The Scorekeeper

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The Scorekeeper Page 19

by Dustin Stevens


  Twisting his palms upward as if to shrug, Klauss said, “Well, there you go. Can I go back to bed now?”

  Before Reed could respond, the speaker in the room sprung to life, a short burst of feedback rippling through the air, followed by Hollins’s voice. “Just answer the questions, asshole.”

  Whatever tiny bit of vitriol had seeped into Reed’s system after Klauss’s flippant response, it tripled at the sound of Hollins’s voice. With his back to the window, he clenched his body tight, his molars coming together as he squeezed, careful not to let the warden see him react.

  Even if the man was treading dangerously close to being on the receiving end of so much of the venom Reed had been accumulating throughout the night.

  “I’m the asshole?” Klauss breathed out, so faint it was just barely audible.

  Unable to hide his response, or even fake disagreement, Reed let one corner of his mouth curl up.

  And noticing the opportunity, he made sure to let Klauss see it.

  “Right?” he muttered back, matching the low tone.

  Making no effort to push forward, to launch back into his questioning just yet, he waited until a matching flicker of a smile appeared on Klauss’s face.

  So many times before he had been coached about sitting in the interrogation room. About how to read the person across from them. How to take their bravado and turn it against them or ferret out false confidence.

  Of everything he’d ever been taught before, the most pressed upon was always the need for common ground. The necessity of finding something that could bridge whatever gap might exist.

  Only then could information – the kind that could be trusted moving forward – be garnered.

  In the moment, Reed hadn’t been trying to find that ground. His focus had been on Della Snow, on how he would eventually impart her situation onto the man and hope his basic humanity might be enough, but already a much easier target had been presented in the form of the self-righteous man standing behind them.

  “Mr. Klauss, how long have you been here?” Reed asked.

  Shifting his weight back in his seat, Klauss replied, “three glorious months.”

  “Can I ask what for?”

  Shrugging one shoulder, Klauss replied. “Financial crimes. I’m sure it’s in the file.”

  “It is,” Reed said, recalling the list that Grimes had rattled off in his office earlier. “But I’m not asking for the official charges, I’m asking what you think landed you in here.”

  Klauss’s mouth opened, ready to respond, before pulling up short. Pausing, his eyes narrowed as he asked, “What’s this really about?”

  Knowing what was to come next, Reed held a hand up, signaling to Hollins behind him there was no need to interrupt again. Leaving it there for a moment, he lowered it back into place and said, “Tonight, your fingerprints were found at three active crime scenes, one the home of a girl that was abducted earlier today.”

  Several expressions and emotions seemed to flicker across Klauss’s face, each lasting just a second before flashing by, replaced by the next in order.

  “But...I...that’s impossible.”

  “I’m aware,” Reed said.

  Leaning forward, Klauss rested his elbows on the front edge of the table. A fresh veneer of sweat came to his face, the overhead lights reflecting off it.

  “I’ve been here for three months, one week, and two days.”

  “I know,” Reed said, “which is why I’m now sitting here talking to you. Clearly, you weren’t at any of those places, but somebody damn sure wants us to believe you were.”

  The skin on either side of Klauss’s face sagged as he moved his mouth up and down, trying in vain to make sense of what had just been shared.

  “I...wha...”

  “Mr. Klauss, does the name Della Snow mean anything to you?”

  Across from him, Klauss barely seemed to have heard the question, his focus still on trying to work through the information given him.

  “No, not that I...” he began, his voice trailing off. Considering it another moment, he extended his right hand at Reed, thrusting his thumb into the air, pushing it so fast it slammed the chain of the handcuffs against the bar rising from the middle of the table. “Was it this? Is this what you found?”

  The outburst was so unexpected, it caused Reed to jerk back an inch in his seat. On her feet instantly, Billie pressed tight against his leg, a growl rolling from deep in her diaphragm as she stared across at Klauss.

  Two even rows of razor sharp teeth peeked out as she peeled her lips back.

  “Was it my thumbprint? Is that what you got?” Klauss said, his voice rising as he rattled the chain against the bar again, alternating his gaze between Reed and Billie.

  In the first few minutes of their conversation, Reed hadn’t thought to look at the man’s hands. His frustration with Hollins, his surprise at what Deke had shared, everything else occurring, had all combined to push it toward the back of his mind.

  Even the way Klauss was sitting, with his hands folded before him, had blocked what he was now showing him from view.

  The fact that the entire top half of his thumb had been removed, nothing more than a stub remaining, stopping at the knuckle.

  “Down,” Reed said, the growl ceasing as Billie lowered herself back to her haunches, keeping her ribcage tight against his calf.

  For another moment, Reed said nothing more, merely staring at the mutilated digit before looking up at Klauss.

  “Explain.”

  Breathing hard, Klauss lowered his hand back to the table. Leaning back, he glanced to the side wall, a pained look covering his features.

  “So it was the thumb,” he said. “But I bet it was missing part of it, right? The middle part, where the pad would be?”

  Envisioning the images lined up three across on Grimes’s screen, Reed was careful not to visibly react.

  “It was.”

  “Yeah,” Klauss said. “Burned it on a lantern when I was a kid. Blistered the skin so bad, my dad scraped it off with a razor blade.”

  Once more, Reed pictured the images lined up in his mind. To look at them quickly, it would appear they were just partials, someone rubbing the outside of their hand against a surface.

  Knowing this, though, it seemed apparent that wasn’t the case. They were all three complete prints, they just were missing part of the more vital information.

  “So how did they end up on three different crime scenes?” Reed asked.

  “I don’t know,” Klauss said. “I truly don’t.”

  Meeting Reed’s gaze for just an instant, holding it barely long enough to impart he was telling the truth, he again looked away. “Hell, I don’t understand anything that’s happened these last few months.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  The feeling of floating, of levitating just above the earth, staring down on all that was happening below, had passed for Della Snow. In its place was a connection, a feeling that still left her weightless, but somehow attached to the world around her.

  Like she was now drifting in the ocean, her body bobbing on the saltwater, perfectly buoyed as it rose and fell with the waves.

  Lying in the darkness, she closed her eyes and pointed her cheeks to the sun. She tried and tried to feel the warmth of it on her skin, to feel the kiss of the breeze drifting across her.

  But all that ever came back was the cold, a feeling completely out of sorts with the picture in her mind.

  Almost as much as the vibration that had settled on her chest. Deep and resonant, it seemed to nestle firmly against her sternum, pushing a steady pulse throughout her system.

  Time and again it did so, demanding to be noticed, ripping her from the dream state she was in. Pulling her back to the emptiness of the box, to the reality of the situation she was in.

  “Mama,” she whispered.

  Sliding her hands along the bulging contours of her rib cage, she grasped the phone. Lifting it in both hands, she pressed it to the side
of her face, fumbling with the tiny buttons in the dark.

  Twice, three times, she tried jabbing at random, finally hitting the one she was looking for, the vibrations blessedly relenting.

  “Mama,” she repeated, her voice faint. “Mama, is that you?”

  “I’m here, baby,” the melodic din of her mother replied. “I’m here.”

  Shoving out a sigh of relief, Della again felt the warm moisture of tears surface in her eyes. Wetting her eyelashes, the droplets remained there, allowing her to soak them up with her fingertips and thrust them into her mouth, the salty sensation the best thing she could ever remember tasting.

  “It’s...it’s so good to hear your voice, Mama. It’s been so long.”

  “It has,” her mother replied. “It’s been too long.”

  Pulling her fingers away from her tongue, Della bit down on her lower lip. She held it there to keep another sob from sliding out, her body moving in tiny stilted convulsions as she fought to keep them in.

  “I’m so sorry,” she managed.

  “Why?” her mother asked. “Why are you so sorry? What do you think you did wrong?”

  Surely, her mother knew what she was referring to. The fights they’d had, the severed relationship that had ensued. It had been so long since they’d spoken, there was no need for them to return to the story, to make her rehash what had taken place.

  She was sorry. She had said as much, would continue to for as long as it took.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to say anything more. Adding to it would just be cruel.

  “Don’t,” Della whispered. “Please, I can’t.”

  There was a pause, a moment as her mother considered the words, before replying, “I’m not mad at you, honey. I want to help you. I need to know what happened so I can come find you.”

  The sobs Della had been trying so hard to conceal grew stronger, her entire torso rising from the wooden box beneath her, her weakened frame wracked violently. Tears became too much for her eyelashes to hold, streaming down either side of her face, leaking precious fluids she didn’t have to lose.

  “You can’t,” Della whispered. “Nobody can. I did this, and I have to live with it. Or, I guess...”

  Della felt her throat constrict, her mangled hands trying in vain to keep a hold on the small device clutched between them.

  “I don’t want to die, Mama. Please don’t let him kill me.”

  “I won’t. Della, listen to me, I won’t,” her mother said, her voice stronger than she could ever remember hearing it, so forceful it almost sounded like a different person drifting in over the line. “But I need you to help me. I need you to tell me who he is.”

  The back of Della’s head rolled against the wooden box as she shook it to either side, her tears streaming at odd angles down her face.

  “You already know. It’s him.”

  This time, her mother said nothing, waiting in silence.

  “You always said it would be. That one day he would get out and he would come for us, but I didn’t listen. Now he’s got me, just like he got you.”

  There was no stopping the phone as it slipped from her grasp. Her fingers nothing more than shattered stubs, she didn’t even attempt to grab it up, just getting it to her face the first time taking everything she could muster.

  Instead, she merely raised them both to her eyes, pressing the pads of her thumbs down into the sockets and crying with everything she had.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  “Start with the thumb,” Reed said. “What happened?”

  Already, Reed had been inside the interrogation room longer than he’d anticipated. His goal upon arrival was to run right in, ask about the prints, and go from there.

  A few follow up questions, a couple to test his working hypothesis, and be on his way.

  As much for Della and the dwindling time she had as for his own wanting to be out of the place as soon as possible.

  The combined efforts of Deputy Warden Hollins and now Paul Klauss had made sure that couldn’t happen. For very different reasons, and with very different intents, both had managed to trip him up.

  And made it impossible for him to leave now. Not with so much still at stake, the unshakeable impression that everything he needed was about to be laid out before him.

  “The thumb,” Klauss said, twisting his hand at the wrist and holding it up so they both could examine it. “As much as I’d like to, I don’t think that’s where you want to start.”

  Now that the initial shock had passed, both sides settling in, gaining a tiny bit of familiarity with one another, each had assumed mirrored stances on either side of the table. Both leaned in, their elbows resting on the front edge of it, focus locked on one another.

  By Reed’s side sat Billie, her height just enough so she could see over the edge of the table. Pressed tight against him, she made sure he knew she was there, was not going anywhere until they were up and out of the room.

  “Okay,” Reed said. Not wanting to spend any more time than necessary on things, he was willing to cede the floor for just a moment, providing a little latitude for whatever the man had to share.

  If it strayed too far, if it took too long, he would be there to reel him back in. Until then, he didn’t know enough about what he was looking for to limit anything.

  “Everything started five months ago,” Klauss said. “I’ll spare you the whole backstory – college degree, prior work history – and jump to the part where I was running my own accounting business. Worked from home, had a pretty decent client book. Wasn’t pulling down huge money, but I was on the lower edge of the six-figure range.

  “Considering I had no overhead, it worked well.”

  Reed nodded. Six figures was significantly more than he made, never mind the enormous amount of time he spent in places such as the business district of The Bottoms he’d just driven through.

  Saying it worked well was a bit of an understatement.

  “Tax problems?” Reed asked.

  “Never. Paid in full and on time every year.” Glancing to the side, Klauss shook his head, showing the top of his hair to Reed. “Which is what made those damn BCI agents showing up at my house all the more ridiculous.”

  More than once, Reed had been told the best tool in an interview was silence, especially once someone got going on their own. A string of questioning might interrupt things, whereas letting them run would let them present it in the way they felt was most important.

  An option that, to Reed, right now felt the best.

  “I mean, look at me,” Klauss said. “I had a house in Marysville. I drove a Kia. I pay eighty-percent of my liquid income each month to my ex-wife in alimony and child support. Do I look like a guy that was embezzling millions into off-shore accounts? Do you really think I’d have spent my first month here getting my ass kicked daily if I was working with drug dealers on the outside?”

  It was clear from both the angst in Klauss’s voice and the look on his face that the topic had kept him awake on more than a few evenings. As he spoke, blood flushed his face, his skin almost matching his orange jumpsuit.

  “Said they’d gotten a tip,” Klauss said. “Anonymous caller. Didn’t even matter that the evidence they had was flimsy as hell. Somebody had called and told them where to look and what to look for and voila, there it was.”

  As he spoke, he waved his hands before him, as if a magician suddenly making the big reveal at the end of a trick.

  “And you didn’t know who it was or how any of that stuff got there?” Reed asked.

  Snapping his attention back to look at Reed, Klauss raised his eyebrows. “Listen, I’m not saying I was a saint. Few extra deductions each year? Sure. Little bit of work for under-the-table cash? Absolutely.

  “But did I do anything like that? Hell no.”

  Leaning back, the previous wrath Klauss had displayed showed up on his face. “And drug dealers? The first time I ever even laid eyes on one was inside this place.”

  Reed
had no doubt that if he paraded every inmate in the building down to where he was now sitting and asked them for their story, they would claim innocence as well. They would have some slick rendition of things, all rife with how they were swindled by the system or mistaken for someone else in the process.

  The difference was, he’d likely be able to spot their tell immediately, finding the holes in their story and the shakiness in their demeanors to match. Sitting across from Klauss, he felt no such compunction. The man wasn’t stating innocence. He wasn’t pleading or casting blame.

  He was pissed.

  Much the way a man that had been wrongly accused might be.

  “And the thumb?” Reed asked.

  Glancing down at it, Klauss waved the stump upwards. “Oh, yeah. That happened my fourth night in here. A fight broke out in the mess hall. Somebody used a damn butter knife and carved it off.”

  Feeling his face tighten into a wince, Reed drew in a sharp breath, a slight sound escaping as the wind passed over his teeth.

  “Yeah,” Klauss muttered, “welcome home, right?”

  “Any idea who did it?” Reed asked.

  Flicking his gaze to the window, knowing who was standing behind it, Klauss said, “Naw. Heard some rumors, but you know how those things go.”

  And Reed did. Without saying as much, Klauss was letting him know that he didn’t have enough concrete intel to actually accuse anybody. In its absence, all he would do was bring down a lot of unwanted animosity from the other men inside.

  “Where’d the thumb end up?” Reed asked. “Never an attempt to try and sew it back on?”

  “Couldn’t,” Klauss said. “Damn thing disappeared instantly. Never saw it again.”

  Pushing back from the table, Reed tried to make sense of everything he’d just been told. In his time as a detective, he’d seen some circuitous cases, stories that would be described as anything but linear, but never had he been handed a jumble of competing information such as this.

  There had to be a way it all fit together. There must be some central theme, something he could circle in marker, everything else spiraling outward from there.

 

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