CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Roy sat on a bench with a greasy, young man who wore a Rage Against the Machine T-shirt with the sleeves torn off, and a muscular, Black man whose eyes were glazed over from drug usage. Roy’s wrist was cuffed to the leg of the bench as he waited his turn to be processed. He’d been waiting for more than an hour.
When his turn finally rolled around, Roy was taken into the processing area. They stood him up for mug shots. “Turn to the right.”
He was fingerprinted and told to strip, shower, and dress. His personal items were stuffed into a plastic bag and stuck in a wire basket. And the questions came at him from all sides.
Have you been depressed lately?
Are you using any prescription medication?
Have you ever contemplated suicide?
Do you have any allergies?
Did the arresting officer read you your rights?
Roy got tired of answering. He shook his head and assured them that he wasn’t suicidal. If he really wanted to die, it wouldn’t be a problem. He’d seen a lot of bad times. He looked into one of the officers’ eyes and realized that they probably saw twice as much despair in their job as Roy saw on the streets.
They put Roy in a holding tank with fifteen other men. Some were drunks. Some were big. One looked like a businessman. And there were two skinheads. The look in their eyes made Roy wish Jim were there. Then they wouldn’t even think about trying anything. Roy sat down next to a big, Black man who glanced at him and grunted.
It was going to be a long night.
***
Interrogations.
On the way to the first session, Roy’s escort said, “You’re entitled to have a lawyer present during questioning.”
“No thanks,” Roy said. “I can’t afford one.”
“The court can appoint one for you.”
Roy shook his head. “I don’t trust lawyers.”
“Neither do I,” his escort said and opened the door for him.
Roy took a seat and waited for his interrogators. He tapped his foot and looked around. He figured it was safe to be up front and honest. After all, Trent had seen the bats. So had a lot of other cops. There would be reports to back him up.
Two officers entered and sat down. The first was a large Hispanic who could stand to lay off the tacos. The other was a White guy who couldn’t tie a proper Windsor knot. The White guy fetched a cup of coffee and handed it to Roy. The coffee burned his tongue but tasted like a piece of bitter heaven. They offered him cigarettes, but Roy had quit smoking long ago.
“You don’t mind if we tape this, do you?” the White cop asked, setting a recorder on the table.
“Go ahead.”
“Tell me about your friend Jim,” the Hispanic cop said.
Roy looked over at a mirror, which he assumed was one-way glass. Was Trent watching? Roy hated the one-way glass. If someone wanted to watch, that was fine, but let them be seen. “What about him?”
“What do you know about him?”
“He’s rough but he’s okay.”
“If his back was against the wall, do you think he could kill?”
“Anyone can kill when they’re in a tight spot.”
“Could he kill in cold blood?”
Probably, Roy thought but said, “No.”
The officer nodded as the White guy jotted notes in a memo pad. Roy wondered why the guy bothered writing notes when they had a tape recorder capturing the conversation for posterity. Trying to make him nervous or something?
“Right,” the Hispanic said. “Tell me, Mr. Porter: How did you meet Jim?”
“He saw me and a buddy at Woodward Park around ten years ago and warned us that there were a lot of bums getting killed and that we should travel in pairs.”
“How often did you see him back then?”
“Every now and again. He used to check up on me and the guys.”
“Was he from Tulsa?”
“No. I think he used to stay in California. He wasn’t very talkative about his past, and I didn’t figure it was any of my business to pry. But I think he hooked up with a girl and kinda grew roots.”
“Where’s the girl now?”
“Dead.”
“Was her name Trisha Stanley?”
“Yeah.”
“Back then did you know Ken Hartford?”
“Not really. I’d seen him a time or two. He didn’t rub me right.”
“I understand that you hold him responsible for the murders these past few weeks.”
“And the ones a decade ago. He was messing with stuff that ought to be left alone.”
“Are you suggesting that he’s a member of a satanic cult?”
“Huh?”
“A satanic cult. You know, like the one in Oologah a few years ago. Sacrificing animals in the name of the devil, only now he’s upped the ante to humans.”
“I think Ken works alone.”
“You don’t think Jim is helping him?”
“Jim and me were trying to stop him!”
“Ten years ago?”
“Today.”
“What about the last round of killings, Mr. Porter? How much were you involved?”
“Not much. I knew some of the guys who got killed. Jim asked me about some of them, and I told him what I knew. Not long after that, the killing stopped.”
“But this time you’re in it up to your eyeballs.”
“Over my head is more like it. I got with Jim to stop the killing, but it ain’t done a lick of good.”
“So you and Jim are vigilantes? You think you can do police work better than trained officers and detectives?”
“No, we—”
“It’s all right, Mr. Porter. How did you think you and Jim could stop the killings?”
“Jim’s got pow—uh . . . knowledge. He’s smart about stuff that don’t seem real but is.”
“Did you start to say power?”
“Yeah. He can do things you wouldn’t believe but nothing compared to Ken.”
“Is that so? And what kind of stuff can Ken do?”
“He can send swarms of scorpions or rats or spiders after people to kill them.”
“So he controls nature and animals for his own evil purposes? Is he some kind of satanic Dr. Dolittle?”
Roy noted the sarcastic grin but plunged ahead. “More like a mystic.”
The Hispanic cop leaned over and whispered something to the White cop who’d been diligently writing in his pad. Then the Hispanic looked at Roy again. “There were animals this time too, right?”
“Bats,” Roy said. “Lots of them.”
“If that’s true and they really attacked, how did you escape serious injury?”
“I was inside a magic circle that Jim set up.”
The interrogator whispered to his partner again, shook his head, and leaned forward. “Tell me something, Roy—and this is just between you and me—are you trying to cop an insanity plea?”
“What?”
“Not guilty by reason of insanity. Is that what you’re aiming for?”
“I don’t—”
“Look. If that’s your game, cut it out now. You try that at the hearing, and I’ll slap you with murder one. Right now you’re just an accomplice, and if you cooperate—if you testify against James Hartford—we might let you plea bargain. You could be out in a year or two with good behavior.”
“I’m telling the truth! Check your reports. They’ll mention the bats.”
“Cut the crap. I read the reports. There’s no mention of bats or sorcerers or any other supernatural bullshit.”
“I swear!”
“To hell with this. Take him back to the cell.”
The White cop tucked his memo pad into his pocket then reached forward and clicked off the tape recorder. “Come with me, Mr. Porter.”
On the way back to the cell, the officer kept telling Roy to give them what they wanted. That it would be easier on everyone. It seemed like the only thing they weren’t interested in was the truth.