, still staring at the table. “We were driving to Old Town, decided to stop at a hotel, and then—”

  Taggart could see the kid was either having trouble remembering—like he’d said in his initial statement—or he was trying to keep his story straight.

  “I woke up in my car with the officer telling me to get out,” Zach finally said.

  “You don’t remember what happened after you checked in at the hotel?” Taggart asked.

  “No sir, I don’t,” Zach said. “Is she okay? Is Rakel all right?”

  “Zach, why was Ms. Anders in your car?” Taggart asked. He watched Zach take a deep breath. His hand was shaking slightly.

  “We were on a date, sir. We grabbed dinner over by Westview Mall, at Andy’s, then left for Old Town.”

  “You didn’t get very far, did you,” Taggart said.

  “No sir, we didn’t. Rakel wanted to stop.”

  “Rakel wanted to stop?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Why?”

  Zach fidgeted with his hands. “I didn’t want to at first. I wanted it to be special, you know? Not some hotel room.”

  “So you’re telling me you stopped at the hotel because you wanted to have sex with Rakel Anders,” Taggart said.

  “Yes. I mean no. It wasn’t my idea, sir, at first. She wanted to. So I pulled off the highway, got a room, and that’s all I can remember.”

  Taggart leaned back in his chair.

  “Please, Detective, I need to know. Is Rakel okay?”

  Taggart had watched people lie to his face before. With some, it was obvious. Others were more skilled. Zach Regan exhibited nothing but sincerity, and it bothered Taggart to see a kid his age lie so well. Taggart leaned forward, stared directly into Zach’s eyes. It was time to drop the hammer and see if he could get the kid to react, stop the act, and confess.

  “Rakel Anders is dead,” Taggart said, slapping the table with his palm. “You need to tell us what happened. Right here, and right now.”

  26

  Rakel Anders is dead. Those were the words Zach dreaded—yet at the same time, expected—to hear. The room began to spin, and Zach buried his face in his hands as the sobs broke through the tenuous hold on his composure he’d been able to maintain. “No. Oh God, no.”

  “Tell us what happened, Zach,” Taggart said.

  Zach wiped his eyes. “How?”

  “Why don’t you tell us,” Jack Mauger said.

  “I—I told you, I don’t remember anything!”

  Taggart pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. The interior was smeared with blood. There was something inside the bag, too.

  “Is this yours?” Taggart asked. He dropped the bag on the table with a metallic clang.

  Zach could see what the object was. It was his box knife from work, with the initials he’d scratched into the side of it: Z.R. The blade was extended, and the edge of the razor glinted in the room’s overhead lighting. The rest of it was covered in gore. “That’s my box knife, but I don’t—”

  “Again, tell us what happened,” Taggart said.

  Zach’s mind was racing. His world had been completely turned upside down in just a matter of hours. “Please, someone must’ve taken it. I couldn’t have hurt Rakel! I loved her!”

  Taggart had been patient long enough. He opened the manila
folder and slid it in front of Zach. “Is this the Rakel Anders that you loved?”

  Three eight-by-ten color photographs spilled out of the folder. Zach knew what they must be, and forced himself to look. The images were horrid.

  Rakel’s naked, lifeless body lay spread-eagled on the hotel bed, eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Her mouth hung open. Her bra was twisted around her throat. Across her midsection was the word WHORE, the letters formed by a series of long, deep cuts. It had been carved into her.

  Zach couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He closed his eyes, but the images remained. He coughed, fighting the urge to vomit.

  Taggart closed the folder, laid the bloody evidence bag on top of it, and leaned forward in his chair. “All right, Zach, if you’re not willing to come clean with us, let me tell you what happened. You were crazy about a beautiful girl, a girl you worked beside for months and months. You were close to her a great deal of the time. She ignored your attentions, and that made you angry. Downright pissed.”

  “No, that’s not true,” Zach said, even though it had been true, once.

  “You followed her to the movie theater,” Taggart continued, “talked her into eating a burger with you, but she still wouldn’t accept your advances. She was probably trying to let you down easy, right? She’d tried to do that before, but you wouldn’t accept that. You drugged her, drove her to the hotel, strangled her, and then did this,” he said, tapping the pictures. “Is that about it?”

  “Drugged? What do you mean, I drugged her?”

  “They found the Rohypnol in her system,” Taggart said. “What did you do, slip it into her drink, Zach? At Andy’s?”

  “No!” Zach shouted. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about! This can’t be happening. I loved her, and she loved me. I would never have hurt her. Never.”

  “She loved you, Zach?” Taggart snapped. “Is that why she asked your manager at Kayman’s to change your schedules so she wouldn’t have to work with you? Is that why she told her father you wouldn’t leave her alone? Is that why you called her a whore at a party a few months ago? And what do you know, she had that same word carved into her belly with your box knife. We’ve got a sworn statement from your manager stating she had to keep an eye on you because you were bothering Rakel and wouldn’t leave her alone. A sworn statement from her father about how his daughter had told him you wouldn’t leave her alone. And by the way, Zach, that man, right now as we’re speaking, is having to identify his only daughter in the morgue. He’s having to look at his only daughter who’s dead because she loved you. Can you imagine what he’s going to have to look at, Zach? Can you imagine what he’s going to see? Can you even imagine how this poor guy is going to feel when he sees how his daughter was cut up like a goddamn Thanksgiving turkey?”

  Jack Mauger spoke up. “Zach, it’s time to stop the theatrics. Tell us why you did it.”

  Zach couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It couldn’t be true. He’d loved Rakel! He couldn’t have done those terrible things he’d seen in the pictures . . . could he? In the corner of his mind, a faint pang of doubt raised its ugly head.

  Zach took a deep breath, trying the best he could to calm himself. “Detective, like I’ve already told you, I don’t remember what happened. You’ve got to believe me. I couldn’t have killed her.” He remembered his knife. “I left my box knife at work when I left yesterday. I know I left it sitting on my cart. I didn’t have it with me.”

  “That’s very nice, Zach,” Mauger said, “But how do you explain that little item in the bag?”

  “I don’t know!” Beads of sweat covered Zach’s forehead. His hands were shaking.

  Taggart slammed his hands against the table and came out of his chair, his face just inches from Zach’s. The small table groaned under the sudden weight of Taggart’s hulking frame. “Let me tell you something,” he said, his voice booming in Zach’s ears. “You have been arrested for the murder of Rakel Anders. You will be charged with her murder. You will, no doubt, be convicted of her murder. It’s that simple. If you’re going to sit here and continue to tell me you didn’t do it, I suggest you think about your decision to waive counsel.”

  “I didn’t do this, Detective.” I couldn’t have. I couldn’t.

  “Then you’d better find a lawyer who can convince a jury of that, Mr. Regan.” The two detectives left the room.

  Zach had never felt so alone in his entire life.

  27

  All the terrible dreams he’d experienced in his life didn’t compare to the stark reality of this moment.

  Zach shuffled down the too-bright hallway of the detention facility, clad in an orange prison jumper, handcuffs, and leg shackles. He was being led by an armed guard with an iron grip and a face to match.

  They came to a scratched, gray steel door. The guard unlocked it and led Zach into a small room, drab and musty. Waiting for him was a balding man in an ill-fitting suit who didn’t look entirely pleased to be there.

  “Hello, Zach,” the man said. “I’m Jake Tellez. Your attorney.” The case file lay in front of him on the table, full of facts and findings that guaranteed nothing less than a slam-dunk result for the prosecution.

  Zach sat down across from him.

  “Here’s the deal, Zach,” Tellez said. “I’ve spoken to the prosecuting attorney, and he’s willing to go for life in prison if you plead guilty. There might be a chance for parole in about ten years if you—”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Zach said.

  Tellez sighed. “I need you to listen to me very carefully, Zach. They have enough evidence against you to get the death penalty. Do you understand what that means?”

  “Of course I understand what that means,” Zach said. “But I didn’t kill her.”

  Tellez opened the case file. “Let’s see. You have been placed at the scene by the desk clerk, and you paid for the room with your own credit card. The murder weapon, a box knife, was yours. You admitted to that. You admitted driving Ms. Anders to the hotel, where she was found murdered. Is that all correct?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you didn’t kill her?”

  “No, I didn’t kill her.”

  Tellez shook his head. “Can you understand how this isn’t going to fly, Zach? The evidence is there.”

  “But the evidence isn’t there. I left my box knife at work that afternoon. I didn’t have it with me.”

  “Okay, let’s forget about the box knife for the moment and talk about the Rohypnol. Where did you get it?”

  “I don’t even know what Rohypnol is.”

  “It’s a date rape drug, Zach. You put some into her drink while she was eating with you, and it knocked her out. Correct?”

  “That didn’t happen. I’ve never even seen Rohypnol before.”

  Tellez sighed. “Fine. Let’s talk about your workplace, then. They have a sworn statement from your manager that you were, and I quote, ‘fixated’ on Ms. Anders, and your schedules were changed so she wouldn’t have to work with you very often. And I say ‘very often,’ because this same manager stated Ms. Anders felt sorry for you and didn’t want to see you get fired. This person will testify to that, Zach.”

  “It’s not true,” Zach said, suddenly feeling as if the whole world had turned against him. “I would never hurt Rakel. I’ve never hurt anyone like that.”

  “Uh, well, let’s talk about that too, shall we?” The attorney shuffled through the file until he found the piece of paper he was looking for. “There was a person at a party a few months ago who had his nose broken by you. Correct?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what? To a jury, it proves you’re capable of violence. Simple as that.”

  “That’s not true. I’m—”

  “It’s not true?” Tellez sighed. “Okay, how about this. You told the detectives you and Ms. Anders were on a date, correct?”

  “Yes, we were on a date.”

  “Before Ms. Anders left for work t
hat afternoon, she told her father she would be going to the movies with two of her friends after work. Her friends will testify they planned to meet her at the theater—the Twelve—after she got off work. Her car was found parked outside the theater. Can you explain that?”

  Zach was confused. Why would Rakel’s friends lie? What reason would they have? “No, I can’t explain why they thought she was going to the movies. We’d agreed to go out on Saturday earlier in the week, to go to dinner. When she ended up working late, our plans changed. We were going to grab a quick bite to eat, and then head to Old Town. I met her at Andy’s, and she told me she parked her car in the theater lot because Andy’s lot was full. We ate and then left for downtown Omaha.”

  “Why did you stop at the hotel?”

  “She wanted to stop and get a room.”

  “She wanted to get a room?”

  “She told me she wanted to have sex.”

  Tellez leaned back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling for a second, took a long, deep breath through his nose, and exhaled slowly. After what seemed like an eternity to Zach, his attorney said, “She told you she wanted to have sex?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s why you stopped?”

  “Yes. That’s what I just told you.”

  “Did you strangle her?”

  “No!” Zach pounded his cuffed fists against the table.

  “The evidence says otherwise, Zach. The forensic pathologist’s report states that Ms. Anders was, indeed, strangled by her own bra, most likely while she was under the influence of the Rohypnol. The other wounds were inflicted post-mortem.”

  Zach’s mouth grew slack, his face a tortured portrait of disbelief. “I couldn’t have done that.”

  “Why? You told the detectives you don’t remember anything. How can you say for certain that you didn’t do it?”

  “Because I couldn’t have. I loved her.”

  “You’ve seen the photos of Ms. Anders’s body, correct?”

  Zach nodded. The images were burned into his memory, searing images of the girl he loved, naked, her belly so horribly defaced. Her beautiful eyes, clouded by death, sightlessly staring at the ceiling.