by Scott Pratt
And then only the sound of men breathing heavily.
“Are we clear?” Fraley said.
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
Three bodies facedown on the floor on the dirty shag carpet, hands cuffed tightly behind their backs. Two males and a female, all wearing black robes with hoods. Candles scattered around the room on the floor, on the nightstand by the bed, on the vanity near the bathroom. Black candles. A silver cup, a chalice, lay in the center of the floor, apparently overturned in the confusion. Fraley knelt beside it. Most of the liquid inside had spilled onto the floor, making a dark stain.
“Looks like blood,” he said, resisting the urge to pick it up.
One of the agents was hoisting the girl to her feet. She looked to be around twenty years old, redheaded, attractive at first glance, somehow familiar-looking. As she stood the robe fell open in front. She was naked beneath it. Fraley glanced around the room as other agents pulled their prey up off the floor. The other two—the males—were wearing white pancake makeup. They had black hair, with rings in their eyebrows, noses, and ears. They were both naked beneath the robes. There was blood running down both of their forearms. All of them seemed dazed.
“Get the cars,” Fraley said. Three of the agents left immediately.
The girl began to mumble something unintelligible, quietly at first, then more loudly. Fraley couldn’t understand a word she was saying.
“Shut your fucking mouth!” Fraley hissed as he moved towards her and jerked her cuffed hands upwards behind her back. She winced and went silent.
“You’re all under arrest,” Fraley said through gritted teeth. “You have a right to keep your fucking mouth shut, you have a right to a scumbag lawyer. Anything that comes out of your hole can be used against you in court.”
The agents arrived with the vehicles in less than a minute. Fraley shoved the girl towards the door.
“Get them out of here,” Fraley said. He watched as the three were led out to the waiting vehicles. Once they were out of earshot, Fraley walked towards the bathroom. He’d noticed three separate piles of clothing: one pile—obviously the girl’s—was on the vanity next to the sink. Another pile was near the wall next to the vanity, and a third was inside the bathroom on the floor near the toilet. There was a pair of shoes in each pile.
“Bag these up separately and bring them to the office,” Fraley said to Norcross.
“Shouldn’t they go to the lab?” Norcross said.
“They will. But first I have to make sure who they belong to. Watch and learn, my son.”
Tuesday, October 7
As soon as Fraley walked into the office, he turned the thermostat to cool, set the temperature at sixty degrees, and made sure everyone knew to leave it there. The other agents brought the suspects in one at a time. Since there were only two interrogation rooms in the satellite TBI office, Fraley was forced to improvise. Boyer and Barnett were placed in the interrogation rooms. The redhead, the one they weren’t expecting, was handcuffed to a chair in Fraley’s office and left to stew. The door was left open and an agent was posted outside.
Fraley thought about what Dillard had told him. One who commands. A female. This might be her. The lack of makeup and Goth persona certainly set her apart from the others, but she hadn’t done or said anything to indicate she was a leader. After her initial attempt at speaking back at the hotel had been derailed by Fraley’s hammerlock, she’d ridden from the motel to the TBI office in silence in the darkened backseat.
A search of the motel room and the clothing that had been strewn around produced nothing of value—a couple of razor blades, the boys’ wallets, a watch. They hadn’t found even an ID card for the redhead. Fraley still had no idea who she was.
But the green Cavalier parked outside had yielded what Fraley hoped would literally be the smoking guns—two semiautomatic pistols, both nine-millimeter. Drugs were also found in the car—a quarter ounce of marijuana, about a half gram of crystal meth, and a dozen pills, probably hydrocodone or oxycodone, were in the console. When Fraley opened the trunk and flashed his light inside, he saw what appeared to be a bloodstain near the spare-tire well. If it was blood, it might be Norman Brockwell’s. And then there were the shoes and clothes. Maybe the shoes would match footprints found at the scenes. Maybe the clothing would yield fibers. Maybe the tires would match the casts taken from the woods where Norman Brockwell was murdered.
The mobile forensic unit had been on standby at the office and was now going over the room and doing a preliminary on the car. Lab personnel were on standby in Knoxville. The forensics people would do what they could at the scene and then load the car onto a rollback and take it down to Knoxville along with the rest of the evidence. There was usually a significant waiting period for lab work, but this case had been moved to the front of the line. Fraley knew that by midmorning, much of the lab analysis would be finished.
Fraley walked to his office and picked up a few files. The redhead stared at him but said nothing. Fraley did a double take when he saw her eyes. One blue, one green. Piercing, as though they could see straight into his soul, full of hatred. He made a quick trip to the bathroom and walked out to the snack room. He poured himself a cup of coffee and started slathering Cheez Whiz on a cracker. He looked up at the clock on the wall. It was two fifteen a.m. Fraley had been up for twenty-two hours, and it didn’t look like he’d be going home anytime soon.
Fraley had asked Norcross and another agent to Mirandize the suspects again. They were reading the suspects their constitutional rights and asking them to sign a form that acknowledged that their rights had been explained to them and that they understood. He’d already sent two other agents to Levi Barnett’s home to bring back Levi’s aunt, who was identified in his juvenile records as Barnett’s legal guardian. Levi’s father was in prison for dealing crystal meth, and his mother had deserted them a decade ago.
Fraley sipped his coffee and flipped through the files. When he came across the photos of the murdered children, the rage he felt when he thought about his granddaughter returned. He’d looked at the photos only once. They turned his stomach.
He thought briefly about how he would conduct the interrogations. The Reid Technique was now standard operating procedure in law enforcement. Make the suspect as comfortable as possible. Make him think you were there to help him. Try to find some common ground and get him talking; it didn’t matter what the conversation was about initially. The theory behind the Reid Technique was that suspects would naturally feel guilt and want to unload their burden. The officer was there to facilitate the cleansing of the spirit. Get him talking, eventually turn the conversation towards the crime, and gently persuade him to confess.
Fuck that.
If he had his way, he’d subject every goddamned one of them to torture. Maybe a little waterboarding would loosen their tongues. A few well-placed blows to the solar plexus or groin. Maybe even some electroshock therapy. Then, once he had his confessions, he could proceed right to execution. No need for a trial and sentencing once they’d admitted it. Take them out back, shoot them in the head, load them in the back of a pickup truck, and haul them to the city dump. Get them out of the mix and be done with it.
When he came out of his fantasy-induced trance, Fraley noticed that guys were moving in and out of the snack room, trading good-natured insults and laughing. The mood in the office was lighter than it had been in weeks. The raid had gone off without a hitch. Arrests had been made. Evidence had been found and was being processed. The nightmare, it seemed, was over.
Norcross and Taylor came in and sat down, and the others filed out. Norcross had played defensive end at Memphis State before earning a law degree and joining the TBI ten years earlier. At thirty-five, he looked like he belonged on a poster for the Green Berets. His jaw was strong and square, his eyes hazel, and he kept his black hair cut to a half an inch. Taylor was younger, a University of Tennessee accounting graduate who’d been an agent for six years. He was
lanky and balding, with a nasal, high-pitched voice that quickly got on Fraley’s nerves.
“What do you think?” Fraley said, looking at Norcross. He was too tired to listen to Taylor.
“The young kid and the girl are cold as fucking ice,” Norcross said. “And did you see that girl’s eyes? Freaky.”
“I take it they didn’t offer to confess.”
“The older guy, Boyer, is the softest one,” Norcross said. “He’s scared shitless. He was shaking so bad he could barely sign the Miranda waiver.”
“But he signed it?”
“Yeah. He was the only one who’d sign.”
“Are they high?”
“Who knows?”
“Nobody lawyered up?”
“Not yet.”
“Did the girl say anything?”
“Not a word. Wouldn’t sign the waiver, wouldn’t tell me her name. Just stared at me. Gave me fucking chills. I’d start with the dude.”
“Have they brought the young kid’s aunt in yet?”
“Yeah, but she’s not happy. She keeps harping about his clothes. She says he’s cold.”
“Fuck her.”
Fraley leaned back and stretched, thinking about the utter futility of what he was about to do. Since he couldn’t offer any kind of deal, there was absolutely no reason for any of them to talk to him. What did they have to gain by confessing? Nothing. What did they stand to lose by confessing? Everything. He put his palms on the table and pushed himself up. Pain shot up his lower back from the beginnings of arthritis in his hips.
“Might as well get to it,” he said as he moved to the sink and ran cold water over a dishrag. He glanced up at the clock. Nearly an hour had passed since the suspects had been placed in the interrogation rooms.
Fraley closed the door behind him as he walked into the room where Samuel Boyer was sitting. In one hand he held two plastic bags of clothing and the dishrag, in the other a manila folder. Boyer, still clad in the ridiculous-looking robe, was sitting with his head down on the table shivering, his cuffed hands clasped in front of him. Fraley tossed the bags of clothing down in front of Boyer.
“Sorry it’s so goddamned cold in here,” Fraley said. “Something’s wrong with the heat and we can’t get anybody to fix it until morning. I brought you your clothes, but I wasn’t sure which set was yours. You can put them on or you can sit there and freeze. Doesn’t matter to me.”
Boyer looked at the bags and reached for one. Slowly, he pulled on a pair of black jeans. Fraley unlocked Boyer’s cuffs briefly so he could put on a black sweatshirt. He pulled a pair of black boots out of the bag and looked at Fraley as if to ask whether he had permission to put them on.
“Go ahead,” Fraley said. “For all I know you might be leaving in a little while.”
Boyer pulled on a pair of socks and slid the boots over them.
“There. Feel better?” Fraley said.
Boyer didn’t respond. Fraley sat back and watched as Boyer dropped his head onto the table, into the same position he’d been in when Fraley entered the room. Fraley stood and walked to the door.
“Norcross!”
A moment later, the big man filled the doorway as Fraley sat down.
“This young man’s about to remove his clothes,” Fraley said. “Once he does, I need you to put them back in this bag and tag them.”
Fraley lifted the empty bag from which Boyer had removed the clothing and the boots. Boyer’s head came up off of the table. He looked at Fraley curiously.
“Go on now,” Fraley said. “Take everything back off and put your vampire robe on. I’ll let you keep it until we send you down to the jail.”
Boyer hesitated, obviously confused.
“Take those fucking clothes off now or I’ll have my buddy Glenn here rip them off your scrawny little ass!” Fraley yelled as he slammed a massive fist onto the table.
As Boyer began to remove his boots, Fraley allowed himself a smile. “I appreciate your help,” he said to Boyer. “I thought those clothes and those boots were yours, but it might have been hard to prove until you put them on.” He turned towards Norcross. “After dumb-ass here finishes taking off his clothes, take the other bag in there and do the same thing to the other dumb-ass. As soon as he puts the clothes on, make him take them off and turn the goddamn heat back up.”
After Norcross left the room and closed the door, Fraley tossed the dishrag onto Boyer’s forehead.
“Wipe that shit off your face,” Fraley said. “I want to see who I’m talking to.”
Boyer reached up with his cuffed hands and removed the rag from his face. He was a skinny kid, nothing but a sack of bones. He stared at Fraley for a second, then tossed the rag onto the table.
“The makeup’s coming off,” Fraley said. “If you don’t do it, I will. If I do it, I promise you won’t like it.”
Boyer lowered his head back onto the table. Fraley waited thirty seconds. Boyer didn’t move.
Fraley rose, picked up the rag with his right hand, and grabbed a handful of black hair with his left. He jerked Boyer’s head back and slammed it down, face-first. Boyer let out a groan. Fraley jerked Boyer’s head up again and began rubbing the rag roughly across his forehead. The greasy makeup smeared, but very little of it came off. Blood began to run from Boyer’s left nostril.
Fraley dropped the rag across Boyer’s nose and moved back to his seat. “You shouldn’t have resisted arrest back at the motel,” Fraley said. “You wouldn’t have gotten your nose broken.”
Fraley opened the manila file and took out some photographs. Two were close-ups of the Beck children after they’d been cleaned up, with grotesque black holes where their right eyes had been shot out. One was a photo of Bjorn Beck with his eye shot out and the “ah Satan” message carved into his forehead. Another was Anna Beck. All four photos clearly showed the inverted crosses carved into the necks of the victims.
“A little reminder of what you did,” Fraley said as he slid the photos, one by one, across the table.
Boyer, holding the rag to his nose, glanced at the photos and then closed his eyes. Tears were running down his face, lightly streaking the makeup like lines on a road map.
“Look at them or I swear to God I’ll staple your eyelids open,” Fraley said.
Boyer opened his eyes and at least appeared to be looking at the photos. His eyes were dark, nearly black, surrounded by pink. Fraley leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.
“We found the guns in the glove compartment of your car,” Fraley said calmly. “They’re going to match the bullets we found at two murder scenes. Our evidence guys are going through your car with a fine-toothed comb, including the trunk. We think you gave Norman Brockwell a ride out to the woods in the trunk of your car. They’re looking for little pieces of his skin, fingernails, saliva, hair, blood, anything they can find. And they’ll find plenty, won’t they? You know they will. You were too fucking stupid or too fucking high to clean it, weren’t you?
“We’re going to match the tread on your tires to the tracks we found out there in the woods where you tied Norman Brockwell to a tree and shot him. And those boots you just put on? My guess is they’re going to match up to footprints we found at both crime scenes, you pathetic little piece of shit.”
Boyer’s eyes had glazed over. He looked stunned. It was exactly what Fraley had been hoping for when he entered the room.
“And how do you think we found you in the first place? We’ve got a witness. Somebody already gave you up. Game’s over for you, Sammy boy. You’re going to get the death penalty. The death penalty. They’re going to strap you into the electric chair and cook you like a fucking Thanksgiving turkey. If we can keep you alive long enough. As soon as people around here find out we’ve arrested the gutless sonsabitches that slaughtered a couple of babies, they’re going to want blood.”
Fraley paused to let the words sink in.
“There’s only one way out for you,” he said, leaning forward. “Tell me what
happened, tell me why it happened, tell me who was there besides you, and I’ll tell the district attorney you cooperated. You know how it works. You’ve been in the system. The first one to the district attorney’s office gets the deal.”
Boyer’s eyes rose to meet Fraley’s. He didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer. Sitting there with the streaks running through his makeup and his nose swollen and red, he looked like a scared, stupid clown.
Fraley picked up the photo of Bjorn Beck and pointed to the “ah Satan” carved into his forehead.
“And just what the fuck is this supposed to mean?” Fraley said. “Was this supposed to scare us?”
“What k-k-kind of d-deal w-w-will you g-give me?” Boyer said. They were the first words Fraley had heard him speak.
“Depends on what you have to say.” Fraley thought about what Dillard had said in the car: no deals. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t against the law for cops to lie to suspects during interrogation.
“Wh-where is sh-she?” Boyer said. His eyes moved slowly towards the door, as though he were trying to see through it.
“Who? The redhead? The question is, Who is she?”
“Sh-sh-sh-sh-she …”
“Take it easy,” Fraley said. “She what?”
There was a sudden explosion as the fluorescent lights above Fraley shattered behind their plastic coverings. Fraley flinched and found himself on his knees beside the table, gun drawn, the room enveloped in darkness.
Boyer let out a bloodcurdling scream. “Ahhhhhh! Ahhhhhh! It’s her! It’s her! She’ll kill us! She’ll kill us all!”
The door flew open and Fraley could see the beams of flashlights in the hall.
“You okay in there?” Fraley recognized the voice. It was Norcross. Fraley rose from his crouch by the table and moved to the door. Boyer continued to scream.