Instead, he seemed to view his being here as a colossal waste of his time.
Once I’d seen that, I couldn’t un-see it. Further, it occurred to me that he didn’t even seem to be hiding his impatience particularly well.
I might have noticed it before if I hadn’t been trying so hard to read him in other ways.
“What’s his name?” I said.
Again, Nick and Glen exchanged a look.
“What?” I said. “What’s the joke now?”
“If you can get a name out of that guy, I’ll buy you dinner,” Nick said. Grinning, he gave me a teasing once-over. “Of course, I’d do that for free, doc. Just name the day.”
Glen snorted again, folding his thick arms over his chest.
Raising my left hand to Nick in what had recently become a running joke with us, I tapped my engagement ring with my thumb.
Nick grinned, feigning disappointment, then motioned with his head towards the man sitting in the other room. My eyes followed his stare back to the guy with the flecked, gold-colored eyes, even as Nick’s voice grew more openly cop-like.
“He won’t give us a name. No ID on him. His prints aren’t in the system.”
“Mystery guy, huh?” I said.
I said it casually, even with a lilt of humor. Still, I was puzzled. Television aside, that almost never happened, not anymore.
You couldn’t get anywhere anymore without some kind of ID.
“We’re running facial rec on him now,” Nick said, almost like he heard me. “We’ll give him to Interpol if we don’t find him here. He’s got to have at least an alias… somewhere.”
“No military record?” I said.
“Nothing on the books.”
I nodded, only half-hearing him as I frowned at the suspect.
Nothing. He really was a blank wall.
That was pretty rare for me, like I said.
Not unheard of, but yeah… rare.
“What makes you think he’ll talk to me?” I said finally, looking back at Nick.
Nick just smiled, shifting his weight on his feet.
“He probably won’t,” Glen volunteered from Nick’s other side. “But Nicky here seems to think you walk on water, doc, so he wanted to give it a shot.”
Shrugging, even as I gave Nick an annoyed look, I tossed my paper cup of coffee in the plastic-lined bin under the desk and made a somewhat overdone motion towards the other room.
“Well?” I said. “We might as well kill time until forensics shows up, right? I canceled my morning’s slate for this dog and pony show.”
I added that last part with more bite, giving Nick a harder stare.
Grinning at me, Glen, who was a good five inches taller than Nick and built like a linebacker, or maybe some kind of throwback to his Viking roots, nodded. Motioning for me to follow, he aimed his feet for the door so he could let me inside the interrogation room.
As I walked past him, though, Nick caught hold of my upper arm.
“Don’t fool around with this guy,” he warned.
The smile vanished from Nick’s face, leaving my friend, the guy I knew behind his schtick.
I remembered that look from Afghanistan, too.
“…I mean it, Miri. He’s probably a serial killer. At the very least, he likes dead bodies a little too much. We’ll be right outside that door. If you want out, get out. Right away. Don’t play tough for the cop crowd. Hear me?”
Normally I would have chewed him out for the whole damsel-needing-protection crap, which I thought we were well past, given everything we’d been through together. Normally I also would have thrown in a few cutting reminders about just how many murderers, rapists, child molesters and other pillars of society I’d interviewed for him already.
Something about the way he said it diffused my anger though.
“I hear you,” I said, giving him a mock salute.
As I did, I glanced at the guy on the other side of the one-way glass.
The suspect just sat there, a faint frown touching the edges of his dark lips.
For the first time however, he was staring at the one-way mirror.
It looked like he was staring directly at me.
Seeing the speckle of blood to the right of where that sharp mouth ended, I felt my pulse rise, in spite of myself.
Nick might just be right about this guy.
He usually was.
Pushing the thought out of my mind, I looked away from the glass, following Glen out into the corridor. As I did, I let my face slide into a blank, professional mask and hoped that this time it would protect me.
2
First Interview
H e looked me over when I walked in.
Unlike a lot of people I’d interviewed in this room, suspects and witnesses alike, he didn’t hide his appraisal. He also didn’t do anything to try and get me on his side––like smile, or make his body language more accommodating or submissive.
He didn’t try to intimidate me either, at least not that I noticed.
Again, the predominant emotion I saw in his assessment remained impatience.
He seemed, more than anything, to assume I was here to waste his time, too.
At the same time, I got the sense there was more there––more in relation to me specifically, I mean. Nothing sexual, at least I didn’t think so.
What that “more” was exactly, I had absolutely no theories at that point.
Maybe I simply wasn’t what––or who––he’d expected.
Maybe my appearance threw him.
I’m used to that, to a degree. I’m tall for a woman, almost five-nine.
My mom was Native American, like I said, and from one of the plains tribes that actually had some real height on them. I’m not sure what our dad was, since I’d been young when our parents died and hadn’t stayed in touch with any of his family, but he was tall too. I’d gotten hints of his bone structure, along with my mom’s. I also got his light-hazel eyes, which people tell me are striking on me but were positively riveting on my father.
My mom joked once she could have fallen in love with my father from his eyes alone.
The rest of me was my mother, according to my aunts. Straight black hair, full mouth, my sense of humor, even my curves, which were slightly less curvy from the martial arts classes, but not fully absent either.
In other words, even under all of my professional armor, I’m definitely female.
I can’t exactly hide it, even in suits and with my hair tied tightly back.
For my part, I didn’t bother to smile at him either, or do any of the usual heavy-handed shrink things to try and convince him I was “on his side” or even particularly friendly towards him. Right off, I got the feeling that those kinds of tactics wouldn’t work on this guy.
He would see right through them.
Worse, trying it would probably cause him to dismiss me, too.
So yeah, I approached him assuming he was a psychopath.
Of course, the technical term these days, at least according to the latest Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, (or “DSM” as we shrink-types called it) is “Anti-Social Personality Disorder” or ASPD. Those of us who work in forensic psych know a lot of the specific signs that go with this diagnosis––as well as ways to pick out the truly dangerous ones––but generally, there’s a longer sussing-out period involved.
The most dangerous types were harder to spot.
Often highly intelligent, deeply manipulative, glibly charming, uninterested in other people and totally unwilling to acknowledge the individual rights of anyone apart from themselves, the more dangerous individuals with anti-social personality disorder were masters at evading detection by psychs who couldn’t see past the veneer.
Narcissistic bordering on grandiose. Inflated sense of their own entitlement. Zero compunction about manipulating others. Generally lacking the capacity for love. Generally lacking the ability to feel shame or remorse. They either experienced only shallo
w emotions or feigned emotion altogether. They had a constant need for stimulation…
Well, you get the idea.
Truthfully, I doubted this guy would talk to me any more than he would talk to the cops.
Well, unless he decided I could help him in some way, or perhaps entertain him… since “short attention span” was often a big issue for the average psychopath. Or perhaps he would treat me differently because he wanted a female audience instead of a male one; I was reasonably certain that only male cops had been tried on him so far.
Either way, I strongly suspected I wouldn’t win him over by trying to play him for a fool, at least not right out of the gate.
I seated myself in the metal folding chair across the table from him.
I did my own quick once-over of the room, even though I’d been in here a few dozen times already––reminding myself of the location of the cameras, looking at the four corners out of habit. My eyes glanced down to where the suspect’s ankles had been cuffed, not only to one another but to metal rings in the floor. His wrist cuffs were also chained to his waist, as well as to those same rings in the floor.
Glen already assured me that the range of the chains wouldn’t allow him to reach me as long as I stayed in the chair.
Still, he’d warned me not to get any closer.
I didn’t need to be told twice. The guy looked a lot bigger from in here.
He also looked significantly more muscular.
Leaning back in the hard, metal seat, I watched those gold, cat-like eyes flicker over me. They didn’t pause anywhere for long, much less conduct one of those lecherous, lingering appraisals some convicts did in an attempt to unsettle me.
I sensed a methodicalness to his stare, instead.
That unnerved me a little, truthfully, maybe because it surprised me.
Even for a psychopath, that kind of focus was rare. Usually other people just weren’t that interesting to them.
Then again, captivity may have changed that for him, too.
My eyes took in his appearance for the second time that day, lingering on the strangely high cheekbones still colored with smears of dried blood. I saw flakes of that blood on the surface of the table too, from where it had been rubbed off by his metal cuffs.
Wincing, I glanced up to find him staring at me once more, his gold eyes bordering on thoughtful as they took in my face.
When he didn’t break the silence after a few seconds more, I leaned back more deliberately, crossing my legs in the dark-blue pantsuit I wore.
“So,” I said, sighing. “You don’t want to talk to anyone.”
I didn’t bother to state it as a question.
The man’s eyes flickered back to my face, specifically to my eyes.
After a pause, I saw a faint smile tease the edges of his lips.
“I doubt my words would be very convincing,” he said.
I must have jumped a little in my chair, but he pretended not to notice.
“…Covered in blood,” he continued, motioning with one cuffed hand, likely as much as he could, given the restraints. Still, something in the odd grace of the gesture struck me, causing me to follow it with my eyes. “…Picked up near the scene of the crime. And you have witnesses, too, I suspect? Or did those three little girls decide it wasn’t worth getting in trouble with their parents by calling the police in the wee hours of dawn?”
His words surprised me.
More, the longer he spoke.
Not only because he said them, but because they came out with a clipped, sharp accuracy and cadence. They wore the barest trace of an accent too, although it was one I couldn’t identify. His manner of speech certainly implied a greater than average amount of education.
“In any case,” the man said, leaning back so that the chains clanked at his ankles and on the table. “…I imagine I lack credibility, wouldn’t you say, doc?”
I heard murmurings of surprise through my earpiece, too.
Apparently, I’d already gotten more out of him than any of them had.
I smoothed my expression without trying to hide my own surprise. Instead, I watched him openly, letting him see me do it.
“Doc,” I said.
At his widening smile, I returned it, adding a touch of wry humor and raising an eyebrow.
“You think I am a doctor?”
“Aren’t you?” he said at once. “Military, too, I suspect. Once upon a time. I saw you checking the corners. You’ve carried a gun… haven’t you, doc? Maybe you even carry one now.” He glanced around him ruefully. “Not in here, of course.”
I shifted in my chair, not answering him.
“Aren’t you a doctor?” he prompted.
“Depends on who you ask,” I said drily, sighing a little.
Without taking my eyes off his, I leaned to the side somewhat, resting my arm on the back of the folding chair.
“Psychiatrist then,” he said, adjusting his posture as well, a perhaps intentional replication of the old psychology trick of imitating the poses of those you want to confide in you. “Or psychologist… only a real one, with a PhD. So perhaps it was a criminal psych ward where you honed your paranoia, not the military. You could be a social worker too, I suppose… although I have my doubts. You have too much of a clinical air about you, not enough of that needy, do-gooder type of saccharin that the softer arts tend to attract.” His smile sharpened. “I would say dentist, but under the circumstances…”
Again that eloquent gesture of his fingers, this time indicating the room.
“…I am thinking that is not likely.”
“I’m a psychologist,” I told him easily. “Right in one.”
“So you are here to assess me, then?” he said. “Or are they hoping the presence of an attractive female would send me frothing and panting? Get me to show my true colors? Shall I start screaming ‘Die Bitch!’ to satisfy those watching through the glass?”
I smiled again, unintentionally that time.
“If you want,” I told him, muting the smile. “Do you want me to die?”
“Not particularly,” he said.
“Really? Why not?” I said.
“I think you’re the first person I’ve seen here with an IQ above that of a balding ape. Although that one inspector… he’s got a bit of that base, instinctive kind of intellect. Only a bit, mind you. You know who I mean. Joe Handsome.”
“It’s Nick, actually,” I said, smiling in spite of myself.
“Ah, he’s a friend of yours, then?”
“Not a special friend, if that’s what you mean.”
“I didn’t, but it’s interesting information to have. Clearly the topic has come up between you, or you wouldn’t have bothered to qualify it.”
I shook my head, unimpressed with this last, and letting him see that, too.
“Really?” I said. “You’re going there?”
“Going where?”
“Discredit the female by making some disparaging reference to her sexuality? Dismiss her as an equal by highlighting her value or lack thereof as a sexual object?”
“I profoundly apologize,” he said, giving me a startled look. The surprise I could see in those almond eyes may have been mocking me, but it looked genuine. “My comments certainly weren’t meant to be disparaging. I have no intention of resorting to such cheap tricks, doctor, simply to feel I’ve ‘outwitted’ you. Sadly, my ego won’t permit it.”
Pausing, he added, “Would it help you to know I get sex on a regular basis too? I don’t know that it would demean me in your eyes or if it would come off as bragging… in any case, I did not bring up your own sexuality as anything other than a personal curiosity.”
I tilted my head, still smiling, but letting my puzzlement show.
“Why are you talking to me at all?” I asked finally.
“Why shouldn’t I talk to you?” he said. “I’ve already told you that you’re the first person to walk in here that I thought might be worth my attempting to communicate.”
“Because I’m female?” I said.
“Because you seem to be less of a fool than the rest of them,” he corrected me at once.
“But you said Nick had a mind?”
“I said he had a mind of sorts. Not the same thing at all. Although, given the nature of his intellect, he has undoubtedly chosen the right profession for himself.”
I smiled again. “I’m sure that will be quite a relief for him.”
I heard laughter in the earpiece that time, right before Nick spoke up.
“See if he’ll tell you his name,” he said to me.
“Certainly, if you really want to know,” the suspect said, before I could voice the question aloud. “My name is Black. Quentin Black. Middle initial, R.”
I stared at him, still recovering from the fact that he’d seemingly heard Nick give me an instruction through the earpiece.
Clearly, he wanted me to know he’d heard it, too.
“You heard that?” I said to him.
“Good ear, yes?” he said. Smiling, he gave me a more cryptic, yet borderline predatory look. “Less good with you, however. Significantly less good.”
He paused, studying my face with eyes full of meaning.
I almost got the sense he was waiting for me to reply––or maybe just to react.
When I didn’t, he leaned back in the chair, making another of those graceful, flowing gestures with his hand.
“I find that… fascinating, doc. Quite intriguing. Perhaps that is crossing a boundary with you again, however? To mention that?”
I paused on his words, then decided to dismiss them.
“Is that a real name?” I said. “Quentin Black. That doesn’t sound real. It sounds fake.”
“Real is all subjective, is it not?”
“So it’s not real, then?”
“Depends on what you mean.”
“Is it your legal name?”
“Again, depends on what you mean.”
“I mean, could you look it up in a database and actually get a hit somewhere?”
“How would I know that?” he said, making an innocent gesture with his hands, again within the limits of the metal cuffs.
Gods on Earth: Complete Series (Books 1-3): Paranormal Romances with Norse Gods, Tricksters, and Fated Mates Page 52