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I shot him a look loaded with gratitude. A hint of a reassuring smile twitched the corner of his mouth, just for an instant.
Dr. Duplessis sighed and sat in the chair at the head of the table. “This whole situation is distressing. After consideration, I’m inclined to believe that Angel was the victim of a prank—some sort of frat boy hijinks—since I find it hard to believe that there could be any nefarious purpose to stealing the body of an elderly security guard.” He shook his head while I gritted my teeth. Frat boy hijinks? There wasn’t a university within fifty miles of Tucker Point.
“Right now, I’m grateful that no one was hurt,” he continued, giving me what was probably meant to be a warm and caring smile. And perhaps it really was, but I was too wound up at the moment to believe it.
Captain Pierson gave me a measured look. “How about if Detective Roth and I speak to Miss Crawford on our own for a few moments.” He glanced to the coroner. “To get a coherent statement without so many onlookers, you understand.”
Dr. Duplessis seemed only too pleased to be given an excuse to leave. “Yes, of course. Let’s all clear out and let the police do their job.”
Within a minute the room had emptied—with Derrel giving my shoulder a comforting squeeze and a worried look on the way out—leaving only the three of us. I trusted Ben, but the captain scared the crap out of me, and not only because I had no doubt that he knew my criminal history. He had ice-blue eyes that seemed to take in everything, and I had a feeling he wasn’t the type who could be misled easily, if at all.
He took a seat across from me and laced his fingers together on the table. “Miss Crawford, I want you to tell your story again, please. With your permission, I’d like to record your statement.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Ben pulled out a small digital recorder and set it on the table. “S-E-P-S-O case number twelve dash four nine six three one,” Ben rattled the words out. “Detective Ben Roth and Captain Jeffrey Pierson interviewing Angel Crawford.” He gave me another slight smile, then sat back.
“Miss Crawford,” Pierson said, “please tell us in your own words what happened tonight.”
I did. Again. Detailed the whole goddamn thing, the whole three minutes of it—or however long it lasted. And then Pierson asked me to go through it again, but this time he kept stopping me and asking me to clarify points, or he’d repeat parts back to me to make sure he had it right. Sometimes I had to correct him. By the fourth or fifth time I went through it, I was absolutely certain that I’d changed my story or was starting to imagine parts of it. And I was hungry. Oh fucking lord, was I ever hungry. Why the hell hadn’t I chugged some brains before calling 911? Why on earth had it mattered that I not heal up the cuts? It sure hadn’t helped them believe my story. I kept my hands clasped in my lap since I was terrified that my fingernails would start falling off, just from the stress.
“Look,” I finally said, “I think it’s important that this whole thing seemed…professional.”
Pierson lifted an eyebrow at me. “Professional bodysnatchers?”
I fought back the urge to scowl at him. “No. I mean, the guy wasn’t nervous at all. He was calm and cool, and the whole thing seemed almost rehearsed. I mean, with how smoothly he pulled it off.” I shrugged. “He was waiting for me, and if the fucking cameras had been working you could have seen that. I came straight from the death scene, so somehow he knew I was heading here with the body. He didn’t have long to prepare, and it was fucking flawless.”
Ben tapped his chin. “Tell us again what he said.”
God. This would be like the fourth or fifth time. “He said, ‘The body. Open the cooler and give it to me or I’ll kill you.’ But he said it super calm-like. I mean, like he was asking about the weather.”
“Did he have any sort of accent?” Pierson asked.
I thought for a second. “No. No accent at all.”
Ben let out a soft snort. “Well, that in itself tells us a lot in these parts.”
“Right,” I said, straightening. “He didn’t sound like he was from around here.”
Ben jotted some notes onto the pad in front of him. “You said he wore a mask, but is there anything else you can tell us about him? How tall was he? Eye color? Build?”
I rubbed at my eyes. “Um, his eyes were dark. I mean, not blue. I guess brown or dark hazel? And he was taller than me, but that doesn’t take a whole lot. Well built. I mean, like definitely in shape. Not pudgy.”
Ben scraped his chair back and stood and motioned to me to do the same. I complied, and he stuck his finger out in a fake gun. “About my height? Or taller?”
“Taller, definitely.”
Ben looked over to the Captain, who stood without asking. He was at least a head taller than Ben. “His height?”
I felt self-conscious as all hell, but I went ahead and stood in front of him. I didn’t ask him to pretend to hold a gun on me though. That would have just been weird as shit.
“Not quite as tall as him,” I told Ben, returning to my side of the table. “About somewhere in between.”
“All right then,” he said with a smile. “It’s a start.”
I didn’t think it was much of a start, but I wasn’t about to say anything.
Pierson leaned forward and clicked the recorder off. I looked up at him warily.
