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Once again Katrina was unable to breathe. She just stared back at them as they swam in and out of focus and the room seemed to tilt to one side. When at last she could get a little air into her lungs, Katrina closed her eyes for a moment and tried to steady herself. When she opened them again, nothing had changed. She was still in an interrogation room, and the two detectives were still looking at her with mild interest. She took one more breath. “I want my lawyer,” she said.
CHAPTER
18
Sergeant Fraleigh had seen pretty much everything in his years as a cop—a lot of things over a lot of years. Nowadays, only seventeen months before mandatory retirement, most of what he saw just made him tired. Especially when his sciatica was kicking up, which it definitely was right now. And his acid reflux. Between the two, his patience had dissolved, and he was in no mood for bullshit. Of course, since he had the desk today, he was bound to get some. But when it finally came, he wasn’t happy about it.
Still, he’d kind of known something was coming. So he didn’t actually roll his eyes at the young man standing in front of him at the precinct desk. And thanks to his long years of practicing that special cop technique for suppressing his emotions, he did not say any of the filthy, blistering things that he wanted to say. But he did, most definitely, put on an expression that left no doubt to those thoughts, and he also let out a long-suffering sigh. “Say that again . . . sir?”
The young man swallowed visibly and shifted his weight. But he also jutted his chin and repeated what he’d just said. “I want to confess,”
he said. And then he just stood there.
“You want to confess,” Sergeant Fraleigh said wearily. “And you couldn’t find a priest, so you came to me?”
“No, I— It’s murder,” the guy stammered. “I killed Michael Hobson.”
Fraleigh was well aware that there had been a murder, and the vic’s name was Hobson. A rich guy. It was already getting a ton of coverage on the news. And every time that happened, the wackos came out of the woodwork to confess. Real killers never strolled in and confessed. The guys who did were after attention, and they were always out of whack in some sad way. Maybe they didn’t get breastfed, or they never learned proper self-esteem in middle school. Whatever; one or two nutjobs always wandered in and confessed after a splashy murder.
This guy wore a nice suit, looked clean and respectable—he didn’t look like a wacko, but who did nowadays? They were all raised to feel special, entitled, and nobody gave a shit about responsibility or anything else, and eventually, it seemed to the sergeant that they all flipped out, one way or another.
“You killed Michael Hobson,” he said, in a voice that was flat—but would still peel paint at ten paces. “You’re sure it was him?”
The young guy flinched, but he stood his ground. “Positive,” he said.
Sergeant Fraleigh closed his eyes for a moment. He did not actually pray. He wasn’t a religious man. But he did ask for strength, if anybody was listening. Of course, nobody was listening. When he opened his eyes, he didn’t feel any stronger, and nothing had changed. The guy was still standing there, fidgeting. And even then, no sudden strength came flooding into the good sergeant’s veins.
Sergeant Fraleigh knew very well Hobson’s wife had killed him. The evidence was strong, and the detectives were sure it was her. So this guy was definitely a mental case. “All right, citizen,” he said, folding his hands in front of him. “And why did you kill Michael Hobson?”
“I—I was sleeping with his wife,” the guy said. “He—he came home early, and, uh . . . so I killed him.”
That got Sergeant Fraleigh’s attention. He knew the detectives were looking for some guy who had been in bed with the widow when it happened. Fraleigh looked the guy over a little more carefully—could this be wifey’s sex toy? He wasn’t bad-looking. And the suit was a really good one. That usually meant a little money—which didn’t guarantee the guy was sane. But it was possible. This could be the guy—maybe. In any case, the detectives would want to talk to him. If he was telling the truth, they had their man. If he was a wacko, it was their problem. Either way, Sergeant Fraleigh would be done with him.
Fraleigh half turned to his left, keeping his eye on the young guy, and said, “Bender?”
Bender, a chubby young African-American cop, came right over. “Sergeant?”
Fraleigh nodded at the young guy. “Take this guy down to holding.”
“Sure thing. Uh—you want me to cuff him?”
Fraleigh shook his head. “No. We’re not booking him yet. But frisk him—and keep an eye on him ’til the detectives get there, okay?”
Bender nodded. “You got it, Sergeant.” He took the young guy by an elbow and steered him toward the hall. “Please come with me, sir,” he said, and led the young guy away.
Fraleigh watched them go until he was distracted by a loud rumbling sound—his stomach. He glanced up at the wall clock. It was almost time for lunch—Chinese or Mexican? His stomach rumbled again, and he felt his acid reflux flare. That settled it. Chinese, he thought, rubbing his gut regretfully. Definitely Chinese—and no Szechuan.
* * *
—
Randall sat quietly in a small room, at a table that had more scars than a pincushion. The room had a full-size mirror along the back wall, he noted with wry amusement. Presumably he was supposed to think it was there in case he wanted to touch up his hair before the interview. Surely every living person in America had seen enough TV and movies to know that it was one-way glass so the detectives could watch him undetected. But there was nothing else to do while he waited, so he looked at his reflection in the mirror and tried to imagine who might be on the other side watching him. And if they were merely watching him, why? To see if the long wait would soften him up? For what? He had already confessed to the sergeant out front.
Randall fidgeted nervously, tapping his fingers on the tabletop and rubbing his face. If they really were watching, they’d see how nervous he was. Did that make him look guilty or innocent? He folded his hands on the tabletop and tried to calm down, but that lasted for less than a minute, and he began to fidget again.
He stood up, took a step toward the door, and hesitated, then turned around and stared at the room as he ran a hand over the top of his head. He’d shaved it yesterday, and a very faint stubble had already grown out. He wondered where Katrina was. He was certain she would be treated well, even arrested for murder. But she had to be very upset.
Randall looked over his shoulder at the door. It didn’t open. He looked at the big mirror again, rubbed his beard, and then went back to the chair and sat again. He glanced at his watch; he’d been sitting here almost half an hour.
