The Thief of All Light

by Bernard Schaffer

  She’d left him standing in the hallway, trying to catch his breath, hands still covering his crotch. After that, they hadn’t have any more discussions about politics.

  Waylon unlocked his office door and called into the back room, “You awake back there, kiddo?”

  She threaded a belt keeper through her belt on either side of the holster and snapped it shut, locking the holster in place. “What, you think I can’t handle a little late-night surveillance?”

  “God knows, if I had to spend an evening in a car with Harvey Bender, I couldn’t.”

  She came up the hallway fixing the next two belt keepers into place. “It wasn’t so bad,” she said. “The way I see it, I can learn from anyone at this point. If someone can teach me anything about being a detective, I’ll take it, no matter how much of a flaming douchebag they are.”

  “A detective, huh? One night out with the Task Force and you already want to leave Coyote and ship off to the County.”

  “That’s what you did, isn’t it?”

  “Only because I never had anyone smart enough to tell me not to,” he said. “You see the older guys around here, how excited they get over stopping a tractor trailer and writing him a few thousand dollars’ worth of tickets? That’s a big bust to them. The simple stuff makes them happy. Fat, dumb, and happy. If I could go back in time, I’d tell my younger self, Don’t go looking for all that craziness. Just stay put and keep your head down. Do your twenty-five and don’t take anything personal. Be fat, dumb, and happy.”

  Carrie pointed at the chief’s gut. “Well, I’d say you’re making a good head start on it, sir.”

  He patted his stomach. “I was both blessed and cursed with a wife who loves to bake.”

  Carrie’s mind was already working ahead, framing the next question. It had to be asked carefully. “So, boss, I was wondering something. You know how we don’t have any money in the budget for training?”

  “Intimately.”

  “Well, what if I find an interview and interrogation school but I pay for it on my own? I’ll even use vacation time to go if you need me to. The way I see it, there’s no better skill to have as a detective than being able to get a confession, and I want to learn how to do it the right way.”

  Bill leaned back in his chair, considering her. “You’re that serious about it?”

  “I honestly am.”

  Bill stroked his mustache, a clear sign that he was thinking about it. “Actually, I agree with you, there’s no better skill,” he said. “Any idiot can sit in a back alley staring at a building for hours on end, but it takes a real special breed to be an interviewer. Now, I’ve been to all the schools. I’ve studied the Reid method and the behavioral forensic analysis techniques, and the qualitative interview curriculum, and you know what?”

  “What?” she said.

  “It’s all bull. They teach you that if you ask a certain question a certain way, if the suspect shifts in his seat to the left instead of the right, or looks up when he should look down, you’ll have him dead to rights. Can you imagine some idiot going into court and testifying that he knows a suspect committed a murder because his eyes shifted a certain way? It’s embarrassing.”

  “So how do I learn to do it, then?”

  Bill thought for a second and said, “You need to watch a true interviewer perform his magic. I say magic, because that’s what it is. When you watch a good man in the box, he’s like a dark sorcerer, spinning a web of illusion around the suspect until the poor soul don’t know whether to mess himself or go blind. It’s like he’s leading the fool down a long hallway into a dark room, and by the time the door shuts, it’s too late.”

  “Okay,” she said. “So tell me who to go watch, and I’ll go.”

  Bill scratched his chin and said, “Hang on. I think I have something that can help you.” He got up from his desk and walked over to the small closet behind her chair, slid the rack of old police uniforms aside, and reached down for a box on the floor. He removed the lid and came up with a large manila envelope. “I saved this. Not for any special reason. I filed it away years ago in case we went to trial, but the guy pled guilty before we ever stepped foot in court. When I cleared out my desk, I guess I kept it as a kind of memento.” He waved the envelope at her. “Technically, I may have committed a small act of theft, removing this from the County instead of putting it in their evidence locker. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Carrie drew her fingers across her lips to zip them shut, then said, “I never saw a damn thing, Chief.”

  He snapped his fingers at her and said, “You’re talking like a detective already. Come on, I think there’s a VCR somewhere we can hook up to that hunk of junk TV in the back.”

  * * *

  The camera was fixed on the side of a long interview table in a police interrogation room she did not recognize. The image moved in and out of focus as the operator twisted the lens to get a better view of the man sitting there. He was in his late twenties, good looking, well built. He wore his hair long in the back and kept it short and spiked in front. Carrie leaned forward to hear someone close a door off-screen and say, “We rolling, Bill?”

  The man who sat at the table was pencil thin, his thick brown hair swept up like Elvis. He hadn’t developed the jowls and craggy lines along his cheeks yet, but Carrie recognized Harv Bender’s smirk the moment he set a thick manila folder on the table and folded his hands. “I’m Detective Bender, and this is Detective Bill Waylon,” Harv said, nodding toward the person standing out of view of the camera.

  “How you doing?” the man said. “I asked them what this was all about, but they just said I had to come talk to you guys.”

  “That’s right,” Harv said. He tapped the folder with his index finger. “I’m the lead investigator on a case we’ve been putting together for two months. You know what’s in here, Freddie?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The absolute end of your existence, you scumbag.”

  The chief pressed stop on the thick remote control and pointed at the screen. “This kid, Freddie, he was a karate instructor at some little Tae Kwon Do place. No record. No history with any of the local PDs, not even a traffic ticket. His methodology was he’d befriend the families of prepubescent girls, looking for single moms, ones who really needed help babysitting and what not. He’d offer to watch the kids so Mom could go out and blow off some steam. Sure, why not, right? Good-looking guy, loves kids. A few of the moms even had him sleep over, cooked him breakfast. One even had an intimate relationship with him. Then, three twelve-year-old girls reported that he raped them during that same summer.”

  “Wait, if he was banging the moms, why did he go after the kids?” she asked.

  “A lot of these guys will do whatever it takes to get closer to their intended target.”

  As he moved to press play, Carrie stopped him. “Are you talking about Harv? The a-hole I listened to brag all last night is the kind of cop I’m supposed to emulate?”

  Waylon just smiled. “Let’s see.”

  On the screen, Freddie looked down at the folder in confusion and said, “Is this a joke?” He burst into laughter and said, “This is a joke, right? Man, you guys almost had me there for a minute.”

  Harv’s face flushed red and he slammed his fist on the table, shouting, “No, it’s not a fucking joke, you child-molesting piece of shit! You sit there and smile about it one more time and I swear to God I will break every bone in your body. You think you can kung fu your way out of this room, tough guy? Go ahead and try it.”

  “No,” Freddie said, mystified. “I don’t think that at all. I really just don’t understand.”

  “Understand this. Your ass is going down for three charges of rape, aggravated indecent assault, and every other goddamn sex crime on the books. They’ll bury you at Graterford, and every orangutan in there is gonna use you as a cum Dumpster, get it?”

  “No, actually, I don’t.”

  “Did you rape those little girls?”<
br />
  “No.”

  Bender slapped the table. “You raped those little girls, Freddie. You’re a child-raping piece of shit, and you know you did it.”

  “Except, I didn’t.”

  Harv’s finger was like a gun, aimed between Freddie’s eyes, “If you have one shred of decency in your entire body, you’ll tell me what you did. Take this one chance to be a decent, God-fearing person, and spare those little girls any further humiliation.” Harv’s pointed finger trembled and his voice was shaking now. “Those little babies didn’t deserve what you did to them. Now, you do the right thing, you asshole. Just once. Do the right thing.”

  Freddie’s voice was very low and calm when he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective.”

  There was sudden movement on the screen, and the video camera went sideways and shut off at the sound of screaming.

  The chief smiled slyly at Carrie and said, “We had, what you call, technical difficulties there for a second.”

  “I bet,” Carrie said.

  “Harv always had a soft spot for kids. He’s a flaming jerk sometimes, but he gave this case his all.” The tape came back on, and they saw Freddie sitting at the table, playing with the freshly torn shreds of his shirt collar. The case file was now bent and turned over, with reports and photographs scattered across the table. “Harv’s problem was, he got too emotional over child sex cases. He used interviews as his chance to let out all that pent-up anger and frustration. Sometimes, caring too much can be as big a hindrance as not caring at all.”

  On the screen, a much thinner, much younger looking Bill Waylon came walking up to the table and said, “I apologize for that. It was unnecessary. You came in here like a gentleman, and we should have treated you that way.”

  “I thought I was coming in here trying to help you,” Freddie said. “Instead, that guy assaulted me! Who do I talk to about pressing charges?”

  “Let’s slow down a second,” Bill said. “We can deal with that later. First, let’s take care of your situation. Can you do me one favor? Can you let me send someone else in here, just to ask you a few questions? Let me do that, and I promise we’ll get you on your way.”

  “Is he going to assault me too?” Freddie snapped.

  “No, I promise he won’t. In fact, I don’t think he’ll be in here more than a few minutes. As far as I’m concerned, you didn’t do anything and this has all just been a big misunderstanding. Can you spare a few more minutes for my guy?”

  Freddie took a deep breath and said, “All right. I’d rather get this cleared up now anyway. Listen, thank you for being such a decent person. I was raised to respect police. I still might try to become a cop. It’s something I’ve always thought about.”

  “I can tell,” Bill said. “You’ve got the right stuff for it. Give me a second.”

  Bill exited the room and Freddie slumped forward, fluttering his lips as he looked down at the papers. There were hospital logs and evidence slips and a few photographs that he tried to get a better look at but did not want to appear too interested while the camera was watching.

  Carrie looked at the chief and said, “That sounded pretty good to me, boss. That guy was eating out of your hand.”

  Bill shifted in his seat and tried not to look too proud, saying, “Yeah? I had some moves back in the day.” The door closed in the interview room on the screen again, and Bill said, “But nothing close to what he had.”

  Freddie looked up at someone standing off camera and said, “Are you the one with the questions?”

  “Just a few,” a voice replied softly. A tall man came around the side of the camera, his hands adjusting the knobs along the side and saying, “Just give me a second to shut this thing off. I was never comfortable talking on camera. How about you?”

  “Doesn’t matter if the camera’s on or not,” Freddie said. “I’m telling the absolute truth, as God is my witness. I swear on my mother’s soul, so I have no reason to fear what anyone hears me say.”

  “Well, I was hoping we could have a more private kind of conversation, if you don’t mind.” A hand jostled the camera, leaving it still activated. “There, the camera’s off. Now it’s just us. I’m glad you stayed here to talk to me. I don’t often get to ask someone the things I want to ask you.”

  Carrie watched the man circle the table and slide into the bench across from Freddie. He was dressed in a white dress shirt and long black tie. He had short, unkempt hair and several days’ worth of stubble. He swept down the length of the table, sending all of the case’s paperwork into the air. “We don’t need any of that,” he said, with a wide smile that showed off his white teeth. “It’s all nonsense anyway, isn’t it?”

  Freddie watched the reports flutter down toward the floor. “I already told them it wasn’t true.”

  “Now, that’s not what I meant and you know it. I mean all this carrying on over something so stupid. First off, there’s a difference between children and young women. People who like babies and toddlers? Those people are sick, am I right?”

  “Absolutely,” Freddie agreed. “Totally sick.”

  “But for society to lump sexually mature young women into the ‘children’ category, that’s just . . . I don’t know, some Victorian fantasy about propriety. I mean, I started having sex when I was thirteen. I think the girl was eleven. Maybe even ten. Now, that’s pretty young, but the fact is, a girl’s body changes faster than a boy’s and you know it.”

  “That . . . that’s what they say, I guess,” Freddie said.

  “And let’s face it, younger girls find older boys attractive, am I right? Especially ones that don’t have any kind of man in their lives. In fact, up until not too long ago, it was perfectly normal for girls to be married and pregnant by the time they were fourteen. Hell, Romeo and Juliet were just kids, did you know that?”

  “It’s still that way in some parts of the world.”

  “Damn right,” the man said. “Now, we can talk about how people in this country didn’t have such a stick up their puritanical asses and we can talk about how nobody can fairly judge the relationship between a male and a female unless they are there, but really, it’s just a game. They make up laws and put them in books, but what are they? Just words. And words are nothing compared to nature.”

  Carrie looked at Waylon. “Is this guy serious right now?”

  “Just hang in there,” Waylon said.

  “I didn’t have sex with those girls,” Freddie muttered. “I was just trying to be a good role model to them.”

  “Sure, sure,” the man said, holding up his hands over the table. “I’ve got to be honest, I don’t give a shit if you did.”

  Freddie’s eyebrows raised, but he didn’t speak.

  “But if you did, I just want to know how it was,” he said, inching closer. “Was it fresh? Clean? Like a ripe peach on the outside and pink water ice on the inside?”

  A thick drop of sweat slid down the side of Freddie’s face.

  “I bet it tasted like springtime, too,” the man said, smiling wistfully.

  Carrie pressed stop on the player, holding up her hands in surrender. Cold sweat trickled like ice down the length of her back. “I can’t deal with this, Bill. I want to go back in time and punch this lunatic in the face. First, the lunatic who raped the kid, and then the lunatic who is sitting there with a shit-eating-grin talking about it.”

  “Perfectly understandable, kiddo,” Waylon said, moving to get up from the table. “Do me a favor, let’s forget this whole conversation ever took place. Have a good shift.”

  He reached to eject the video tape, and Carrie stopped him, saying, “Wait.” She took a deep breath. “I’m just having a hard time listening to this, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting him to say those things.”

  “What you’re having is a normal, human reaction to something that is absolutely the most vile thing on the planet.” Waylon pointed at her face, at her flushed cheeks and enflamed eyes. “See how upset you are right n
ow? Your voice is quivering with anger and horror. Can you hear it when you speak? I can. So can anyone you’re talking to, including the suspect you’re trying to convince to confess.”

  “He . . . he called the little girl’s thing . . . Jesus, Bill. It’s disgusting.”

  “That’s right. Makes you sick to even thing about,” Waylon said. “Know who it doesn’t make sick? People like Freddie. And if you want to talk to people like him and get them to open up to you, you need to go into some real deep, dark places. It means being strong enough, committed enough, to engage them on their level. It is not a job for everyone.”

  “Did you do that?” Carrie said. She couldn’t fathom sweet old Bill ever uttering anything so awful. “Talk like that, I mean?”

  “No,” Waylon said. “I never could.”

  “That’s a good thing. That means you’re a normal person, right?”

  “It just means I was too weak,” he said. “Keep watching.”

  Carrie pressed play, folding her arms as the tape began again.

  “I met this girl last year,” the interviewer said. “Goddamn, she was good. Pretty little thing. Fourteen. Maybe thirteen, but developed, you know?” he said, cupping his hands in front of his chest. “You know what the best thing was? Where I met her.”

  Freddie’s eyes shifted back and forth from the man to the door, and he said, “W-where did you meet her?”

  “Right here,” the man said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one else was listening. “On the job. She had some kind of troubled home life and needed help, so I kindly offered to keep tabs on her, you know what I’m saying? Take her out to the mall. Buy her some makeup and underwear. It got so she couldn’t keep her hands off me. God, she was sexy. I had a naked picture of her in my locker, but I had to get rid of it, or else I’d show it to you.” He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, saying, “Nice pink nipples. Perfectly silver dollar-sized, just like this. Those the kind you like?” Freddie’s breath quickened. He reached down to adjust the front of his pants under the table, hidden from the man but in clear view of the camera. He swallowed hard, staring at the circle.