by David Dean
The door held a plaque that read simply, “Interview Room.” Nick had instructed that the particular individual within be given pride of place and not be wedged into one of the administrative offices that had been pressed into service. He had also specifically requested that his friend, Jack Kimbo, sit in on the interview.
When he opened the door Jack looked back over his shoulder at him, his normally expressive face blank, and Nick understood instantly that no progress had been made. The subject of Jack’s frustration sat opposite, facing the door, his fear and stubbornness revealed in equal parts by the quivering of his hands, the set line of his mouth.
From down the hall someone shouted angrily, “Sit down,” and something clattered onto the floor… a door slammed. The little man’s eyes widened at the commotion, then sought his own shoes. Nick eased the door shut with a click.
“Do you mind?” he asked. “It’s awfully noisy around here today.”
The shaking of the other man’s head was barely perceptible. Nick saw that his fingers were tightly knit together.
“Good… all right then,” he murmured, glancing over at Jack. “I’m Nick Catesby, Mister Albright, I’m the Chief here.” The other man’s eyes flickered up briefly to take him in before returning to his hands, his shoes. “I just wanted to thank you for coming in today to help us with this matter. It’s a very important matter, I think you’ll agree.”
Mister Albright nodded.
Nick studied him a moment before proceeding. He saw a man of roughly his own age, not much more than five foot seven, maybe a hundred seventy pounds, with thinning dark hair that Nick was fairly certain had been dyed. Combined with his ashen complexion this gave him the look of a corpse prepared for a viewing. He was nervous to the point of hysteria. Nick had seen this same look dozens of times in his career, many of them in this very room. In his estimation, this was a man who had something to hide—something important. His fleshy face twitched at the corners of his pursed mouth.
“May I call you Bob, Mister Albright?” he asked, sliding into the chair opposite.
“I don’t really understand why you wanted me here,” the man answered, his voice a whisper. “I came in like I was asked to, but as I’ve told your…” he stabbed a finger at Jack, “…your… your man, here, I really don’t know anything about all this… about what’s been going on… what’s been happening.” He waved a hand helplessly at the small room. “My wife will begin to worry if I’m not home soon,” he promised.
“Would you like to call her and tell her you’ll be a little late?” Nick asked. He slid the desktop phone in his direction. The little man stared at it, but made no move.
“Didn’t you tell your wife that you were coming here?” Jack asked. “I sure would’ve… I’d have damn sure told my wife.” He leaned back crossing his arms.
“I didn’t think I’d be very long,” Albright said after a while, then, “I didn’t want her to worry.”
Nick now reversed the direction of the phone and returned it to his side of the table. After a moment, he opened a drawer and placed the phone inside and slid it firmly shut. He looked at Albright for a moment as the smaller man began to fidget.
“Worry,” Nick repeated at last. “Megan’s parents could probably tell us something about ‘worry.’” Albright’s head popped up at this, then ducked down once more. “Bob, why don’t you tell me and Agent Kimbo what you were doing in the parking lot at the elementary school the night she went missing?”
“She…” Albright whispered hoarsely.
“Yeah, she, Bob,” Nick snapped back. “You know who we’re talking about, don’t you?” Albright remained silent. “Megan, Bob… we’re talking about Megan Guthrie here. Would you mind saying her name aloud for me, Bob?”
“Now that’s a simple enough request,” Jack added, smiling.
The room went silent as they waited. At long last, Albright murmured, “Megan.”
“Good,” Jack said, reaching over to pat the other man’s shoulder. Albright flinched as if he had been struck. “You’re doing real good, Bob.”
“Now that we have that out of the way,” Nick resumed, “maybe you’ll tell us what you were doing there that night.”
Albright’s feverish looking eyes flicked from one to the other of his interrogators. “Who says I was there?” he asked in a small voice, with just a hint of petulance.
“Your car was there, Bob,” Nick replied. “A neighbor saw it and wrote down the license plate number. He said that he’s seen the car there before… usually after dark. He got suspicious and wrote it down—he has a perfect view of the school grounds from where he lives. After Megan went missing, he thought to report it. Why would he lie to us, Bob? Why would he have made it up?”
“I don’t know,” Albright whispered. “I… I just…”
Jack cut him off, “Someone else use your car, Bob? If you loaned it to someone, we could just have a chat with that person and that would explain everything, since your car was there… there’s no real question of that, is there Bob?” Albright seemed to be considering something, his rubbery features squirming.
“It wasn’t reported stolen, I checked out that angle before we even asked you in here,” Nick picked up the questioning again. “So what were you doing there… you don’t have a kid in that school, do you, Bob?” Nick already knew the answer to this as well.
“No,” Albright moaned, “I don’t. I just have the one boy, and he’s in high school. He doesn’t have to know about this… does he?”
Jack shrugged elaborately at his question, as if the issue was in doubt, something out of his control, perhaps.
“Know about what, exactly?” Nick countered. “Maybe if we knew why you were there, we could help you, if you would just explain it to us.”
Both policemen watched as their primary suspect writhed and twisted in the molded plastic seat. His hands flew to his face several times as if to knead and mold his features and were returned to his lap with obvious effort. Nick noted his chewed, unclean nails, even as he witnessed his struggle. He was a small man; it suddenly occurred to him—could this be the “boy” Preston saw in the dusky light?
Nick was almost afraid to move, to say another word, for fear of breaking the tension that was clearly driving Albright to the brink of confession. He could hardly believe that it was going to be this easy, feeling the sweat break out beneath his armpits. What was the agonized little man going to say… what did he have to tell them? Could it really end up being this simple?
When Albright did speak again, it was with surprising vehemence. “I want you to let me go… right now,” he squeaked. “You haven’t even offered me a lawyer, and I know that you have to!” He stared wild-eyed from man to man, coming to his feet for the first time, his legs shaking, his voice a vibrato. “I’m not even under arrest—I came in because you asked me… because I’m a good citizen!”
“Relax, Mister Albright,” Nick stood also.
“What are you so worked up about, anyway?” Jack asked, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. “We were just talking, weren’t we… just having a conversation?”
“Conversation, my ass,” Albright’s voice rose to a falsetto of outrage and fear. “You two are trying to frame me for this… this…” he appeared unable to finish.
“For what…?” Nick asked. “Just what, exactly, do you think we’re trying to frame you with?”
The little man fumbled with the zipper on his jacket, unable to get it started. “I’m leaving,” he began to cry, “I’m walking right through this door, and no one,” he glared defiantly at his captors, “no one is going to stop me! I’m going home to my wife,” he wept.
Nick stepped aside, throwing open the door. “All we needed was an explanation of why you were there, Mister Albright,” he said, his voice seething with anger. He watched in disgust as the weeping man swept by, stumbling for the exit and wiping the snot from his nose with his jacket sleeve. “We’ll be in touch… soon,” he promised
. “We’re not done here.”
Joining him at the door, the FBI agent said with genuine regret, “He was right there, Nick; I mean right there—then something happened. I don’t know what though, because I have never seen a guiltier, conscience-ridden sonofabitch than that one! Five more minutes, that’s all it would have taken… five more minutes,” he sighed.
Nick took in the tired, pouchy face of his friend, then said, “Jack, I’ve got to get back to the search party, but see if the prosecutor will okay a search warrant for that bastard’s house and car, then get it to a judge. We’ve a least got enough for that much—he was there when it happened and has offered no reasonable explanation as to why. I think we’ve got enough.
“Tell the judge we’ll be looking for anything that could have been used to abduct and secure a little girl… you know the profile, the type of things he would have needed… duct tape, gloves, children’s toys, cut lengths of rope, that sort of thing.”
Nodding, Jack grinned and said, “I was hoping you’d say that.”
?
Nick staggered into his office long after dark. Not bothering to turn on the overheads, he collapsed wearily into his desk chair. Through his office window he witnessed the moon as it rose over the steep pitch of library building, three stories high, bathing the slate roof and its peeling, wooden cupola in a roseate glow. The moon’s yellowish, pock-marked surface appeared stained with blood, like the yolk of a fertile egg.
The tall windows of the building opposite bled light onto the shrubs that crouched round it, shaking and swaying in a wind that had arisen off the sea with the fall of night. On the great portico, standing beneath a giant lantern gently swaying on its suspending chains, a lone man smoked a cigarette.
Behind the windows, figures passed from time to time, clutching books, magazines, or DVDs, and Nick yearned to cross the street and join them, to immerse himself in quiet normalcy. He wondered, too, if Fanny Howard might also be within those walls, and the thought of her made him feel a small spark of gladness. Leaning back into the leather of his chair, Nick ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes.
Darkness had once more halted the search for Megan—a search that had expanded with the disappearance of the two boys, but appearing no more likely to achieve success. His officers and volunteers were exhausted and their ranks thinning. Dogs, helicopters, boats, infrared scopes, trained and experienced trackers… nothing, and no one, had managed to find a single clue as to the children’s whereabouts or fate. The mood of his searchers had become morose, and more than once Nick had heard mention of Seth Busby.
Across the street a burst of laughter drew his eyes once more to the library, and he noted that the smoker was gone now as a group of adolescent boys and girls burst forth from the building. They sprinted across the street and out of Nick’s sight just as his cell phone began to ring.
It was Jack Kimbo. Flipping it open, he said, “Tell me something good, Jack.”
There was too long of a pause before the agent answered, and Nick felt his heart dropping in his chest. “I wish I could, Nick, but I’d have to be one hell of a liar to pull that off.” Nick remained silent… waiting.
Jack continued, “While we were executing the search warrant, Albright killed himself… went out to the garage after we cleared it and hung himself from a rafter with an extension cord. It was the damnedest thing, his feet were actually touching the ground when his son found him, and so the best we can figure is that after securing the cord, he just leaned forward until he passed out from lack of oxygen, then let his own body weight do the rest. The M.E.’s out here with him now.”
Nick couldn’t speak for several moments as the image of the frightened little man from that morning filled his mind’s eye. At last he said, “No one was watching, Jack? How’d that happen?”
“We were short-handed with all the search teams out, and just trying to do a thorough job of it—he waited until we were busy, distracted, then walked out. It was only the work of a few minutes. I’m sorry, Nick.”
“And the search itself,” Nick asked, desperate for something salvageable, something useful.
He heard his friend sigh before answering, “No joy in that direction either, I’m afraid. It’s not good news. We found what was making him so antsy during the interview, but it’s not what we’d thought… what we’d hoped for in this case.”
“What was it?” Nick persisted, already dreading the answer.
“Photos, magazines… all gay porn stuff… most of it hidden in the garage where he hung himself. I guess his wife and kid didn’t have a clue. The worst part was that he had included some amateur action in his collection that featured him and different ‘companions’. I’m guessing that one of these met him after dark in the school parking lot and drove him to a motel on the night in question. That’s why his car was there, I’m thinking.
“We found nothing to do with kids, though… he wasn’t bent that way, I guess. Can you believe it… this day and age… a guy goes and offs himself over something like this… where’s the sense in it? Nice fuckin’ surprise for the family, huh?”
“What a nightmare!” Nick answered, as the senseless tragedy of it rolled across him like a black wave. “Poor son…” he breathed, “… poor wife. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be out there.”
“Don’t,” Jack said with force. “Everything’s about wrapped up out here and as soon as they finish bagging him up we’re outa here, too. I’ve already got some family members and their minister coming this way anyhow—they… the wife and son, don’t want to see any more cops tonight, Nick, not even the chief. Besides, you’d do yourself and everyone else a lot more good by going home and getting some sleep for a change. You’re worn out, Buster, and need some shut-eye. This is a federal agent telling you this, so you know it’s gotta be true… just do it and I’ll see you tomorrow.” He disconnected.
Nick closed the phone and brought his hands to his face, the action reminding him of Albright earlier that day. Bringing them away once more, he stared into the opened palms as if something might be divined there, some explanation for all that had happened over the past several days. Then, placing his head down on the desk, he closed his eyes.
?
Nick started awake at the sound of Weller’s voice, momentarily confused as to his whereabouts and the time of day.
“Sorry to wake you,” his second-in-command continued, though he didn’t sound it. “I guess your boy has already filled you in on the fuck-up out at the Albright search?”
“My boy…?” Nick managed to ask in his turn, his mouth dry and cottony. He struggled to sit up in his chair and recover his senses, a spark of anger at Shad’s tone fueling him. “If you mean Special Agent Kimbo, then yeah, I’ve been briefed.” He glanced at his watch, noting that he had been asleep half an hour. “I guess I dozed off waiting to get the word from you.” He saw Weller stiffen.
“I wanted to tell you in person,” Weller returned, “considering the nature of the news and all.”
Rubbing his creased, stubbled face with both hands, Nick struggled to his feet. He understood why Weller wanted to tell him in person—he liked nothing better than to be the bearer of bad news—especially when it was to the man who had, in his mind, stolen his promotion from him.
“Well, I’m sorry you made the trip for nothing, Shad, but I think I’ll head on home now—I’ve got to think of what to say to the press tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” the other man agreed, “that won’t be easy…” He let the statement hang there unfinished for a moment, then added, “The Atlantic Courier and the Wessex Scribe have both been on the horn today asking questions… I put them off and told them you’d be in touch soon.”
Nick stopped with one arm in the sleeve of his jacket. “Today?” he asked. “You mean before Albright killed himself?” Weller nodded and Nick thought he could detect the beginnings of a smile even in the semi-darkness of his office. “What kind of questions, Captain?”
Hesitating
for just the briefest of moments, Weller said, “About suspects, Chief, about who we’ve been interviewing, that sort of thing… who we had let go.”
“They know we’re not going to be giving out the names of people we’re interviewing. They know better than that, Shad. Hell, we don’t even have someone that could be genuinely classified as a suspect now that Albright’s eliminated.”
His captain guffawed at Nick’s wording, saying, “Yeah, he’s eliminated all right!”
“You know what I meant,” Nick shot back, suddenly and genuinely sick of Weller’s long, lined face, his small, cunning eyes. Thrusting his other arm through the sleeve of his jacket, he strode past his second-in-command. “Close the door behind you when you leave,” he spat over his shoulder.
“They want to talk about Preston Howard, Chief… I thought you might want to know that, at least.”
Shad’s words brought Nick to a halt. He turned slowly and asked, “And how did they come to know that we had talked with him, Captain?”
“I wouldn’t know, Chief… but people are talking out there.” He pointed vaguely at the window and the street beyond. “People are a little perplexed, I can tell you.”
“People,” Nick repeated, studying Weller’s shadowed face. “And what are the people saying, Shad?”
Weller found Nick’s eyes with his own now. “They’re saying that you had the right man in the beginning, Chief, that Preston Howard is that man. They,” he added his own emphasis, “are saying you dropped the ball and that it has probably cost the lives of two more kids.” Nick felt himself flinch, but Weller continued, “They think that you let your relationship with Howard’s daughter influence your decision in releasing him.” He allowed himself the beginnings of a smirk. “What… did you think you were flying under the radar with Fanny Howard, Chief? Everybody talks in this town, you know… even librarians.”
Nick could feel the blood drain away from his face and felt his legs go rubbery for a moment. Shad Weller’s hatred for him had never been more naked nor his malicious handiwork more obvious. But what was even worse was that every venomous thing he had said contained an element of truth—was something that Nick himself had had doubts about.