by Hugh Macnab
I open the folder in front of me again, being careful not to let him see what else is inside, and withdraw one photo from the security camera showing him with the two others. I put it in front of him and attract his attention to the date and time stamp in the top corner.
‘Yeah, I guess I was. But like I say, we were in there regularly.’
‘And what about the woman in this picture? Do you remember her now?’ I ask, showing him yet another security photo from the folder. This one showing Pamela Wilson talking and drinking with all three of them.
I can see he isn’t as confident now. He suddenly ‘remembers’ they had talked with her at the bar for a few minutes. Dip-stick. He hasn’t figured out that I have the entire security cam video for the whole evening?
I then play out several photos showing them at half-hour intervals drinking at a corner booth. Laughing and having a good time.
His confidence falls another notch. He tries lamely to excuse his terrible memory, but no-one is believing him. Not even his attorney.
‘Let’s try this then, Mister Rivera. When did you leave the bar?’
His confidence goes up a notch as he clearly feels on safer ground. This guy is so easy to read. No subtlety at all.
‘I left with Tyrone around ten-thirty.’
‘And Mark stayed behind with the woman?’
‘I guess. I don’t know. I wasn’t there, was I?’ he says, trying to be smart.
Time to get him on the hop. I ask him where he lives?
‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘Can you please just tell me?’
He gives me his address, and I write it down carefully.
I open the magic folder one more time and place a copy of a street map of downtown Naples in front of him.
‘I’m not familiar with where that is. Would you mind just showing me?’
He looks across at his attorney, but gets nothing. So, he takes the pen I offer and circles his home address.
I nod sagely, and thank him, before moving the map to the side.
‘When you left the bar, did you drive straight home?’
‘I told you, I’m not sure because one night is much the same as another.’
‘Well, what would you normally do then?’
Another look to his attorney, who is doing nothing for him. I almost hope Rivera isn’t paying this guy very much. Or maybe that’s the problem!
I tune back into Rivera’s answer.
‘Usually, yeah.’
‘So, let’s try something different. Can you confirm the identities of the two people in this next photo for me?’
I’m showing him a security cam photo from the car park outside the sports bar.
‘Not sure. It could be Mark and the woman you showed me before?’
‘Yes, that’s what our facial recognition systems tell us.’ White lie. There isn’t enough detail for the FR system to ID them. I carry on.
‘Well spotted. Can you see the time stamp?’
‘Sure.’
‘They left five minutes after you. Is that right?’
‘Didn’t know that. Like I said, I wasn’t there.’
I lay another photo in front of him showing him leaving the car park in his car after Mark Jason.
‘Of course. You had already left by then,’ I said sarcastically. ‘So perhaps you can explain this photo to me?’
Confidence severely punctured, he mumbles, but can’t come up with a credible answer. I let him off the hook and move on.
‘Don’t worry, Xavier. I understand it’s hard to remember. You’re there most nights and they all blur together. Why don’t you look at this next picture?’ I say, showing him Mark Jason with Pamela Wilson in his car, turning into the small estate he lives in, some ten minutes after leaving the club. ‘Do you recognize where that was taken?’
He says not. So I explain and say it looks like Mark had taken the woman home with him.
Xavier helpfully says that’s a surprise to him. Not the smartest bulb in the box. I’ve made an excellent choice picking him first.
I then show him his car turning into the estate, two minutes behind Mark.
‘And this would be you? Apparently, according to where you indicated on the map, not going directly home? In fact, traveling in the opposite direction from your home.’
His attorney is now advising him not to say anything more with this line of questioning.
I nod my consent and switch the topic. I pull out a picture of Pamela Wilson laying dead in her home and place it slowly and deliberately in front of him.
‘What can you tell me about this?’
He hasn’t seen that coming, and the color drains from his face completely. His attorney answers for him.
‘My client knows nothing of this matter.’
I take another series of photos from the file, taken during the autopsy, and spread them out before him one at a time. These showed the various bruises on the arms and legs and around Pamela’s throat.
‘What can you tell me about how these occurred, Xavier?’
‘My client is not obliged to comment,’ his attorney interrupts.
I gather everything up and replace it all in the folder. Then pull out another photo, this time of Mark’s most recent ex - Emily Jason.
‘Do you know this woman?’
He nods and identifies Jason’s recent ex.
I take the photo back and lay out another. This time of Mark’s previous ex - Lynda Goldway.
‘And this one?’
Again, he tells me who she is.
I clear my throat and spill some further white lies into the room.
‘Both women are prepared to go on file claiming your involvement in sexually abusing them, along with Tyrone and Mark Jason. That you were violent with them and often left them bruised and in pain. Do you have any comment on that?’
The attorney is quick off his mark this time.
‘My client has no comment to make at this time.’
After a few moments of pregnant silence, Cliff enters the conversation for the first time, addressing himself directly to Rivera.
‘You may be wondering why I am here personally and not one of my ADA’s, it’s simple. Let me explain.’
He pauses. Waiting to make sure Rivera is tuned in and receptive.
‘We are talking this morning to both yourself and Tyrone Ross. One of you will undoubtedly tell us what happened on the night in question. With whoever does so first, I will not mention any previous incidents in court. I will not be offering this to both of you. We are interested in understanding what may have led to the death of a detective, and you may help us do that. For that, I am prepared to be lenient. When detective Greyfox and I leave, we will have exactly the same conversation with Mister Ross, and I will make him the same offer. The first to accept will get the deal. The offer is on the table until two pm this afternoon.’
After I’m certain Cliff is finished, I gather all photos back into the folder, rise and follow him from the room.
Outside, I ask Cliff how he thinks it has gone. He says that if his attorney is half-decent, chances are fifty-fifty, but that I’ve given it an excellent shot.
With nothing more to say, we enter the second small interview room and repeat the whole thing with virtually the same result.
Finished by midday, Cliff asks if he can take me to lunch. This is the last thing I want, but he’s so damned nice about it. I can’t think of a way out.
One of the things I miss about Cliff, is the guy has class. He doesn’t do Subway or McDonalds. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him eat fast-food.
Lunch is a fifteen-minute walk away at Pazzo, a local Italian upmarket restaurant. A place that has highly polished silverware, three different glasses by each place setting, and neatly folded linen napkins.
I knock the place. But it has style. I’m only glad he has offerred to pay.
We spend most of the walk there, discussing my main case. He seems genuinely interested.
There again it is a serial killer who is running amok across the whole State. What District Attorney wouldn’t be?
When we arrive and are seated, we order sparkling water and stay away from wine. Cliff then orders a simple Caesar salad, but I can’t pass up the opportunity to have homemade pasta, so I order the linguine-alle-vongole which is made with fresh clams in white wine with garlic and lemon.
Having danced around anything serious for as long as possible, I surprise myself by telling Cliff about having Bossy-boots circulating in my bloodstream. He laughs and suggests that she’s probably still kicking ass and in control, just as she was when I was pregnant.
It surprises me how comfortable I am talking with him about Bossy-boots. I haven’t talked to anyone about her for almost nine months, and it’s nice to do it with someone who understands.
He asks me how the termination procedure went, and I tell him I was early enough that it was only a matter of taking a couple of tablets. No invasive procedure at all.
I ask him if he can forgive me for the way I dealt him out of the whole thing.
He says there’s nothing to forgive. That in his opinion, it was really my decision to make, and not an easy one. So, whatever I needed to do to get through it, was okay with him.
I ask him if he’s upset that he’s not a father.
He laughs and says that he hasn’t given up hope yet. That one day, he was sure he will be a father, when the time is right.
Then, he asks me if I think I will ever be a mother. I tell him I have absolutely no idea. How this time, I had chosen my career over Bossy-boots. But don’t know if I would make the same decision again. Part of me misses her and now knowing something of her is still floating around inside me - makes me miss her even more.
Lunch is first-class, and we leave the restaurant having cleared conversations that should have happened months ago, if I’d been brave enough. It’s hard to explain, but I feel lighter, as if someone has lifted a burden from my shoulders.
We walk back to the office, simply enjoying each other’s company. I’m happy for the second time in just as many days. Both times in the company of others. I wonder if there’s a message there for me?
33
We start again with Xavier Rivera. He starts by admitting that I was right. That both he and Tyrone had followed Mark back to his place that night, and that things had got a little out of hand when Pamela had revealed she was a dominatrix. He said it was Mark’s idea to let her experience what it was like to be dominated. Naturally, he himself was only a virtual bystander. He would have done nothing if it hadn’t been for Mark egging him on. Classic blame the dead guy response.
In the other interview room ten minutes later, it’s as if they have conferred, Tyrone Ross’s explanation is the same. Mark was responsible. Mark made him do things he didn’t want to do. He was really mostly innocent.
Both Xavier and Tyrone want the deal. They don’t know that I’ve been bluffing about Mark’s two exes being prepared to press charges.
Afterwards, I talk with Cliff in the corridor. I thank him for lunch and tell him I’ve really enjoyed seeing him. He asks if he can see me again, and I say I’ll have to think about it, then I leave him to oversee Mark’s two gym-buddies being charged. They will both get exactly the same deal, and be charged with the assault of Pamela Wilson.
As I go upstairs, I should be congratulating myself for getting justice for Pamela. Instead, I’m savoring the time I’ve just spent with Cliff.
Deciding not to stop at my cubicle, I make straight for the coffee area, then the conference room we have sequestered for the team. As I arrive, they’re in the middle of an intense conversation.
My arrival seems to quieten the excitement down.
Jamie explains what they’ve found out.
‘We think we’ve found her.’
‘What? You’ve captured her?’
‘No, we’ve found out who she is.’
I sit back, feeling stupid. Jamie carries on as if he hasn’t noticed.
‘We all worked on this one together and between us we’ve found out a lot about her. Her name is Charline Ellis. But apparently she goes by the name Charlie.’
Jamie hands me a printout of a picture taken of her when in custody. She’s obviously so much younger than the sixteen-year-old I had seen in Pamela Wilson’s video, but I can see the likeness.
‘We were right to suppose a troubled childhood, starting as early as five-years old, but probably earlier than that. She was five when her teacher at kindergarten became worried about her and reported her concerns to Child Services. They took her into custody and had her examined by a doctor who confirmed both vaginal and anal injuries consistent with sexual abuse An investigation ultimately ended with her father being charged. We’ve checked. He’s still serving time now.’
‘And she was only five?’
‘Didn’t get any better for her after that,’ he continues. ‘She was in care for about a year before being taken in by a foster family where she lived for two years until she was further abused. Here, it was the foster-mother’s brother who was their babysitter and the culprit. After that she spent another year in care during which a psychiatrist assessed her as having PTSD and ADHD. In other words, difficulty concentrating and interacting normally with others. Her social skills were close to zero.’
‘No surprise there, then? What happened to her after that?’
‘A second foster family took her in.’
‘Don’t tell me the same thing happened again?’
‘Fraid so. This time it was the foster father who was renting her out to a handful of his buddies.’
‘Fuck. That’s awful. How could someone do that?’
‘There are just some bad people in the world.’
‘So by now she was what? Eleven?’
‘Yes. Only with her history, they would never give her out to foster care again, so they institutionalized her. She started Junior High there. She was twelve.’
‘What happened next?’
‘It’s not what happened next that’s interesting. It’s what happened when she started Junior High. Because she had such poor attendance in grades two through six, they gave her a series of aptitude tests and she came through with flying colors. They rated her above one-thirty in the IQ tests, which given her lack of proper schooling, was incredible.’
‘I don’t know how you all feel, but I’m not up there, I can tell you that.’
‘We already admitted that to ourselves before you came in. This girl was super-smart, even at twelve years old. What was extra special is when you look at the measurements the particular IQ test was taking - use of language, ability to reason, speed of thought, visual-spatial awareness, memory and math.’
‘Math? Surely she didn’t have enough class-room hours to excel at that?’
‘No, she didn’t. So she would have flunked out in one category, yet still came out extremely high. The girl is super-super-smart.’
I’m trying to absorb the thought of someone so young being so clever, but Jamie hasn’t finished.
‘Then the school she was attending entered some pupils in an online game in the public domain and open to all ages. Guess who won?’
‘Charlie?’
‘Apparently there were over ten-thousand entrants and some of them were in their teens and twenties, spending their lives locked in bedrooms playing online games.’
‘And she had no previous experience of the game?’
‘None.’
‘Well, that sure explains a lot.’
Dene takes over at that point, and describes what they had been talking about since finding all of this out.
‘Think of the skills they measured in her IQ test. Ability to reason - given her distorted view of parenting and families, it’s easy to understand how she could have used this skill against family members, or men in particular.’
I nod my agreement.
‘Speed of thought. She escaped shortly after this and has evaded be
ing recaptured. She has also survived as a twelve-year-old girl on the streets, where she must have had to get herself out of some tricky situations. Quick thinking would be essential, and she would need the ability to adapt to different situations.’
‘What do you make of her winning that online game?’
Kathy answers. ‘I’ve played the game she won a few years back. I tell you, it’s difficult. You need an overall strategy, then you plan your tactics, but change whenever you have to. So, strategy, planning and flexibility. You also need to be single-minded and dedicated. Part-timers don’t do well.’
‘So, even at twelve-years old, this girl is brilliant with computers and has all the skills she would need to become the serial killer we’re looking for?’
‘And,’ added Kathy. ‘Plenty of motivation.’
I sit back and try to summarize what we have found out.
‘So we know who she is. We think we can understand why she has become the way she is. We know she has the skills to plan and execute these killings. Have I missed anything?’
Jamie adds one more item.
‘Remember in her assessment. They rated her highly on visual-spatial awareness.’
‘Sure, I remember.’
‘Think of the six homicides. Clean single strikes delivered with deadly accuracy. She knew exactly where to strike and executed perfectly each time.’
‘Okay. What about why she has chosen her particular victims? Any ideas?’
Blank expressions are the only answer I get. Unperturbed, I congratulate them on making such fast progress, before turning to what we need to do next.
‘Obviously, we should try to figure out how she is targeting her victims? Have we got the updated artist’s impression of what she looks like now as a nineteen-year-old?’