“All you had to do was answer a few questions,” Sarah admonished. “But no. You couldn’t just do things the easy way. You had to make this into a big deal.”
The two other bikers came busting through the door, one holding his nose, and the other limping heavily and holding a baseball bat. Ski motioned to Sammy, who pulled a double barrel shotgun out from under the bar and pointed in it their general direction. Shaking his head, Sammy added, “Gentlemen, there’s not going to be any nonsense in my bar today. This lady is a guest of Benjamin Tronski, who is a close friend of mine.” He looked down at his shotgun. “You guys wouldn’t be thinking of impeding on my hospitality, would you?”
The horsemen stopped dead in their tracks. They looked at each other and then shook their heads.
“Shit, Sammy, it’s your place. We didn’t realize she was a guest of yours. If you’d told us, we never would have given her such a hard time.” They begrudgingly returned to the back room, leaving Big Cat to the detective.
Sarah pulled the suspect to his feet. Ski set down his coffee mug. “Well Sammy, I gotta run. It’s been a pleasure as always.” He dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. Sammy nodded.
Sarah added, “I appreciate your help. Sorry about the roughhousing.”
Sammy grinned. “I didn’t get involved to help you as much as to keep Ski from wrecking my joint again.”
Sarah looked surprised at the little older man, holding his pipe and situating his wool cap on the top of his head. “Ski?”
Sammy let out a hearty laugh. “The last time Ski got into a tussle here, he put a guy’s head through my jukebox.” He pointed to the broken record player.
Sarah looked at Ski, who just winked at her and headed toward the door. “See you later Sammy,” he called back as he pushed open the door, letting sunlight flood into the bar as Sarah stared out after him.
Chapter 10- Research
To say the library at St. Webster’s College was old would be an understatement. Ivy intertwined up the sides of the building, giving the two-hundred-year-old brick façade green varicose veins. Timeworn farm glass windows peered out at generations of students who had come to pay homage to the ancient temple of knowledge. Many scholars had poured in and out of the marble laced archway that formed the “mouth” of the building, where two dark stained oak doors opened inward as if to allow passage only to those deemed worthy.
Inside were three stories filled with floor to ceiling bookshelves, stained the same dark walnut as the heavy doors to the library. There was a strong odor of old books, furniture polish, and, unfortunately, teenagers. Not necessarily a pleasant aroma, but one that students became used to, and eventually learned to ignore altogether.
Kara settled herself on the second floor at a study nook near one of the back corners of the stacks. This particular nook was her favorite spot for studying because, for one thing, it was out of the line of the noisy foot traffic cluttering the computer center, so she wasn’t bothered by passersby. More importantly, her beloved corner was conveniently located at the center of the Social Sciences section of the library. Specifically, the start of Criminology was within arms’ length of where she was seated, surrounded by a nest of open books, scraps of papers, and her laptop.
Just as Kara’s preferred method of socializing was to join nearly every club that would allow her entry, her preferred method of research was to be reading numerous articles and books at once, so she could jump from one thing to the next, and easily exclude anything she found to be irrelevant. She hit the button on her phone to check the time and sighed. She had been at this for two hours.
Kara was building a general profile for the killer, but there wasn’t a whole lot to go on, since this appeared to be a copycat killing. Normally, the way an offender commits their crimes can tell a lot about them, but in this case, because the killer had copied the MO of the Puppet Master Killer, it merely reaffirmed what they knew about the psyche of the Puppet Master.
Kara thought how much easier this might be if there was more than one murder but immediately regretted the thought. Am I a horrible person? I don’t want to see anyone else hurt… but I need more data! She pushed a book out from in front of her. Taking a sip of her coffee, she grimaced. Cold, of course.
I need a break, she thought. Then, smiling to herself, she pulled her laptop directly in front of her. She looked around the library as if she was scanning the place for witnesses. Finally, feeling confident there was no one in the vicinity, Kara swiped the cursor over a file folder on her desktop marked Geology 202. It was the most boring class name she could think of. That way if anyone happens to be nosing around on her computer…Max, in particular, she thought, they would have no interest or motivation to open this file.
Kara took one last quick glance around, and satisfied, she double clicked on the folder. It was packed with different documents and pictures. She clicked on one. It was a newspaper article from the Seattle Sun. The title read “FBI Agents Capture the Puget Sound Slayer” Directly under the catchy headline was a picture of a man with a dirty looking long beard being put into the back of a police car. Near the car was Booker, wearing a designer suit, as usual. He looked a bit younger than he did now, no gray in his hair, Kara supposed. Also, he looked stronger and taller; she noticed he wasn’t leaning on his cane. Turned toward him, as if in conversation, was a stunning blonde woman. She looked flawless. With long legs and straight, light hair pulled back in a ponytail, the woman wasn’t quite as tall as Booker, but she had a good seven or eight inches on Kara. The caption under the photo identified her as “Agent Rebecca Vance,” but Kara didn’t need the caption. Everyone knew Rebecca Vance… at least, anyone who had read one of her best-selling books.
Kara clicked on one after another of high-profile cases Booker and Vance had solved in their career with the FBI. Newspaper articles and photos crowded her screen. She closed them back up one by one. When the folder was the only thing still open, she scrolled down to the last article and clicked.
A picture of a scorching inferno covered the screen. At the center of the shot, the remainders of a building, engulfed in white-hot flames, a shadowy figure escaping through the doorway with another person in tow could be seen. Kara could recognize Rebecca Vance out by the street staring at the blaze. The headline read: “FBI Agent Battles Fire to Rescue Arsonist from Blaze.”
In the midst of the article was an FBI-provided headshot of Prof. Booker. The story went on to talk about how he had run into the already deadly fire to pull the suspect out alive. Just as Kara clicked to read more, a voice made her jump and slam the laptop closed.
“Watcha lookin’ at?” It was Max, standing on the other side of the table, laptop in hand. His dark hair was messy, as usual, and his eyes looked red and tired, as if he hadn’t slept in days. “Porn?” Max grinned.
“Shut up idiot,” Kara snapped. “You scared me half to death. What the hell are you doing sneaking around like that?” She tried to slow her rapidly pounding heart and took a deep breath.
“Sorry.” Max shrugged. “Next time I’ll bring the marching band with me when I enter the library, just so Kara Allister knows that I’m approaching.”
“I wish you would! Or at least wear a bell or something.” Taking a sip of coffee and then scowling, because she had again forgotten it was cold, Kara added, “What’s up?”
Throwing himself into the nearest chair, Max set down his computer and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been spending hours looking at video loops from the Lucky Roll.” He sighed louder than he meant to. “I don’t understand how Booker does it. That guy is a machine! ‘Roll it again Max. Go back to the first video. Okay, now show me frame thirty-seven again.’ I swear I don’t know what the hell he was looking at, but my eyes were about to fall out of my head. I’m glad he found whatever he was looking for.”
“What was it? That he was looking for?” Kara tried to study every little thing Booker did…so she could be as good as he was.
“Beats the hell out of m
e. You know how he gets when his mind starts working in overdrive. He just stands there staring at the screen and tapping that damned cane of his.” Max pulled a candy bar out of his hoodie pocket and offered some to Kara.
She shook her head. “You know the librarian will skin you alive if she finds chocolate fingerprints on the table again.”
“Eh, she can try. I’ll just drop her credit score a hundred points, and then we’ll see how important chocolate prints are on the table.” A mischievous smirk crossed his face.
Kara rolled her eyes. Max most likely could do what he said, but she knew he wouldn’t. He liked to talk nonchalantly, as if he didn’t care, but he was a decent human being at heart. And he was amazing with technology, which meant she had to keep him around.
“Who do you like for this, out of the pool of suspects?” Max asked.
“Too early to tell. I need more information. The dots don’t seem to add up yet.” Kara began reviewing all of the facts that she had organized on a legal pad. After a moment she looked up to see Max looking amazed.
“What?”
“You sound just like him.” He said, his smile growing by the minute.
“Who?” Kara tried to seem innocent.
“You know who,” Max answered, not buying her act. “Always the teacher’s pet, Kara. Well, you better start figuring something out to give him, because right now you seem to have a big zero.”
Kara’s face scowled.
Max realized she already felt the pressure to deliver weighing down on her. She tried so hard to be perfect and show Booker that she was the best, but Max could see how difficult it was for her to keep up the charade. He had known kids like that in foster care. Max, himself, had never felt the need to jump through hoops to find a home, and eventually, it had paid off and his current foster parents had taken him when he was twelve, but he had seen the others. Boys and girls who had worked to exhaustion trying to seem so perfect that prospective parents would want to bring them into their perfect families. The problem with that was they could never keep it up, and eventually, they would cease being able to meet expectations and they would return to a foster home, hat in hand. Max hoped for her sake, that Kara would not define herself by others’ expectations. “Hey, keep at it, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Kara smiled slightly. “Shut up and get me a new coffee.”
Chapter 11- The Box
Sarah had beat the squad car carrying Big Cat back to the station but had waited in front so that she could escort him in. Benjamin Tronski had also followed in the event that they needed a statement to corroborate what had happened at the Shark’s Cove. Unlike the detective, he hadn’t waited outside, but had been lured upstairs by a uniformed officer who offered the promise of a free cup of coffee. “Free is my favorite kind,” Ski had announced as he headed into the building.
Sarah didn’t know where the old man put all that coffee. He was maybe 5’2” and would be lucky if he weighed even close to one hundred and twenty pounds. Maybe coffee was the key, since it seemed to be the only thing she had yet to see him consume.
About ten minutes later, Sarah escorted the biker off the elevator and into the squad room. She stopped suddenly as the room erupted in clapping and a few whistles from various police spread throughout the large room. Surveying the room, Sarah saw Ski, sitting on the corner of a desk drinking his coffee with a number of officers around him like kindergarten story time. Guessing that Ski was regaling her fellow officers with what happened at the bar, she shook her head and reluctantly continued through the crowd. Captain Harrison was leaning in his office doorway. “Detective Rime, a word when you have a second,” he barked out before retreating into his office.
Sarah handed Big Cat to one of the officers. “Can you put Mr. Wilson in the interrogation room?” The officer nodded and took the prisoner.
Sarah turned to Sergeant Blue, who standing next to Ski, laughing and enjoying his own Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Sergeant, could you pull up everything we have on a Big Cat Wilson who rides with The Chrome Horsemen?”
Blue made an exaggerated, overly-dramatic jump. “Right away detective. I don’t want to end up like those bikers!” He and a number of other officers chuckled in good humor but applauded her once again.
She glared at Ski.
“What?” Ski asked in wide-eyed innocence. “It was impressive. I thought everyone should hear of your amazing feats.”
“You and I will discuss it later,” Sarah grumbled. Rolling her eyes, she entered Captain Harrison’s office.
Harrison was seated back behind his desk, looking over paperwork. He looked over the top of reading glasses at her. “Three bikers?”
Sarah wasn’t sure if he was pissed or impressed. Falling back on her winning personality, she decided to play it cool. “I did ask nicely to answer some questions, sir. They… resisted.” She took off her leather jacket and flopped down in a chair.
Harrison opened his mouth to question her further, but then thought better of it. “Do we like this Wilson guy for the murders?” He closed a file folder and moved it to the side of his desk. “I mean, I figured you must if you went through all this to get him.”
“Oh, it wasn’t much at all sir.” Sarah instantly regretted pushing her luck, grinding her teeth as Harrison took off the reading glasses.
“Did they teach you to assault civilians down in the city?” The Captain asked irritated.
Sarah didn’t answer right away. After considering her options, she decided to answered honestly, “Listen, Sir, working in New York City taught me to improvise when I needed to. Especially when the stakes are high.”
Sarah crossed her arms over her chest. “We know this guy got into a fight with the victim days before his death. And when I showed up and ask him about Glazer, He flipped a table at me and shot to the door like he was Jessie Owens. Seemed a little too coincidental to me.”
Captain Harrison nodded intently. “Well, you’re lucky the mayor wants this case wrapped up so bad. We can overlook the…aggressive methods you employed. This time. But Rime, try to tone it down a little. I know you’re new, but you don’t have to prove anything.”
He looked out through the blinds. “Especially now that these guys know what a badass you are.” He put his reading glasses back on and pointed to the door. “Go see what you can get out of your suspect.”
Sarah exited the office and stumbled directly into Sergeant Blue, who was more surprised than she was. “You listening in on me and the Captain?” she asked.
Blue blushed a bit and answered sheepishly, “Nah, just waiting in case you needed backup in there.” He handed her a thick file. A quick glance revealed it to be Wilson’s rap sheet. This guy had a long history of mischief and malfeasance.
Sarah never needed help from anyone, but there was something nice about knowing that Blue was offering nonetheless. “Thanks,” she started, and then quickly added, “for this.” And she held the file up as she walked toward the interview room.
The “Box” as it was lovingly referred to by most of the cops, was a lot nicer than most of the interview rooms Sarah was used to back in the city. Most of those were dull gray rooms, with little in them but a few basic chairs and a table. The Berksville PD had really upped their game. The table looked more like a conference table from a Fortune 500 company, black lacquer top, trimmed in a deep stained wood. The only difference was the steel loop protruding from the top, where Wilson was cuffed to the table. The chairs had cushioning on them and the walls were a matching soft yellow color.
Sarah wasn’t sure for a brief moment if she was supposed to interrogate the suspect, or check his references and offer him a job. She struggled to hold off a grin as she considered the room that looked too welcoming. The only familiar thing in the whole scene was the large mirror against the wall facing the suspect. At least they still observe interrogations here.
Dropping herself into the seat across from Big Cat, she smacked the folder down, trying to cause as much noise a
nd dramatic effect as she could. The biker’s face didn’t move at all. He stared back at Sarah like a statue ripped from a Grecian garden. Resisting the urge to say anything or move, she reclined in the chair and matched eyes with him.
One of the first things she had learned watching some of the best detectives in New York run interrogations is that silence can be a very useful tool. The handcuffs around Wilson’s wrists clanked against the tabletop as he tried rubbing at them. Sarah just ignored it and continued her silent judgment of the man. She could see beads of sweat forming on his bare head. He was nervous, regardless of the calm demeanor he was attempting, rather poorly, to display.
A fly buzzed around the table, making the only noise between them for what seemed like a decade, but was probably no more than three minutes. Wilson’s gaze wandered from the lady cop to the fly, running bombing raids at the table. Then he looked up, distracted by the flickering fluorescent lights from above. When his gaze returned to the chick who had tackled him in the bar, her deep brown eyes were still locked on him.
Sarah nonchalantly slid her leather jacket off of her shoulders and let it hang across the back of her chair, which she was leaning back in, with the front legs up off the ground. Wilson felt somewhat embarrassed that this cop, who looked like maybe she was pushing 120 pounds on a good day, was able to get the better of him. Her dark hair hung in loose curls to about her shoulders, her badge dangled down from around her neck to rest just below her chest, partially covering the logo of some band he had never heard of on the grey t-shirt she wore. She wasn’t bad looking, and Wilson found himself checking her out again.
Shaking his head to dismiss the thoughts, he finally ran out of patience. “What the hell is your deal, lady?” He pulled a bit at the cuffs tethering him to the table. “I was hanging out with my friends at the Shark’s Cove, and you come bursting in, harassing us. We’re solid, tax-paying citizens. You’ve got no right to...”
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