The Interrogation

by Adira August

  Now all he needed was for the bastard to show up.

  “DETECTIVE FULTON POSTED the investigation history of three male victims, all third-graders, on the whiteboard,” Hunter announced. “Everyone move in.”

  At the far side of the squadroom, Victor Garza sat cross-legged on top of a desk in a black suit and grey turtleneck. Fine-boned, with black hair too long for an FBI agent, the 25-year-old profiler’s eyes—a brown so deep they looked black—appeared to burn with a constant interior obsession. He was brilliant, calendar-boy pretty, and odd.

  Merisi leaned over to Twee at the next desk. “He looks like a gay vampire.”

  “He looks like I hope he’s not gay.” She waggled her eyebrows.

  Hunter gave them a look. They bent over their notebooks. “Detective Chang?”

  Chang got up to do the briefing. “Eddie Compton, age eight. Bound to concrete blocks in a dry wash before a thunderstorm. The water would have come intermittently for an hour or so before it filled the wash completely. Like being waterboarded. The first victim.”

  “That we know of.” This from Garza, who played something on his cell phone.

  “Correct,” Hunter affirmed.

  “It was a clumsy kill,” Chang said. “Two months later, he duct-taped Mark Lewandowski, age seven, to the seat of a rowboat. Drilled tiny holes in the bottom.”

  “Why?” Cam asked.

  “So it'd sink slowly and prolong the process.” Garza didn’t even look up.

  “No,” Cam said. “Why's he doing this at all?

  “Oh. It's how he gets off.” Garza frowned at his phone—bad play. “Well, shoot.”

  “But wouldn’t he have to be there, at the scene, for that?” Merisi asked.

  “He probably was for the first two,” Chang answered. “Our theory is that they died too fast, so he revised his M.O.”

  Garza put his phone away.

  “Three months later during a record heat wave, he staked Danny Holbrook out on the plains. Desert, basically. Took Danny a while to die. And we found this.” Chang tapped a crime scene shot of a wireless surveillance camera attached to a fence post near a sadly small body bag.

  “The camera he used doesn't need WiFi; it's self-transmitting,” DiMato told them. “A high-gain antenna can capture live feed a mile or more away if there’s no interference.”

  “The killer’s refining his technique and gaining confidence,” Garza said. “Protecting himself with distance. Recording the event explains the nine month gap between the last murder and today. He had a movie to watch.”

  “He got tired of reruns?” Merisi offered.

  Garza flashed a grin as if Merisi were his star pupil. “Exactly. Just like you don’t jack off to the same magazine picture or porn scene. After a while, the thrill is gone. Too familiar. You buy a new magazine. The killer planned a new film. Something more elaborate.”

  Twee tapped her notebook with her pen. “More elaborate in what way?”

  The FBI agent cocked his head at Merisi, looking for a response.

  “Technician Twee asked you a question, Garza. If you can’t answer it, it’s not my job to cover for you.”

  Garza laughed.

  Hunter took over. “DiMato, get a wish list together. The best equipment for real-time viewing, sound and color. Night recording. How far away he can be. You know the drill.”

  DiMato exchanged looks with Chang and Fulton. Hunter Dane hadn’t said a word when Merisi told off Garza.

  “On it.” DiMato fired up his computer.

  FERRITER'S MERCEDES TURNED onto the main street.

  Xavier started his car.

  Once the Mercedes entered the cul-de-sac, the police cruiser pulled in behind it, overheads on. Xavier gave a bleep of the siren.

  The Mercedes stopped at the curb.

  Eyes in the side view mirror watched as Xavier approached with one hand on the butt of his weapon.

  Harold Charles Ferriter, 35—a dishwater blond upstaged by his two-piece Burberry suit—got out of the Mercedes and took a few steps toward Xavier.

  “Stop right there!” Xavier extended his Glock, using both hands.

  Ferriter raised an eyebrow. He was sleek, clean. Tightly reined-in.

  “Don't be ridiculous.”

  Ferriter moved to the back of his car and leaned against the fender. His hands slid into the pockets of his pants.

  “Hands where I can see 'em! On your knees!”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Xavier hesitated. He couldn’t shoot someone for standing there.

  Ferriter cocked his head. “I've never had any dealings with the police before. Why would you stop me”—he peered at Xavier's name tag—“Officer Xavier?”

  Xavier kept his gun trained on Ferriter, eyes on Ferriter's hands in his pockets. “I was ordered to take you into custody and deliver you to the detectives.”

  “Really. What does that entail exactly?”

  Xavier huffed an unbelieving laugh. “I'm going to handcuff you, search you and put you in my car.”

  Ferriter thought about it. Looked around at the sky, his house. His car. One hand jingled some change in his pocket. “Alright.”

  Turning his back to Xavier, Ferriter slowly removed his hands from his pockets and clasped them behind his back. “Like this?”

  The Principals

  * * *

  Xavier belted Ferriter securely into his cruiser.

  “Tell me, officer, what could the charge possibly be?”

  “You'll have to ask the detectives.”

  Xavier got behind the wheel. In front of his unit, Ferriter’s Mercedes waited with the driver’s door still open.

  “There's a blizzard on the way,” Ferriter said. “You have my keys; my garage is right there. Put the car inside and make sure everything's locked up.”

  Xavier keyed his mic.

  “Nine-twenty-six.”

  “Go ahead, nine-two-six.”

  “Party in custody. Send me a tow.”

  Ferriter thrust himself against the seatbelt. “You can't tow my car! Did you not hear me? My garage is right there!”

  Around the corner, a flatbed tow truck idled out of sight. The driver clicked his mic twice and shifted into gear.

  “Tow enroute, nine-two-six.”

  Ferriter sat back, slow and easy. It was fine, he could sue them later for any damage to his car where they would find no evidence of crime. They had no idea who they’d chosen to contend with.

  They’d sent a kiddie-cop after him.

  He took slow, deep breaths—willing himself to silent invisibility. Maybe this boy wouldn’t remember to advise him at all.

  That would be sweet.

  “YOU DOING INVENTORY here, or do I start the lift?” the tow driver asked. The Mercedes was hooked-up, waiting.

  Xavier opened the front passenger door. “Gotta do it here. Procedure.”

  In the console he found a pen and a ledger with a meticulous record of gas fill-ups and servicing. Xavier swiped under the seats. Nothing.

  His face tightened as he reached across to the driver's side for the trunk release.

  Behind the vehicle, Xavier grasped the edge of the slightly opened trunk. And stopped.

  “You know it’s open, right?”

  Xavier's head whipped around.

  The tow driver was next to him. “Just press the latch. You got it or should I?”

  Xavier shook his head. “I need to.” He pressed; the trunk rose.

  Empty. Showroom clean.

  “BRIAN TROWBRIDGE’S FATHER is here, John.” Hunter waited while the detective finished his coffee and set the cup down. “I’d like you and Twee to see him after the briefing.”

  Fulton nodded.

  “He’s in the Tech Services breakroom with Davidson, who needs to take the scarf to the lab when you get there. Twee might have some questions for Mister Trowbridge before she starts processing the evidence.”

  “Right.”

  Hunter went to the whitebo
ard to speak to his team. “Somebody get Natani out here?” Twee jumped up. Hunt waited until the prosecutor found a seat. “Ferriter’s on the way in. So’s his car.”

  Twee clapped her hands, surprising a laugh out of DiMato and getting a grin from Chang.

  Hunter smiled, too. “Settle down, I know how much you like a good car strip.”

  “My first Mercedes!”

  “Your joy duly noted, we’ll move on to the child killer. We have two issues. We have a suspect in custody and no evidence but a scarf on the outside of his car that could have gotten there in a variety of ways. We'll be lucky if the seventy-two hour investigative hold sticks. And this is a guy with money. We'll probably only get one chance to talk to him. That’s when he gets here. The issue is how to handle Ferriter when he arrives.”

  Hunter eyed Garza playing on his cell. “Special Agent Garza will explain some ideas about that.”

  Garza absently stroked his cheek in a gesture as sensual as it was thoughtful. “We’ve been discussing an alternate approach.”

  Natani leaned forward. “I still think he’s calling for a lawyer before we get him into a room. If he’s the guy, he’s been planning for this.”

  Fulton put out a hand. “Hang on. Before we get bogged down in duelling scenarios, how about the immediate problem? Finding Brian Trowbridge.” He addressed Hunter. “What do Technician Twee and I tell his father we're doing to find him? Right now?”

  “Snow?”

  “Detective Chang and I took the time Xavier lost the Mercedes to the time Xavier re-acquired him. We assumed Ferriter drove the speed limit to avoid attracting police attention, and that he had the crime scene prepared in advance.”

  “Whoa,” DiMato stopped him. “That last is a hell of an assumption.”

  “Justify,” Hunter said.

  “He’s anticipating wind because it’s a blizzard. He needs a tree or post that won’t be blown over or shake too much to mount the camera. He needs to clear away foliage that can interfere with his view,” Chang explained. “Camera set-ups like that take time and equipment.”

  “He can’t leave the victim in the trunk parked out of his view where some dog walker can come along and maybe hear the victim thumping around in the trunk,” Garza added. “He’s not going to set up the scene within sight of the car, either. He has to get in and out quickly and still get the victim precisely placed. Ergo, he presets the scene.” He sighed. “Obviously.”

  “Go ahead,” Hunter told Cam.

  “Detective Chang estimated the suspect would only allow himself twenty minutes max at the kill site. Subtracting that, I figured the distance Ferriter could have traveled at normal speed in the time frame we have and get back when Xavier arrested him. That gave a rough boundary representing the furthest he could travel, place the victim, and be back by the time he was arrested.”

  Cam consulted his laptop screen. “You can tell Mister Trowbridge that Parks Police, Jeffco, Gilpin, Clear Creek and Park counties are all involved. Deputies are covering the South Platte River near Deckers, with Alpine Rescue scouring the foothills south of I-70. Gilpin County deputies and locals, some with dogs, are grid searching. Clear Creek County volunteers are fighting some strong wind on the slopes of Mount Evans at timberline and below. Jefferson County Sheriff deputies have been dispatched to rest stops and picnic areas and Denver police and parks officers are at Red Rocks State Park.”

  Impressed, Fulton thanked them. “Can you email that to my phone?”

  Cam tapped a few keys. “Done. Text me or call if you need anything, Detective. I’ll be standing by while you talk to the father.”

  BEN TROWBRIDGE HAD the same sandy hair and brown eyes as his son. But his eyes were behind lenses, and he wore his thirty-three years as if they were triple that. He sat with his hands clasped between his knees staring at the floor—the position he’d been in when Fulton and Twee entered the room and a head shake from Davidson told them the man was unresponsive.

  After Davidson left with the scarf in an evidence bag, Fulton had tried coffee to get Trowbridge to engage. It sat cooling on the end table.

  They waited, allowing minutes to pass. Finally Fulton spoke. “Mister Trowbridge, time isn’t our friend here.”

  The man started and looked around. “I’m sorry,” he said to Fulton and Twee on the sofa across from him. “Wasn’t there another detective here? The one who came to my house?”

  “Davidson,” John Fulton supplied. “Detective Davidson took the scarf to our lab. Technician Twee here is the crime scene specialist assigned to Brian’s case. She’ll be analyzing the evidence.”

  Trowbridge seemed confused. “You’re not his daughter?” he asked Twee, referring to Fulton.

  She smiled. “No, sir. I’m a specialist with the Denver Police Department. I have a Master of Forensic Chemistry degree and certification by the FBI in evidence collection and handling. I’m very little and very, very smart.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I seem to be… you’re analyzing the evidence? All of it?”

  “For the most part, yes. Others assist under my supervision. We find it’s more efficient and things don’t get lost or left undone if one person is responsible.”

  He waved that away. “You’ll get the car, then? When they find it, the car the man took Brian away in. You’ll get the car?”

  Fulton leaned in. “Mister Trowbridge, we can’t really comment—”

  “I’ll get the car,” Twee answered, cutting Fulton off. “If and when it’s found, they’ll bring it to a secure area for examination. I’ll be there; I’ll get the car.” She repeated this; he seemed to need it.

  Ben Trowbridge stared directly, intensely, into her eyes. Twee stared back, making the message clear: I’m listening.

  “My son's a genius,” he said. “Literally. I'm an engineer and he does math I barely comprehend. Sometimes it's like talking to a university professor.”

  He stopped. Blinked back threatened tears. “But Brian is also eight years old. He doesn't want to be Stephen Hawking when he grows up. He wants to be Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Sherlock was a genius, too.” She smiled gently.

  “If he was in that car, and from what that other detective said, he probably…” He looked up at the ceiling for a few moments. “Someplace, somehow, in that car, Brian will have left you his DNA. Even if it was obsessively cleaned—and he’ll assume that, he’ll assume that from TV that the car will be cleaned—don't stop looking until you find what he left you.”

  He managed a small smile. “Brian is way ahead of everybody. Don’t doubt him. He’s way ahead of everybody, including the man who took him.”

  She stood. “I believe you. Unless there’s something else, I’m going to get to work on Brian’s case right now. And I won’t stop, sir. So while you’re waiting, you can imagine that. That I am working and not stopping until I know everything and find everything.”

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “And so are many others Detective Fulton will tell you about now.”

  She smiled confidently and strode out of the room. She waited for the elevator, and for the doors to close behind her, before she allowed the tears to fall. She gave herself as long as it took to rise two floors and for the doors to open.

  Brian didn’t have time for her to cry.

  MIKE MERISI SAT behind the desk of the vacationing Captain Horace VanDevere with his feet up and a pile of paper files and reports on his thighs. Hunter had told him to use the office for the lack of distraction to review the old cases. Immersed in the witness statements and narrative of three dead boys, Merisi forgot to enjoy having his heels on the pristine desktop of a man who would have fired him if he could and thought Merisi’s very existence was an abomination to the Lord.

  “You texted me.” Hunter came in and closed the door.

  “Yeah, come look at this,” Merisi said as if he were the captain.

  But Hunt recognized when someone was too focused to pay much attention to what they said or how. He mov
ed around the desk so he could see the screen over Merisi’s shoulder.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “It’s not much of an interview, just a few notes from a uniform on a ‘suspicious person’ call from this boy’s mother last year. It’s barely a story. Her son said a man approached him in the parking lot of a skate park and showed him a picture of a dog he said he lost. There’s not much else. The kid’s friend came up and the guy faded.”

  “Why’d the mother call?”

  “Because when she picked up her son later, he said there was a creepy guy around and he didn’t want to ride his bike to the park anymore. The only place to lock up the bike is in that parking lot.”

  “Okay. Not much, but someone stuck it in the Wilderness file. Why?” Hunter asked.

  “Thing is, it wasn’t in the Wilderness file. It happened about six weeks before. It popped up when I did a search based on this.”

  Merisi handed him the report and picked up another one. “That’s from the second kidnapping. The one in the boat. A lot more interviews. I think they covered his whole elementary school. One of the kids said a man lost his dog and wanted help looking. He had a picture, too. The kid didn’t stop because he had T-ball practice.”

  Hunter took the statement and read through it. “So you searched for similar reports. And found one. What do you want to do?”

  “Talk to them and see what the dog looked like. See if it’s the same. Maybe look for other suspicious person calls around the times of the kidnappings.”

  Taking his feet off the desk, Merisi leaned back in the chair to look up at his boss.“You told me once that serial killers tend to keep doing what works. If he is using the same picture and we find it in his possession, and if it can be IDed by a witness, might be enough for a house warrant. It definitely establishes a pattern.”

  “Okay. Do what you can by phone. Send some uniforms to follow up and take statements.”

  “I’m not Cam, but I did do a lot of business from my desk in my previous accounting life. I can do it all right from here. Write out their statement on the computer, get an E-signature along with parental permission.”