Suspicious Behavior

by L. A. Witt

  I laughed dryly. “Welcome to being a detective.”

  He managed a quiet laugh too, and sipped his coffee. It was actually hard to believe he hadn’t been a detective for very long. In the beginning, I’d resented being saddled with a wet behind the ears kid who’d just been promoted. But he was good at his job. Maybe not very confident after making some mistakes, but he’d get his feet under him again. God knew I’d made some costly fuckups in my early days.

  He was good at what he did, though. His confidence would come back.

  And hopefully he wouldn’t see through me to the bone-deep fear that Jim would slip through our fingers.

  The sun wasn’t even up as I drove toward the maximum-security penitentiary. After making sure Erin could watch Emily, I’d made some calls last night to arrange interviews with a couple of inmates, and my phone had rung at four this morning to tell us our meetings were at six and six thirty, despite the prison being a goddamned hour outside the city limits. I was pretty sure the warden had scheduled them for the crack of dawn just for spite.

  Darren and I didn’t say much in the car. We pulled into a Starbucks drive-thru and ordered the biggest, most caffeinated coffees imaginable, and continued in near silence.

  He mostly dozed, and I didn’t blame him. As I drove, the darkness didn’t help me keep my fatigued eyes open. In my sleep-deprived state, I mused over whether that was my cue to find something metaphorical and profound in the whole “it’s always darkest before dawn” thing, but if there was something there, I didn’t find it.

  To keep myself awake, I thought about the case. About the two incarcerated men we’d be talking to this morning, and the three female coworkers who’d agreed to meet us this afternoon. There was a piece trying to fall into place in my brain. A hunch about how all this new information fit together. I didn’t want to believe it, so I fought it. Had to stay objective. Had to hear out the people we were interviewing today before I started drawing conclusions, or it would color my questions. My demeanor.

  The warden greeted us with a thin, less-than-friendly smile, which confirmed my suspicion that the early meeting time was a fuck-you for last night. No one said much of anything, and we were shown to a room not unlike the bleak, concrete box where I’d recently spoken with Trent Newberry.

  Moments later, Caleb Foster shuffled into the room in his faded orange jumpsuit, shackles jingling between his hands and feet.

  He looked tired, and not in the way Darren and I were after being roused too early. His cheeks were gaunt and hollow, the lines under his eyes dark, like he couldn’t even remember what a good night’s sleep was. His shoulders sagged beneath the jumpsuit. In his case file’s mugshot, he’d had a full head of nearly black hair, but what was left of it now was thin and graying.

  It wasn’t unusual to see inmates like that. Life on the inside was harsh and brutal. I suspected if I sat down with Trent for another interview, the cracks would be showing in him too. Another year or two and he’d be unrecognizable.

  The guard ordered Caleb into a seat, and fastened his cuffs to the ring in the middle of the table. Then he turned to us. “He’s all yours.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  The guard stood off to the side. Darren and I exchanged looks, and I took the seat opposite Caleb. We didn’t speak right away. He stared at me, expression blank and empty. There was no hostility in his gaze. There wasn’t much of anything, really. Just world-weary surrender.

  His eyes flicked toward the guard. When he looked at me again, he spoke so quietly I barely heard him. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Detective Andreas Ruff—”

  “I don’t care.” It wasn’t cold. Not even flippant. If anything, he sounded more resigned than he looked. Sagging a little bit, he exhaled. “Just tell me what you want so I can go back to my cage.”

  I fought the urge to squirm or to glance at Darren. That hunch was getting harder and harder to ignore in the company of this tired, broken man. “I want to ask you some questions about a Jim Bresnick.”

  Caleb pressed back against his chair, and his eyes widened. “That psycho finally snap or something?”

  I blinked. Behind me, I could feel Darren tense. I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry?”

  A dry, uncomfortable laugh burst out of Caleb. He absently scratched his forearm as much as his shackles allowed, the cuffs and chains jingling loudly against the metal table. “I’ve been here five years, and every time they bring in new inmates, I think he’s going to be with ’em.”

  My blood ran cold. So much for ignoring that hunch. “Could you elaborate?”

  “Have you met the guy?” Another chain jingled, and I suspected he was rapidly tapping his foot under the table. The sound was annoying as shit, but I kept my mouth shut. “There’s . . . there is something seriously wrong with him.”

  “Wrong, how?” Darren asked.

  “Like . . .” Caleb’s eyes lost focus. He stared at—more like through—the table, and folded and unfolded his hands. My usual impatience simmered beneath the surface, but I didn’t speak while he gathered his thoughts. Finally, he said, “He’s a nice guy, you know? Always happy and smiling.” With a subtle laugh—one that probably took all the energy he had—he added, “Kind of annoying, to be honest.”

  “You don’t say,” I muttered.

  His eyes met mine, and that flicker of humor faded. “He was a good friend for a long time. I thought. I was always kind of a loner at work. People didn’t talk to me much. But he was real buddy-buddy with me from the first month I worked there. He’s the kind of guy who’ll give you the shirt off his back or come find you in the worst part of town in the middle of the night to help you jumpstart your car.” He swallowed, expression darkening. “But when he gets mad . . .” The man didn’t have much color to begin with. What little there was drained away.

  I sat up. “Tell me.”

  Caleb tried to reach up and scratch his neck. The shackles stopped him, so he leaned down, forehead nearly kissing the table, and scratched it. Sitting up, he said, “Jim worked in the shipping department. I was in receiving. Most of the time, he was annoying, cheerful, happy Jim. But once in a while—like, once in a blue moon—somebody would piss him off. There was a day about six months before . . .” his gaze shifted to his shackles, and more resignation pressed down on his already slouched shoulders, “before I was arrested.” He paused, then shook himself. “We had this delivery driver who was always late. Jim had called and complained a bunch of times, especially since we sometimes had overnight shipments that needed to go out on time. And this one day, the driver was almost two hours late. And Jim . . .” Eyes fixed on the table, he shook his head slowly. “Man, he snapped.”

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  Caleb took a deep breath. “We all thought he was going to break something. Starting with that driver’s neck. He scared the shit out of the guy. Screamed at him, cursed him out, just . . . just let him have it.” He looked up again, and I swore his eyes were full of genuine fear. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Not over something that stupid, you know?”

  “Was he disciplined?” Darren asked.

  “Are you kidding?” Caleb snorted. “Everyone in the company adored him. Our boss figured it was a one-time thing.”

  “Was it?”

  “No. It happened pretty rarely—maybe three times while I worked there—but it wasn’t a one-time thing.” He shifted, the metal chair creaking under his weight and the shackles clinking against the legs. “The thing is, people flip out sometimes. It . . . it was a high-stress environment, you know? We were shipping out replacements for emergency medical equipment that had gone down. Hospitals needed our gear, and they couldn’t wait. So we couldn’t screw up. And everyone was sick of that driver being late and costing us time. The thing that messed with me was how fast Jim went back to being . . . Jim.”

  I glanced at Darren. He had on a pretty convincing poker face, but his lips were tight. I faced Caleb again. “What do
you mean?”

  “I mean, one minute he’s losing his mind all over this kid. The driver was actually in tears. It was that bad. And then, before the driver had even left again, Jim was back to being all cheerful and normal. This kid is literally shaking in front of him, tears on his face, scared out of his mind, and Jim is telling him to have a nice day.” He shuddered. “It was weird.”

  “I see.” I thumbed a dent in the edge of the table. I was about to ask another question, but Caleb beat me to it.

  “What’s going on, anyway?” His eyes darted back and forth between Darren and me. “Did he finally snap and go postal?”

  “Did you think he was going to do that?” Darren asked flatly.

  “Well, yeah.” Caleb gave another dry laugh. “There’s something wrong with that guy. Something seriously wrong.”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek.

  You don’t even know the half of it, Caleb.

  The interview with the second inmate was much the same. He spent the first twenty minutes or so belligerently demanding to know if we’d reopen his case and help him prove his innocence, but the instant Darren mentioned Jim’s name, the guy tensed just like Caleb had. Same kind of story too. They’d also worked in a shipping and receiving department at another company, and they’d been good friends. Like Caleb, he’d been a loner, someone who didn’t really get along with his coworkers, and Jim had swooped in and befriended him right at the start. Jim had been the salt of the earth, but his saccharine-sweet demeanor was peppered by the rare but memorable outburst that somehow didn’t turn violent.

  As we concluded the interview, he once again implored us to investigate his case again.

  “You gotta believe me,” he pleaded. “I loved my wife. I would never have hurt her.”

  With a noncommittal comment about looking into it, we left and walked in silence back to the car. As we put on our seat belts, Darren said, “So, what do you think?”

  I swallowed, shifting the car into drive. “I think we just talked to two innocent men.”

  Darren stared blankly out the windshield. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

  “And I think Jim’s been killing people since long before he started the killings we’re investigating now.”

  At that, Darren turned to me. “You got that too, huh?”

  “Yeah. It’s been nagging at me since last night.”

  He blew out a breath and let his head fall back against the seat. “This fucker’s probably got Jimmy Hoffa in his backyard.” He paused. “Do you think . . .” He pressed his lips together.

  “What?” I pulled out of the parking space and headed toward the gate. “If you’ve got a thought, let’s hear it.”

  He was quiet again.

  “Darren, I know your confidence took a hit, but you’ve got good instincts. And as fucked up as this case is? I’m all ears for any theories.”

  Slowly, he exhaled. As I turned onto the road that would take us to the highway, he said, “Jim seemed really eager for us to focus on Brian. He actually seemed kind of annoyed that we weren’t arresting him.”

  I nodded.

  Shifting in his seat, Darren pressed his elbow against the window and chewed his thumbnail for a second. “What if Jim’s MO isn’t that he likes killing people? What if . . . what if he gets some thrill out of seeing them take the fall? If—” He laughed, sounding equal parts tired and sheepish. “Okay, it sounded better in my head.”

  “No, I think you might be onto something.”

  “Really?”

  “With the way he seems to be after us to go after Brian, it’s like . . .” He exhaled. “And Brian fits the profile, you know? Loner guy. Kind of keeps to himself. Jim told us the other employees think Brian is creepy, and I can’t reach them to corroborate it.”

  “He and Brian don’t seem to be friends, though,” I said.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean Jim hasn’t tried. Maybe that’s what we need to do. Ask Brian about his history with Jim. See if maybe he tried to befriend him.”

  I nodded slowly. “I like it. Let’s go visit him after we meet Jim’s other ex-coworkers.”

  We still couldn’t reach the former employees from Reginald’s, but we did track down Elizabeth Grant, Jackie Dawe, and Kate McEnroe. They’d all worked with Jim at his last job prior to Reginald’s—same as Caleb—and still worked for the company now. They agreed to meet us at their office.

  I let Darren take this one, and studied them while he asked his questions. The sunny, meticulously decorated office didn’t have the dank atmosphere of an interrogation room, and we’d assured all three of them they were free to leave at any time, so everyone was calm and relaxed. They seemed eager to talk to us, if a little puzzled about why the police were so interested in Jim.

  “What can you tell us about Caleb Foster?” Darren asked.

  The women exchanged glances. At the mention of his name, they were immediately, visibly uncomfortable. Elizabeth clung to her gigantic Starbucks cup. Jackie couldn’t sit still. Kate checked her phone, and seemed frustrated when nothing new had come through. It was less like she was waiting for a message and more like she was desperate for a distraction.

  “Not much.” Elizabeth shrugged. “Aside from the fact that he butchered his neighbors and their kids.”

  Jackie fidgeted, turning a little green.

  Kate pushed her phone into her pocket and folded her hands tightly on the table. “He was always kind of . . . weird.”

  “Weird, how?” Darren pressed.

  “Like . . . quiet, I guess?” She twiddled her thumbs rapidly like she needed to expend some nervous energy. “I mean, he never really did or said anything. It was just a vibe. It was still a shock when he killed those people, but kind of not.”

  “Because he was creepy?” Darren asked.

  All three women nodded.

  “It wasn’t like anyone thought he’d kill someone,” Jackie said. “He sat alone in the lunchroom. Never really talked to anyone—”

  “Except Jim,” Elizabeth said. “But Jim kind of made friends with everybody.”

  Jackie nodded, and a fond smile crossed her lips. “Yeah, he was the life of the office. I really missed him after he left.”

  Darren glanced at me.

  I tapped my fingers on the edge of Elizabeth’s desk. “Did you ever have any problems with Jim?”

  “I heard some rumors.” Kate shrugged. “He blew his top a couple of times, but with the way everyone screws off down in shipping and receiving, I think everyone has.”

  “Yep,” Elizabeth said. “There’s a lot of stress down there. People go off sometimes.”

  “So you were never concerned about him being violent?” Darren asked.

  They all laughed.

  “Jim?” Kate shook her head. “Oh my God, no. There were plenty of guys at that end of the building who I wouldn’t want to run into in a dark alley, or who I wouldn’t want to cross without my boss standing there behind me, but Jim?” Another shake of her head. “No way.”

  “Caleb was one we needed to watch out for,” Elizabeth said.

  “Did you think that before he was arrested?” Darren asked. “Or after?”

  “Well . . .” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Mostly after. But like I said, it wasn’t that surprising he’d done something bad.” She grimaced. “I didn’t think he’d do that, though.”

  “How much did you actually interact with him?” I asked them.

  “Not much.” Jackie absently turned a pen over between her fingers. “But a lot of rumors were coming up. I heard Jim telling the HR director a couple of times that he thought Caleb was acting weird.”

  “Jim’s the only one I ever really interacted with in that department,” Elizabeth said. “And yeah, I heard him mention that a few times too. About a month before Caleb was arrested, Jim was really upset because Caleb had been acting so weird, but no one would listen. He was convinced something bad was going to happen.”

  “And then it did,” Ka
te said softly. “Those poor people.”

  We wrapped up the interview not long after that, and left the building after thanking all of them. In the parking lot, I started the car, but didn’t move yet. For a long moment, the only sound was the idling engine.

  Then Darren cleared his throat. “So what’s our next move?”

  “I don’t know. My gut says we’ve absolutely got our killer, but on paper, everything is still fucking circumstantial.”

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  “For what it’s worth, though”—I turned to him—“I think your theory is right on the money.”

  He swallowed. “If it is, then how long do you think he’s been doing this?”

  “I don’t know yet.” I shook my head. “But, right now, our priority is to stop him from doing it again. We have got to come up with enough to get him off the street before the twenty-sixth.”

  “Any ideas?”

  I stared out the windshield, then sighed. “No. You?”

  “No.”

  I put the car in reverse and backed out of the space.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To get some more coffee.” I glanced at him before I shifted into drive. “Maybe that’ll clear our heads and we can think of something.”

  If there was anything more frustrating to a cop than waiting, I didn’t know what it was. Waiting for a court order or a warrant, waiting for lawyers, waiting for someone to make a move . . . it all sucked. I figured that was half the reason so many of the officers I knew were into shit food and cheap highs, like caffeine and cigarettes—all of those were things in life that could happen fast, that fit around the edges of waiting, little bits of impatience that you could indulge while hanging in there for the big stuff. Coffee was about the most innocuous of all of those, and one of the healthiest to indulge, in my opinion. It was a little distraction when I needed one, and I needed one right now.

  Watching Andreas navigate a Starbucks was also a pretty good distraction. He was easy when it came to coffee. He preferred it black and strong, but he’d take it with cream, sugar, just about any way it could come when he really needed it. Paula had brought him a caramel macchiato once just to fuck with him, but he’d sipped at it like he didn’t even taste the whipped cream, all calm and collected. He’d only made a face at the cup after she’d left disappointed.