by Rick Mofina
“Are you nervous?” Zubik asked.
“Yeah.” Dalton glanced at the camera up in the corner.
“That’s okay,” Asher said. “You want to help us find Maddison, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” Zubik said. “All you have to do is answer our questions with the truth, all right?”
“All right.”
“Good, and thanks for signing the papers and giving us your phone. Do you have any other phones, maybe old phones, a friend’s phone, one you may have forgotten about?”
Dalton shook his head. “No, I only use one phone. The one I gave you.”
“You probably know from your dad how these things go.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You know it’s a crime if you lie to us,” Zubik said. “And if you lie and we find out, it gets even more serious. You understand that, Dalton?”
He gave tense, short nods. “Yes.”
“Were you communicating with Maddison in any way in the time before her parents reported her missing?”
“No.”
“No texting?” Zubik asked.
“No.”
“Do you ever text with her, or send messages or pictures?”
“No, not really.” Dalton shrugged. “Maybe birthdays, and I’d send her and Tyler cool pictures whenever I went somewhere, like London or Australia. I mean Maddie’s younger, and she’s got her own friends. We don’t see each other that much except when our families get together.”
“How would you describe your relationship with her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you like her?” Asher asked.
“Yeah.”
“In what way do you like her?”
“She’s my cousin, part of my family, so I love her and I’m really worried about her, if that’s what you mean.”
“And what about how she feels about you?” Zubik asked. “Do you think she looks up to you?”
Dalton shrugged. “Maybe a little, I guess.”
“Why do you guess that?”
“Maybe because I’m older and do stuff, I don’t know.”
“Do you have a crush on her?” Zubik asked.
“No, that would be weird.”
“Do you think she has a crush on you?”
“I doubt it. That would also be weird.”
“Are you involved in Maddison’s disappearance?”
Zubik noticed that Dalton’s hands had been flat on the table, but now his fingertips were pressing against the surface.
“No,” Dalton said.
“Did you lure Maddie out that night?”
“No.” Dalton’s face creased a little as he glanced at Asher then Zubik.
“Did you hurt her, maybe by accident?”
“No. Why’re you asking me this?”
“Do you know who’s involved in Maddison’s disappearance?”
“No.”
“Who do you think might’ve taken her?”
“Some creep.”
“Do you ever think about Maddison in a sexual way?” Zubik asked.
“No.”
“Do you visit porn sites, Dalton?”
He swallowed and hesitated. “I’ve seen a few.”
“Ever sext with anyone?”
Dalton didn’t respond for a long moment. “That’s private.”
“We have your phone and our experts are good at finding deleted things, so tell us the truth. You’re a good-looking young man who’s seen the world. Ever use your phone to show a girl your junk, Dalton? Or ask a girl to show you hers?”
Taken aback by Zubik’s questioning, Dalton’s face flushed but he said nothing.
“Come on, Dalton, tell us the truth. Have you sexted with anyone, maybe that girl you like from Paris?”
Dalton swallowed and licked his lips.
“A lot of kids do it,” Dalton said. “So, my answer is yes.”
“Things will go better if you keep telling the truth.” Zubik flipped through his notebook and repositioned himself in his chair before asking, “We understand you’re adopted. Does that trouble you?”
The question seemed to wound Dalton. He was unable to mask the hurt that registered in his eyes as he stared at the table before him.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Do you know much about your biological mother?”
Dalton hesitated then said, “Only that I was told that she died when I was born.”
“We understand you’ve been having some trouble at school recently, getting into fights, not doing homework,” Asher said, “that it started after your parents confirmed what you’d suspected, that you were adopted. Do you think your trouble is related to that?”
Dalton kept his eyes on the table and shrugged.
“Let’s change gears,” Zubik said. “Where were you and what were you doing the night Maddison disappeared?”
“I went to my friend Jenna Guthrie’s birthday party.”
“Tell us about the party.”
“It was big, over a hundred kids. She lives in a big house in that new part of town way over on the east side.”
“What time did you get there?”
“I think around eight thirty.”
“How did you get there?”
“My friend Donnie Slade’s older brother Lennie drove us.”
“How old are these guys?”
“Donnie’s fifteen and Lennie’s seventeen, no, maybe eighteen.”
“How do you know the Slade brothers?”
“I met them way back at a stock car race my dad took me to. Their dad is crew chief for K. T. Glory, the professional stock car racer. K. T. does commercials. I like hanging out with Donnie and Lennie and their friends. They’re pretty cool.”
“So the Slade brothers were invited too?”
“Yeah, we all went to the party. Jenna’s sister goes to college, and she was there with lots of her friends. It was an epic party.”
“Was there drinking and drugs?”
Dalton blinked several times then nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you drink?”
“I had some beers, a couple.”
“Did you have any drugs?”
Dalton was silent.
“Tell us the truth, Dalton.”
“I had some pot.”
Zubik took a moment to take stock of Dalton.
“And it was at this party that you got the scratches?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us exactly how you got them again.”
“We were standing on the garden wall, and I was playing this balance game with some guy. You press the side of your body against each other’s shoulders and legs. Someone says go, and you push with all your strength to knock the other guy down, or off balance. I slipped and slid into the hedge and got scratched.”
“Were other people watching?”
“Yeah.”
“What time did you leave the party?”
“When it was close to midnight, I told Donnie and Lennie I had to go, even though the party was supposed to go all night. We got in the car and left, but Lennie said he was hungry so we went to the all-night Whenever-Burger. Then when we were driving to my house, the car broke down.”
“What kind of car is it?”
“A Dodge Challenger. I don’t know the year.”
“What was wrong?”
“I don’t know. Lennie said it was making a noise. He pulled over, shut it off, tried to fix it, but it wouldn’t start and I was real nervous because I was so late. Lennie had to call one of his friends to help him get it going and that took forever.”
“Who was the friend?”
“George somebody, I don’t know.”
“Why
didn’t you call your dad to get you?”
“I was too scared to call him.”
“Why?”
“First, because it was so late. Then, because I had been drinking and because there was beer and pot in the car. I was kind of freaking out.”
Zubik looked at Dalton for a moment.
“So what time was it when you got home?”
“About three thirty, I think. I figured I was dead, that my dad was going to kill me, but only my mom was up and I told her what happened.”
“Did you tell her about the drinking and the pot?”
“No, not exactly.”
Zubik’s icy, penetrating gaze bored into him.
“Is that the truth, Dalton?”
“Yes.”
Zubik and Asher glanced at the door after someone knocked.
It opened to their captain, Moe Tilden, who called them out to the hall.
“Onondaga’s got something from the halfway house that could break everything wide open,” Tilden said.
39
Here was twelve-year-old Maddison Lane.
In her bedroom. In her bathroom. Dressing. Undressing.
Naked.
Zubik and Asher swiped through image after image on Rance Carver’s laptop, the county detective who had been investigating the halfway house. Carver had downloaded the images from items found in the ventilation system of an inmate’s quarters.
“We found a tablet with internet access, a digital camera and a telephoto zoom lens concealed in the ductwork.” Carver held out his phone showing photos of the discovered items. “They’re being processed now as evidence by the crime scene people.”
Asher shook her head slowly while studying the photos. They were grainy enlargements, taken from a distance, and it was clear Maddison was not aware someone was taking them. In most of them she was in various stages of undress, or naked. “There must be hundreds.”
“We estimate over one thousand,” Carver said.
“And you’ve linked these items and images to the inmate—” Zubik consulted his notebook “—Kalmen Gatt?”
“Yes. We believe Gatt climbed a tree in Lucifer’s Green and targeted the windows of the Lanes’ home that faced it, and took pictures voyeur-style.”
“Wait,” Zubik said. “How did you connect this material to Gatt?”
“Fingerprint identification. Gatt’s thumbprint opened the tablet.”
Zubik nodded.
“We’ve got Gatt in a holding room, Stan. If you’re ready, we can get to work bringing you and Fran up to speed as quickly as we can.”
Over the next couple of hours, Carver, along with other detectives, senior SPD brass, case managers from the halfway house and those who managed Gatt in prison scrutinized every aspect of Gatt’s life.
They studied Carver’s notes from his initial interview with Gatt, his crime file, his prison records, pysch reports, exams, assessments, his above-average intelligence, his computer expertise, his new job, his good behavior and pass access, and the security breach at the halfway house window that allowed inmates to circumvent the surveillance cameras.
When they finished, Zubik downed the remnants of his coffee.
Gatt’s our number one suspect, he thought. But if he took Maddison, there’s little chance she’s alive. If she is, the clock’s ticking down on her.
Zubik and Asher headed to the holding room.
Dread fluttered up in Zubik’s chest, and he whispered a prayer for Maddison.
Whatever condition she’s in, this could be my best shot, my only shot, to find her.
* * *
Kalmen T. Gatt sat in a chair at a table in metal handcuffs wearing orange prison scrubs, the uniform of the County Justice Center.
His wrist cuffs were fastened to a steel ring bolted to the table, and his ankles were fettered.
Zubik and Asher sat across from him.
After introducing himself and Asher, Zubik said, “Because you’re currently in custody, Miranda rights are not necessary. Do you understand, Mr. Gatt?”
The suspect looked at him with a blank expression.
“You’re going back inside to do more time,” Zubik said. “Accept it.”
Gatt gazed at the cop for a moment and blinked.
“Kalmen, if you cooperate with us we’ll put in a good word with the district attorney. No guarantees, but it could lessen your sentence.”
Gatt’s face remained devoid of expression.
“We have evidence linking you directly to Maddison Lane.”
Still he continued to stare at Zubik.
“Where is she, Kalmen?”
Gatt’s jawline pulsed.
“Did you hurt her?”
Wearing the face of a man standing on the edge of an eternal chasm, he didn’t answer.
For more than an hour, Zubik continued questioning him, but Gatt remained silent. Then the detective took the step of showing Gatt the photos of Maddison they’d found on his tablet in an effort to trigger a response. As Zubik swiped through them slowly, he studied Gatt. The suspect’s eyes were drawn to the images, his nostrils flared ever so slightly as his breathing deepened.
One by one Zubik fed the images to him.
“This is what happened, Kalmen—you were out on your pass when you first saw Maddison. Maybe she was walking down the street. Maybe she smiled at you. She’s very pretty. You fell in love. You wanted her, but you were afraid because you have urges no one knows about.”
Gatt’s gaze was welded to the pictures.
“You locked on to where she lives, and you began your secret game of capturing her image from the forest so you could enjoy her privately, have her to yourself. But it only made your urges stronger, painful, as you dreamed about her. You were in agony and had to do something, anything, to satisfy your urges.”
Gatt swallowed.
“That’s when you saw the ladder in her yard, and your fantasies about her evolved into a plan to have her for real. You came in the night and took her, but like all plans, things didn’t go well. She was afraid, maybe she was going to tell, maybe she hit you and you hit her back. You didn’t mean it. It was an accident. You had to hide her. Maybe you didn’t kill her. Maybe you locked her up somewhere so you could enjoy her a little while longer.”
Zubik stopped, stood and drew his face to within inches of Gatt’s.
“You never meant to hurt her, did you, Kalmen?”
Gatt blinked, and for an instant he went somewhere in his mind, then returned shaking his head.
“No.”
“It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“No, no, no accident.”
“No?”
“I never touched her.”
“Don’t lie. You’re smarter than that.”
“I never touched her. I only took pictures. I swear that’s all I did.”
“Why’re you lying when we have the evidence?”
“I didn’t take her. I only took pictures.”
“Think of her family. Unburden yourself. What did you do with Maddison Lane?”
An odd change came over Gatt.
He looked up at the camera in the ceiling corner, then at Asher, then at Zubik. Then he shut down, remaining motionless with an unblinking stare.
Time passed without anyone speaking before Gatt shifted in his chair and said, “I’ve got to take a leak.”
Zubik frowned. “No, you don’t.”
“Want me to piss myself right here?”
Zubik muttered under his breath then nodded to Asher, whose chair scraped as she stepped into the hall and summoned two deputies. Keys jangled as a deputy released Gatt from the table’s handcuff ring. His shackles jingled and they took him into the hall, leaving Zubik and Asher behind.
With one deputy on Gatt’s left and a
second on his right, they escorted him toward the restroom at the end of the hall. At this time, a meeting of the units from traffic, patrol and the airport had broken up, and officers streamed toward Gatt and his escorts.
One of the uniformed officers stopped at the water fountain, bending over to drink just as Gatt and his escorts were passing. Gatt’s eyes went to the cop’s holstered sidearm and he lunged for the gun, seizing it with his cuffed hands. Years earlier, before he was convicted, he had studied retention-type holsters in online police equipment manuals. He knew to release the thumb break, to slightly twist the weapon to clear the trigger guard lock, accomplishing it all in a terrifyingly swift motion, grabbing the gun in both hands.
In that same instant the deputies and the officer reacted, struggling with Gatt who in a rush of adrenaline was turning the gun toward one of the men, succeeding in raising the muzzle up, up, up until it was pressing into the cop’s throat. The officers battled with Gatt for control, as his finger was moving ever closer to the trigger.
In those seconds another officer rushed at Gatt with his weapon drawn, and shot him five times.
The chaos drew Zubik and Asher into the hall, where they saw Gatt lying on the floor in a growing pool of brilliant red blood. People were shouting about a “gun grab,” someone was calling for an ambulance. One officer was kneeling over Gatt giving him rapid chest compressions.
“We need that prisoner alive!” Zubik shouted.
In the mayhem, paramedics arrived.
“He still has vitals!” one of the medical crew said as they tended to Gatt, stabilizing him before loading him into the ambulance and rushing him to hospital.
* * *
After three hours of surgery, they put Gatt in the intensive care unit.
A tall doctor with a somber face joined Zubik and Asher in the corridor outside.
“The patient has a ten percent chance of surviving his wounds,” the doctor said. “It’s anyone’s guess when, or if, he’ll regain consciousness. I’ll allow you to keep a bedside vigil as you requested.”
The doctor nodded to the uniformed officer, and Gatt’s door was opened for the detectives. The suspect was on his back. A series of small screens above his bed monitored his blood pressure, his heart and other vital signs. A breathing tube and plastic mask covered his mouth and nose. An IV pole with a drip stood next to his bed. A nurse was next to it, tapping information into a tablet.