The Interrogation

by Adira August

  Still on the stoop, Merisi couldn’t help asking, “What do you mean, he's getting the snowblower ready?”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a little young to be unsupervised around that kind of equipment, isn’t he?”

  “Step in, it’s getting cold.” She moved out of his way.

  Merisi entered but stayed in the small tiled area that served as a foyer. He didn’t peer around or do anything that would seem like he was encroaching on her territory. Hunter Dane lesson #936: If they feel in control, they feel safe. If they feel safe, they talk.

  “Good thing you mention it now before you meet him. Ted’s almost twelve. He looks about eight or nine, which most think he is. Until he opens his mouth. Now, what do you want with him?”

  Merisi checked his notebook for the boy’s birthdate. There was none. “About eight” the officer who’d basically kissed off the call had written.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry, I seem to have incomplete information here.” He got Ted’s d.o.b. and full name (Thaddeus Edward Driver) and explained what he wanted.

  “That’s it?” She walked him into her kitchen. “You want to know what the dog looked like?”

  “The dog and the picture, itself. If it was a flyer or a snapshot. Big, small, square. Anything he remembers. Also, he might remember more about the man.”

  Mel Driver stopped at the kitchen door. Mike heard muffled scraping noises from the attached garage. “You said you were a detective,” she said. “You didn’t say what kind.”

  “A damn good one,” was what Merisi longed to say, just before Let me at my witness, time’s a-wastin’ lady!

  “I work with a special unit,” was what he did say. He knew he couldn’t project the Great Dane’s aura of infinite patience, but he did control his face and tone. “We’re investigating a missing child right now.”

  She went a little white, it made the lines around her eyes stand out. “A missing child taken by the same man? The one who showed Ted the puppy?”

  Merisi couldn’t confirm. “I really need to talk to your son.”

  IN THE END, she let him go into the garage alone, remaining next to the door she left open a crack to listen. Ted was folding up the snowblower’s cover when Mike Merisi walked in. The first thing he noticed was Ted’s resemblance to Brian Trowbridge: he was dark blond and fair and small for his age. The cover he was folding was taller than he was.

  But he’d done this before. With a practiced flip, he laid it on the floor, walked one end to the other, then brought two ends to the middle and folded it over one more time. It was a big, bulky, awkward package. But he scooped it up with both arms and heaved it onto the closed lid of a large plastic trash can that had “sand/salt” written on it in thick strokes from a permanent marker.

  Merisi waited for the boy to spot him. “Hi. Your mom said it was okay if I came out here.”

  “Why?” Ted pushed a fat lock of hair off back from his forehead.

  “I’m a police detective. Mike Merisi.” He got out his badge case and held it toward the boy, who walked right over and took it.

  Ted ran a thumb over the gold badge and read the words. “Michaelangelo? You musta taken a bunch of shit in school.”

  Merisi grinned. “Yeah. Not as much as Gordon Hardmeat, tho’.”

  Ted hooted. “You made that up.”

  “Swear to God.” Merisi raised a hand. “You can search him, he’s a chiropractor now.”

  Ted kept looking at the badge. “You here about that man?”

  “Yeah.” Merisi sat down on the cold concrete step, sure he’d get up with dirt on his pants. He took out his notebook. “The man and the dog in the picture. I wondered what kind of dog it was?”

  Ted handed the badge case back. “C’mon.”

  The boy eased past him and opened the door Mike had just come through. Merisi slapped at the back of his pants and followed. An unembarrassed Mel Driver, who’d been listening at the door, got out of the way.

  They filed through the house to a small living room. Ted threw himself onto a sofa and used both hands to pull a laptop out from between the cushion and the arm. “Sit down,” Ted told him, entering a password and looking for all the world like a young Cam Snow bringing up crime scene photos for the team.

  Merisi exchanged a look with Ted’s mother, who shrugged and took an armchair. Merisi sat next to Ted, who’d started laughing at the screen.

  It had been a dozen years since Mike had last seen Gordy, but here he was, curly red cap of hair tamed, looking fit behind a bright smile over the promise: I can handle your kinks. Northwood Chiropractic. Gordon Hardmeat, MD.

  Gordy always had a sense of humor about his name.

  “What are you looking at?” Mel started to push herself up from her chair.

  “No helicopter mamas,” Ted said as if it were a well-worn phrase. Mel sat back down.

  “Okay.” The boy nodded his approval at Merisi. “It looked like this.”

  He searched an image site for “cute, brown-and-white dogs.” He scrolled down. “There. Like that. Only not so much white, it had brown patches. But like a cartoon dog—round, shiny eyes and stuff.”

  The legend under the image said it was a Maltese puppy. Merisi took a shot of the screen with his phone.

  Ted rolled his warm brown eyes and shoved the computer at Mike. “Just send it to yourself. Or is your email top secret?”

  “No, but this wouldn’t go to my address.” He sent the pic to Cam and got out a card. “Mine’s on the card, in case you think of anything later.”

  They talked for a while. Mel brought some cookies and hot cider. The picture came out of the man’s wallet; the man was just a white guy. The boy couldn’t remember if he’d had glasses or facial hair, but he did remember the man wore a suit and his wristwatch was very shiny gold.

  Ted didn’t ask why Merisi was interested after so much time had passed. He didn’t seem surprised or afraid. But he didn’t look up from the screen much, and as soon as the cop rose to leave, Ted bolted for the garage.

  Outside in his car, Merisi sent notes to Cam to distribute to the rest of the team and the small phone bank of uniforms he’d set up. He sent a longish email to Hunter Dane speculating that the killer could have easily mistaken Ted for a younger boy. In that case, he still fit the victim profile, and Mike was confident Ted could ID the picture if he saw it again.

  Unfortunately, he was equally sure Ted couldn’t pick Ferriter out of a photo array or a line-up.

  THE RINGING OF PHONES became more frequent, the rumble of men’s voices louder.

  A voice called sharply to Ruth. She picked up the phone and made a call.

  The elevator dinged almost continuously.

  Ferriter lifted his head like a predator scenting the air.

  Something was happening.

  A man about 50 in the uniform of a Fire Captain appeared at the info desk. That lieutenant met him there.

  “Captain Arnold, you running this thing for the fire department?”

  “No choice. All our command officers went home early because of the storm, and they aren’t coming back.”

  Ferriter looked down, willing himself to invisibility. They were easy to hear, speaking over the phones and the dinging. Other detectives joined them.

  “So what have we got, exactly?” Hunt asked.

  “An explosion in the Rothsen Bank tower,” Arnold answered. “It’s big. Blew out a corner, three floors up. At least sixteen dead. Mostly from a beauty salon on the first floor. The intersection’s a four-way traffic jam in a river of glass. Downtown’s grid-locked. ”

  “You think it’s a bombing?”

  Arnold shrugged. “Unlikely it’s a gas main. The FBI is suiting up.”

  “We investigate it as homicide until Arson says it isn't,” Hunter told the detectives.

  “If the feebs say terrorism?” DiMato asked, over the ringing of the info desk phone.

  “Then we work for them.”

  Ruth held up her phone rec
eiver. “It’s Detective Merisi, Lieutenant.”

  Hunter snatched up the phone. “Dane. … No, you’re right, don’t come back here. Take the hospital and the morgue. … On my cell.” He handed the phone back.

  “DiMato, coordinate witness interviews. Chang, get the internal video from the building and surrounding buildings. Fulton, check the floor. See if anyone's left who can help out.”

  Fulton lumbered off down the hall. Pulling on coats, pocketing field notebooks, DiMato and Chang took off.

  “Check in on the half hour!” Hunter shouted after his detectives. “Ruthie, is Natani still at the mayor's office?”

  “They’re meeting with the district attorney now.”

  Garza gave Hunter a little bow. “I’ll get my coat and leave you to it, then, Lieutenant. Bombings aren’t my department.” He sighed. “I’m losing you to some other agent. It’s a shame really. We could have been so good together.”

  Hunter ignored him. “Ruth, find out who's in charge for DPD and get them on the line for me.”

  She reached for the phone, but hesitated when Arnold said, “Dane? All your command officers went home early, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You're in charge, Lieutenant.”

  “Well … ” He looked around at the empty squadroom. Blew out a breath. “Okay. Captain Arnold, why don't you go on ahead. I’ll be five minutes behind. Meet you in the lobby.”

  Arnold’s shoulder radio crackled. “Five minutes.” Arnold passed Fulton coming back.

  “It's all hands on deck, Lieutenant,” Fulton said. “The only other person on the floor is Deedee in Assaults. You want me to stay here?”

  “I wish you could. But with Snow gone, I need you to take over for him and stay with me. Grab a laptop.”

  Ruth bit her lips, clutching at her sweater as Hunter ducked into McCauley’s office and came out slinging on a long winter coat. He and Fulton strode past her desk.

  “But what about him?” She almost screeched in her near-panic.

  The men stopped. Hunter saw Ferriter, sitting up. The suspect nodded coolly, giving him a little wave with a cuffed hand.

  “John, go find Captain Arnold in the lobby. I’ll need a couple more minutes. Wait for me there.”

  Fulton threw a doubtful look at Ferriter and Ruth, but hurried away.

  Hunt gestured to Ruth to follow him back into the squadroom.

  FERRITER LEANED OVER, but they'd moved out of sight. After a few moments of indistinct conversation...

  “I couldn’t possibly!”

  Ruth backed into view—arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head—followed by Hunter Dane, holding the red file out to her.

  “Yes, you can,” Hunt assured her.

  “Everyone's gone!”

  “The man's on a chair screwed into the floor. He’s handcuffed to a chain bolted to a desk.”

  She wrapped her cardigan tightly around herself, refusing to look at him.

  “Ruthie. You've filled out booking forms before. Lots of times.”

  “Not for a long time. I just did it for kids who took a bicycle or something.”

  “Same forms. Call my cell if you have questions. You have my number, right?”

  His warm tone drew her eyes to his face. “I have everyone's number in my desk.”

  “But you’ve always had mine in your phone, right? From when I was assigned here?”

  She blushed. “Just in case.”

  “I need you, Ruth.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes got wide.

  “This is not what anyone expected, or in any way an ideal situation. Which is why I need you. Just do the basic booking forms and call dispatch. That’s it. Five minutes later, a sheriff will come take him away.”

  She searched his face, his needy expression, his so-direct gaze. “Five minutes?”

  He smiled. “The jail’s a ride down on the elevator, a walk across underground parking, a ride up another elevator. Six minutes if he has to wait for the elevator.”

  Ruth held out a hand for the file. He let her take it from him.

  “Everything has to stay together in the file, including the forms,” he told her. “One copy of the booking slip stays here, the rest to the sheriff. Lock it all in McCauley’s office when you’re done.” He checked his watch. “I don't want this case thrown out on a technicality. Get him to the jail by three o'clock. Then you’re done, you can go home.”

  Ferriter checked the wall clock. 1:45.

  Ruth straightened up. “Fill out the forms. Make copies. Lock up the file. Call dispatch.”

  “Good girl.” Hunt put a hand on her shoulder for a moment and hurried away.

  She cast a wistful look after him and kept watch until the elevator dinged.

  Ferriter stared intently at her.

  The boy’s bound ankles rub back and forth over a jagged edge of rock poking out of the dirt. Layers of duct tape begin to fray. But there are many, many layers.

  Leaves tumble across the boy's moving feet and legs.

  In the rising wind, tall pine trees above him sway against a blue sky, edged along the west by lowering gray clouds.

  FRAMED PHOTOS ON the barn wall showed Big Hans winning the ribbons and trophies displayed underneath. A clipboard with a sign-up sheet for South Jeffco Canine Search and Rescue was nailed to the wall. Next to it, a huge USGS map of the area showed notes Avron had added of the kennel location and man-made features of the surrounding area.

  Cam sat with his laptop open at an old wood desk in front of the map.

  “So we need pavement.” Avron pointed out roads. “Most of the forest service access roads are gravel. Good, though. Well maintained.”

  “Detective, you say no off-road, but he could walk in a ways. How’s he look?” Vargas asked.

  Cam opened a new screen. “I’m not a detective. Call me Cam. Here’re a few pictures of him.”

  “I meant what shape's he in? This Ferriter, he work construction or lift weights?”

  “Look like he could carry fifty plus pounds upslope at altitude?” Avron added.

  Cam laughed. “He's a real estate agent. Might carry a martini glass to a dinner table.”

  Vargas studied the big map. “Then we assume he went in carrying the boy downslope so he could come back uphill empty. You searched his listings, you said?”

  “Yeah. Take a look.”

  Cam showed them the string-of-beads locations.

  Vargas cocked his head. “There’s a blank space right around us.”

  “What’s over here, Avron?” Vargas said. “Does Big Horn Gulch Road go all the way up there?”

  “Maybe. … What is it you’re looking for, exactly?” Avron asked Cam.

  “An exclusive development. Dense forest by the road. Houses set way back, no addresses you can see driving by. Rich people. Well-maintained hard surface roads and driveways. Clear views across the canyon from the houses.”

  “Clear views across the canyon?” Avron covered half the area on the monitor with his hand. “That’s all designated wilderness area. Your boy’s not goin’ there, he’d have to hike a couple miles in, at least.”

  Cam ran a finger along a ridge not covered by Avron’s hand marked Big Horn. No roads or houses were indicated. “So he’d be over here, somewhere.”

  “If there really is some kind of super-private development Avron and I never heard of,” Vargas said.

  “The big problem is, we won’t find it on a public satellite map if they requested masking,” Cam said.

  “You’re thinking that he finds an empty house for sale, and he's got all the privacy he needs to set up his kill site?”

  “Right.” Cam got up and went to the big map. “We can’t just drive around, no time. We need a spot where we can use binoculars to make a visual search for the housing development.”

  Vargas contemplated the map. “Some kind of lookout, maybe. The kind of pull-off for tourists to use to take pictures.”

  “Don’t have ‘em this side of
the valley,” Avron said. “Your people say everything has to be on a good road, right?”

  “”Yeah, we’re confident he uses his own vehicle,” Cam said. “He needs pavement.”

  Avron put his finger under an icon on the map. “Best view of that canyon's from the old firetower. Good road. Parking lot’s blacktop. Lonny’ll show you.”

  Interrogation One

  * * *

  PERFECTLY STILL IN front of the squadroom windows, Ruth gazed out at the front—a skyborne tsunami looming ever higher beyond the city. She switched off the TV. Wandered the empty room from desk to desk. Straightened papers. Pushed in chairs. Cast a glance toward Interrogation One, Ferriter out of her sightline. She fiddled with her dachshund pin.

  It was time.

  Ferriter sat straight and still when Ruth entered, his hands folded on the top of the return. She sat across from him and placed the fat red file on the desk. The spine was toward him, so when opened, the cover blocked his view of the contents. It was protocol.

  She searched around for a pen.

  In the center desk drawer, some gum. A few paper clips. A single playing card. She checked a three-slot paper sorter: a pizza delivery menu. She went back to her desk, gathered a pen, more blank forms and her dachshund mug.

  Keeping an eye on her, Ferriter "stretched" both arms out as if trying to get comfortable. His fingers were an inch short of the file. He flopped back in the chair.

  Ruth returned, juggling supplies and mug. It took her a minute of fussing around to arrange her workspace.

  “I don't know why I'm here.”

  She started. He’d spoken to her.

  “Some cop pulled me out of my car like a terrorist or something. Why would he do that?” His furrowed brow bespoke his innocent puzzlement.

  “Sergeant DiMato said it was for investigation. I heard him,” she said, straightening the edges of the blank forms before setting them in the empty slots of the paper sorter.