Streeter sat on the edge of the table and leaned his face down toward Mully’s, repeating, “I said, ‘Who. Is. She?’”
Mully smiled wryly. Streeter recognized in his face the obvious.
“You don’t even know who she was, do you?”
No answer.
“You keep quiet and you will be the one who gets time for this,” Streeter warned. “I know all too well that the likelihood of you being this girl’s killer is slim. I suspect if you are involved, you had one of your prospects do it as an initiation. Am I right?”
Mully stared back, his eyes hardening with contempt. Streeter locked his fiery eyes on Mully like hot pokers.
“Prospects are expendable, Mully,” Streeter said. “Are you? Because one thing that agents Karski and Greenborough failed to mention to you is that we have proof of your involvement.”
Streeter thought he saw Mully’s cold eyes flicker just a bit. He definitely repositioned his weight in the hard folding chair.
“We saw your new wings,” Streeter said. “Purple.”
“That isn’t proof,” Mully spat, relaxing and slumping down in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Lots of guys wear purple wings.”
“You’re right. It isn’t proof. But it sure will be helpful when we explain all this to the jury.” Streeter stared down once more at Mully and matched his pose by folding his arms across his chest. “We call that circumstantial evidence, something criminals like you love to disprove. But the way I figure it, simply explaining what those little purple wings indicate that you do for fun would disgust the jury so much, we wouldn’t really need too much hard evidence to convict you.”
Mully’s lip curled ever so slightly.
Streeter pushed himself from the table and started pacing, the noise unsettling. He walked behind Mully and stopped. Mully did not move from his casual position in his chair, acting as if this was no big deal. His eyes shifted nervously to the corners, however, as he tried to catch a peripheral glance of the agent.
When the silence became too much, Mully adjusted his body slightly in his chair. Streeter paced around and sat on the other corner of the table directly above Mully.
“The other evidence would have to be compelling, too,” Streeter described. “Something much more incriminating, pointing to you specifically. Now what could that be?”
Streeter drummed his fingers against his chin. Mully’s burning eyes focused on the closed door across the room.
“Didn’t you used to wear an FTW pin on your lapel, Mully?”
Mully’s hand shot up to where the pin used to be on his leather jacket, his eyes widening when his fingers felt nothing but leather.
“That’s the pin I was talking about,” Streeter said. A slight buckle in Mully’s jagged brow preceded a lick of his dry lips. “Want some water, Mully?”
Mully pushed himself into an upright sitting position and said, “Yes, get me some water.” Then he looked directly at Streeter and added, “Please.”
He was all business now. Streeter knew he was ready to talk.
Tyler Karski knocked, and the bolt slid open from the other side. Greenborough stepped out of the room, presumably to retrieve the water for Mully. Instead, Streeter knew he slipped into the observation room with Bly and Shank, waiting for a sign to return as the good cop with refreshments.
Streeter said, “Early in the weekend, Mully, you were looking good. You know how I know that?”
For the first time since Streeter had circled, Mully looked up at him, his eyes narrowing.
Streeter continued. “Because we have an excellent close-up photo of you from one of our high-powered cameras. Date stamped, of course.”
Mully said nothing, staring back at Streeter.
“You know how these camera junkies are,” Streeter said, crossing his arms loosely across his chest and smirking. “Always trying to capture every detail like they’re photographing the winning catch at a Super Bowl game or something and need every bead of sweat, right? Hundreds of shots, from all different angles and distances. Can you imagine?”
Streeter moved over to lean against the wall facing Mully, wondering if the faint twitch of his left eye was a give.
“A particularly interesting photo,” Streeter explained, “shows a very clear picture of the FTW pin in the right collar of your jacket. Really cool how they can digitally close in on that pin with the computer. The detail is so clear it shows the two gouges in the pin, millimeters apart from one another on the upper corner of the ‘F’. Amazing.”
Streeter was thankful he had sent the photos and pin down to Jack Linwood. He knew Shank was behind the glass, elated that Streeter had found more evidence to nail Mully but cursing under his breath that Streeter had kept these details from him. For a split second, Streeter hoped the news of the physical evidence brought color back into Shank’s cheeks.
“What’s your point?” Mully demanded after a few uncomfortable moments of silence. “And where’s my water?”
Streeter nearly whispered, “No need to get angry, Mr. Muldando. Let me remind you this interview is being taped, and your water is on the way. Agent Greenborough went to get you some.”
Sulking, Mully slouched a bit in his chair, stomping his feet on the ground as he adjusted his legs.
Streeter stared down at him. “I don’t mean to bore you with all this, Mr. Muldando, but my point is, a pin with the exact same gouges in the upper ‘F’ happened to be found embedded in the palm of, as you call her, the ‘dead girl.’ What are the odds of that? And that pin has your DNA all over it.”
He lifted his hands palm skyward in an animated shrug, watching Mully’s expression carefully as he did. Genuine alarm registered after this last remark.
“That’s impossible,” Mully said, careful to control his tone, facial expressions, and body language, an effort that was apparently difficult for him. “She was already dead.”
Streeter fought back a triumphant smile. Mully had finally admitted to being in the proximity of the body, or at least having knowledge about it.
“Already dead?” Streeter repeated. “Then, you didn’t kill her?”
“No,” Mully answered in a quiet mumble.
“Who did?”
“Nobody,” Mully answered confidently. “Check your records.”
“What are you talking about?” Streeter asked, genuinely not understanding where Mully was going with this.
“The autopsy report.”
“I have,” Streeter explained. “And if you’re going to try implying that the girl committed suicide, don’t waste any of our time. It would be hard to claim suicide when her skull was smashed from behind. So maybe you can tell me, how can you say nobody killed her?”
“Smashed skull? What are you talking about?” Mully snapped, bolting to his feet. The guard and Karski moved toward Mully instantly, but Streeter remained where he was, leaning against the wall, his feet crossed at the ankle. He knew Mully wasn’t getting violent. It would be the last thing he would do. This was simply a scare tactic and Streeter wasn’t biting.
Just before the guard and Karski reached him, Mully hissed at Streeter, “I swear, if you’re lying to me, I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Kill me? Like you did the girl?”
“She dropped dead before I ever got there, and her skull was not bashed in.”
“Explain the pin,” Streeter said.
“Somebody’s setting me up,” Mully said, staring at nothing but seeing something. His eyes were fierce, the muscles in his jaw bulging.
There was no doubt in Streeter’s mind that Mully believed what he was saying.
“If you had nothing to do with her death, why’d you dump her body by the creek?” Streeter asked.
“What? What creek?” Mully responded, confused by the information.
“How’d you convince her to get on your bike so you could kill her near the creek where she was found?”
“You’re full of it,” Mully answered, offering nothing mor
e in the way of explanation.
Incredibly, Streeter believed Mully when he implied that he came upon the body after she was dead. The part Streeter didn’t understand was the fine, but critical, difference in Mully’s insistence on her having died rather than being killed.
“Did you earn your purple wings from her?”
Mully stared at Streeter, squinted at him suspiciously. “It’s no crime. I didn’t kill her and the autopsy would show that. You got nothing on me, even if you had all the evidence in the world that I tongued that bitch.”
Streeter didn’t understand this.
The autopsy clearly showed there was no sexual violation, no DNA whatsoever, on Michelle. This wasn’t adding up.
“If someone is trying to set you up, Mully, we’d like to know who that is,” Streeter concluded honestly.
He was interrupted by a knock, the bolt sliding free. Agent Greenborough reappeared with a bottle of water for Mully and said, “Agent Pierce? There are some gentlemen who would like to talk with you.”
Streeter heaved a sigh and followed the agent out the door. Greenborough pointed to the observation room next door and ducked back into the interrogation room with Mully. Streeter found himself behind the glass with Bly and Shank again, plus a woman with short blonde hair standing near the back.
Bly said, “Streeter, he’s telling the truth. Liv Bergen witnessed the whole scene in Sturgis. Mully’s talking about the Jane Doe in Sturgis, not about Michelle Freeburg.”
“What?” Streeter said. “Is this about the e-mail the Sturgis PD received from Bergen Construction you told us about, Shank?”
“Read it,” Bly said shoving an e-mail and a stack of photos into Streeter’s hand.
When he had finished reading the text and flipping through the photos, Streeter mumbled, “She’s crazy.”
“There’s more. Streeter, meet Sue,” Bly said, finally introducing the woman near the back wall.
After Sue told the agents about Liv Bergen’s phone call and recited the message Liv had left for them, Streeter believed more than ever Mully’s claim that someone was trying to set him up.
His mind raced through the names of those who would have access to Mully’s FTW pin, to the campground, to the size ten-and-a-half riding boots, and to Michelle. He thought about Liv finding Char and taking her to the Freeburgs. Streeter realized they were running down a blind alley, and the way to light the path was held firmly in the hands of Charlene Freeburg. He needed to talk with her immediately.
And to Liv.
As he hurried back to the interrogation room for his final questions, barely noticing the sickly shade of green Shank had turned, Streeter called to Bly, “Get a car ready. We need to visit the Freeburgs. See if you can locate Liv Bergen. We need to talk with her, too. She might still be at the hospital for observation. She might be at her brother’s house. Call him. If she’s not there, get a cell phone number where Liv can be reached. And Shank, whatever you do, keep Mully here until I come back.”
Shank responded with a grunt, collapsing into a chair in the corner.
Returning to the interrogation room, Streeter asked Mully, “What size boots do you wear?”
“Ten and a half,” Mully said. “But you probably already knew that.”
“Mind if we take a print?”
“Help yourself,” said the biker, kicking off his boots. “Do your job well, man. Check very carefully.” His sarcasm was duly noted.
Streeter was pleased to see that the brand and sole pattern were the same as the prints lifted from the scene, according to the report by the crime scene techs.
“Anyone but you have access to these boots, just in case this doesn’t bode well for you?” Streeter asked.
Mully frowned, contemplating the thought. His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. Streeter knew his mind had landed on someone, but Mully wasn’t about to share a name with the feds.
Leaning against the table near Mully, Streeter said, “You earned your purple wings off the young lady at Sturgis, the one who voluntarily wanted to pull a train with you, the one Cheetah picked up on Main Street. Right?”
“How do you know …” Mully stopped mid question. Then he shook his head in obvious confusion. He straightened, his demeanor changing. Streeter speculated this was a turning point for Mully. He had made a decision to cooperate, to violate a code and talk. At least a little bit. “Look, we didn’t kill her. And I don’t know about any FTW pin in her palm or about her body being left in a creek somewhere. We left her in the street. The EMTs will tell you that. And she was dead before I got there, so how the hell did my pin end up in her palm? And how did she end up by the creek?”
Streeter made a decision to cooperate too. “Not her palm. Another dead woman’s palm. The one found three-quarters of a mile from your campground.”
Streeter watched Mully’s face harden, genuine alarm registering with a man who was rarely surprised. He growled, “What other dead woman? You said I was under arrest for the murder of Michelle Freeburg. The girl at Sturgis, right?”
Streeter shook his head. “Didn’t you see the tents pitched near the Lazy S? All those cars and FBI personnel, the emergency vehicles that have been in that meadow up the creek from you since yesterday morning?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know about any dead girl. I was told it was probably some old bones dug up at the quarry.”
Again, Streeter believed him. “And who told you that?”
Mully opened his mouth to speak then pursed his lips in a tight line, the muscles of his jaw bulging. No doubt in Streeter’s mind that the person who fabricated the story was Eddie Schilling. Streeter had to ask himself why Schilling would lie about that.
“To be clear, you are under arrest for the murder of Michelle Freeburg. The woman you were talking to at the grocery store Sunday night. The one who helped you find the needles, the thread, and the fishing wire that you used to sew those purple wings onto your black leather. The one who helped you find alcohol for God knows what.”
For a second time, Mully’s face registered utter surprise.
“Tattoos,” Mully answered. His chest heaved in anger. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Michelle. She was all right. She was nice.”
“Nice and dead,” Streeter said.
“Some fucker is setting me up,” Mully spat, his eyes snapping open and boring into Streeter’s. “You’re sure that was Michelle from the grocery store?”
“Maybe someone in your own club?” Streeter prodded.
“She didn’t deserve that.” Mully’s eyes were distant, angry. “Somebody’s going to pay for that.”
Streeter took advantage of the moment to protect Liv by adding, “And just so you know, the woman you targeted tonight? Liv Bergen?”
Mully’s eyes slid to Streeter.
“The one you attacked in the bar?”
“I did not attack that woman,” Mully argued, his eyes like a shark’s. “I was protecting her. You were the one who attacked her.”
It was Streeter’s turn to be surprised, become defensive. “I was after you, not Liv.”
The two had sparred to a standoff.
Streeter saw a genuine smile touch Mully’s lips when he added, “She’s something. I just wanted to talk with her. She’d been following me all over the Hills, and I wanted to know why. That’s all.”
“Another nice woman,” Streeter growled.
“Yeah, I figured that.” The smile this time touched Mully’s lifeless eyes, and for a moment, Streeter glimpsed what this man’s life might have been like if he hadn’t chosen the Lucifer’s Lot. “She’s a spunky one.”
“And she’s your only witness who can testify that you’re telling us the truth about the young lady in Sturgis. She told us everything. She told us you didn’t kill the woman. She even took pictures to prove it.” Streeter leaned in close to Mully’s ear and whispered, “So. Leave. Her. Alone.”
BLY SNAPPED HIS CELL phone shut and turned onto the familiar street.
“Jens
said Liv’s not home yet,” he told Streeter. “He said she refused to go to the hospital for observation and convinced the EMTs that her husband was a doctor and he would keep a close eye on her through the night.”
The boulder that crashed through Streeter’s gut was unexpected and clearly tipped over the edge by the word “husband.”
“Funny thing is,” Bly added, “Liv’s not even married, and the guy she said was her husband has a doctorate in engineering, not medicine.”
Streeter felt a stir of emotions, a dangerous cocktail of frustration, anger, joy, and pride. He knew there was a reason he liked Liv Bergen. Spunky. Mully was right about that. She lived on the edge.
“What is she up to?” Streeter asked.
Bly parked the car in front of the Freeburg house and turned off the engine. “Jens said she asked for time alone, not to worry, that she’d be home later.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Twenty minutes,” Bly answered. “He said he’d have her call us the minute she arrived or called in. Said she borrowed Tommy Jasper’s cell phone and that he didn’t know the number.”
“Did we get Jasper’s cell phone number today when we talked with him?”
Bly shook his head.
“She’s up to something. I can feel it,” Streeter said.
“You’re probably right. Jens said before the ruckus in the bar started, Liv told him she knew who killed Michelle and she wanted to make sure the last piece of the puzzle fit before she talked with him about it,” Bly repeated. Both men exchanged a glance. “Let’s hope she meant Mully.”
“How’d she get mixed up in all this, anyway?”
“Jens said it was his fault. He asked Liv to find Char and figure out who killed Michelle because he was afraid we wouldn’t.”
“Some vote of confidence,” Streeter grumbled.
“Or out of self-defense. Remember, Bob Shankley told Jens he was a person of interest first thing this morning, right after he had identified the body of the woman he planned to marry. He would have been in total shock, I’d imagine.” Looking at the clock, Bly corrected himself, “Or yesterday morning, technically. Before you arrived.”
Lot’s return to Sodom Page 29