By the time Maggie opened the door, Ziegler had risen from his chair and was impatiently pacing back and forth within the tight confines of the interview room.
He looked up, stopped pacing and actually spoke for the first time since arriving at the precinct. “I thought you fucking people were going to leave me alone in here all fucking night.”
Maggie smiled sweetly. “Well, speaking for us fucking people, we’re very sorry about that, Mr. Ziegler. But you see, we’re holding another suspect in the Jacobs and Wingfield killings in one of our other interview rooms, so it’s been a busy night.”
“What about Wolski?”
“Nope, you’re still going down for that one. But, no disrespect intended, he’s a bigger deal than you. He’s . . . what do they call it in your business? An A-list kind of guy? So . . . well . . . I’m sure you understand.”
“What does that make me? B-list?” A subtle, almost undetectable look of anger flitted across Ziegler’s face. It was exactly what she’d intended. Would he take the bait and get pissed off at some fictitious Star-Struck Strangler stealing his thunder? Or would he jump at the opportunity to blame someone else for the murders he’d committed?
“Well. Kind of B-list. Anyway, I’m Detective Margaret Savage. I’d like you to please sit down.”
Ziegler said nothing. Just continued standing and staring at her. Maybe he thought the intensity of his stare would intimidate her? Who knew? Or maybe he was just letting her know he wasn’t about to be condescended to by a some lousy cop. Especially not some lousy female cop.
“Sit down,” she ordered, pointing at the chair and using the same commanding voice she might use for a large, unruly dog.
After another fifteen seconds she repeated the command, “Sit. Down. Now.”
Ziegler lowered himself into the chair on the far side of the table. Maggie took the chair opposite and said, “Please state your full name and address.”
Ziegler continued to stare at Maggie. “You already have that information.”
“We’re recording this interview and you’ve got two choices. Either you stop being a jerk and start answering my questions, or we toss your sorry ass in a cell with a bunch of real nasties . . . the kinds of folks you wouldn’t want to run into on a dark street. And while they’re getting to know you, we’ll make sure we find some third-rate court-appointed lawyer to represent you. Unless you’re stupid enough to want to represent yourself, which, frankly, would suit me just fine. Oh, and by the way, unless you start cooperating, we are putting this case on a full press blackout. There will be no TV. No newspapers. No Internet coverage. No fame. No glory. No nothing. You won’t even have a lawyer out there telling the world how hard done by you are.”
“Bullshit.”
“Sorry. No bullshit either.”
Ziegler sat staring at her.
“Okay. Your choice,” Maggie said, getting up. “I’ll have some officers take you to your cell. You’ll be going down to the Tombs.” Maggie knew zero about the so-called Tombs. Except that she’d read it was where they kept prisoners in New York while they were awaiting arraignment and that it had a reputation as a nasty place where the accused could be locked up for months waiting for a judge to work his way through the backlog.
“It’s gonna be a long and lonely wait for you, Mr. Ziegler. That body bag contains more than enough evidence to send you up for life and no one will ever hear another word about the wannabe Star-Struck Strangler. I mean, come on, what do you have to brag about anyway? Only three victims. Ted Bundy had dozens and that guy in Seattle, Gary Ridgway, killed over ninety. Compared to them, you’re just a minor league mini-me. Anyway, it’s been a pleasure chatting with you.” She stared at him for a minute longer and then got up and started for the door.
“Wait a minute. Stop.”
She stopped and turned back. “Why?”
“I want to make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“I’ll tell you what you want to know if you let me have a press conference.”
Maggie furrowed her brow as if she was considering the offer. “What kind of press conference?”
“A big one. All the cable networks. All the tabloids. The New York Times. Everyone.”
“Sure. I guess so. No problem. If you tell us what we need to know, I’ll personally make sure you get to toot your horn to the whole Star-Struck Strangler fan base.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When can I have my press conference?”
“Just as soon as you answer the questions I’m going to ask you. Deal?”
Ziegler seemed to be thinking about it before he said, “Okay.”
“Okay then. Please state your full name and address.”
“You already know my fucking name and address.”
“Okay. Never mind.” Maggie got up, pushed her chair back and started for the door.
“Wait. Don’t go,” Ziegler called out.
Maggie went back to her seat. “Please state your full name and address.”
“Corey Ziegler. 543 West 12th Street, New York, New York 10009.”
“Apartment 4B?”
“Apartment 4B.”
“And who is your employer?”
“Why are you asking? You already know that.”
“Just answer the question.”
“Fine. I work for the Caswell Agency.”
“And what is the Caswell Agency?”
“It’s a talent agency.”
“And what do you do for this agency?”
“Nothing anymore. I’m resigning I’ve got bigger plans than working for a bunch of jerks at a place like Caswell.”
“Plans to do what?”
“I plan to start my own agency. Recruit and represent actors, singers and other performers.”
For the first time, Maggie felt uncertain. Wondered if maybe Ziegler wasn’t capable of giving them a confession they could use. Maybe he was just a total nutcase like the Son of Sam, who confessed to killing six people and wounding eight others but only did so because, as he told the world, his neighbor’s Labrador retriever was possessed by demons and the dog’s demons were ordering him to murder certain people.
“Oh really?” said Maggie. “That should be a very exciting way to make a living.”
“Oh, it is.” Ziegler paused for a moment and then let his angry expression morph into what Maggie could only describe as a sly smile. “You know?” he said. “You’re a very good-looking woman. You have a nice presence too. When you and your buddies on the other end of that camera decide you’re finished harassing me . . . well, you just might want to give me a call. With the right representation . . .”
“Like you, you mean?”
“That’s right. Like me. You just might become a big star.”
“As big as Marzena Wolski?”
Ziegler smiled. “Bigger. Much, much bigger than Marzena.”
“Was she your client at Caswell?” Maggie asked, wondering if Ziegler was either stupid or arrogant enough or fucked up enough to lie about something that could so easily be corroborated.
“Wolski? No. Never met her. Don’t know who her agent was.”
“Never met her? That’s weird. I could swear I saw an Facebook photo of the two of you standing together at what I guess was your office and you saying you were good friends.”
Ziegler sighed. “Well, you’re right. I didn’t want to brag about how important I was. Kind of thing you really don’t want to do to your former employer, but I kind of made Caswell what it is.”
“How about Ronda Wingfield?”
“Sure. I knew Ronda.” Ziegler said, looking left and right as if checking whether anyone was listening. Just how crazy was this guy? Maggie wondered.
“Sarah Jacobs?”
“No. But I read about her death. How tragic that was.”
“Maybe you’d like to tell me what were you doing in Central Park tonight?”
“I already told that moronic Mountie who accosted me.”
“Well, maybe you could tell me.”
Ziegler gave a big sigh. “I was just taking a stroll through the park,”
“At one o’clock at night?”
“Yes. I love the park at night. It feels dark and dangerous.”
“And that appeals to you?”
“Oh, definitely. I like places that are dark and dangerous. Which is why I carry a gun. You know, just in case someone bad approaches me.” Again, there was the creepy smile. Ziegler seemed to be having a good time. “A gun which, by the way, I expect to be returned to me.”
“And, as you were strolling through the park, what happened?”
“Anyway, it was dark and hard to see so as I was enjoying my walk, I stumbled over this large black bag in the middle of my path. I would have hurt myself if I hadn’t fallen on top of it and it broke my fall.”
“You fell on top of the body bag?”
“I didn’t know that’s what it was. I’ve never seen a body bag before. I just thought it was a bag full of laundry or books or God knows what. I decided I’d better drag it out of the way. You know, so nobody else would trip over it and possibly hurt themselves.”
“And when you fell you didn’t sense the presence of a human body inside?”
“No, I was just trying to be a Good Samaritan.” Ziegler raised his hands in the air and rolled his eyes with a who-knows kind of expression. “But before I could get the bag out of the way, Hopalong Cassidy comes galloping up, leaps off Trigger and opens the bag . . . discovers a body . . . and accuses me of murdering the woman inside. I’ve never been so insulted in my life. He throws me to the ground and handcuffs me. Confiscates my perfectly legal handgun and knife and before I know what’s going on, half the frigging New York Police Department was all over the place like some frigging episode of Law & Order.” Ziegler’s nasty little smile returned. “The SVU version, of course.”
Maggie ignored both the smile and the wisecrack. She looked down.
Flipped through some pages in a meaningless file she’d carried into the room with her. “Well, Mr. Ziegler, it does seem you’ve had yourself a pretty exciting night,” she said with a warm smile. “Arrested by a cop on horseback. Doesn’t happen a whole lot. He didn’t happen to throw a lasso around you and toss you over his saddle?” She laughed at the thought. “Kind of a funny image if you think about it.”
“Yes.” Ziegler laughed, “I have to agree. It is funny. I’m glad you understand.”
Maggie could sense him relaxing. Maybe he was thinking he’d won her over to his side with his inimitable wit and sense of humor.
“You know,” he added, “I really do think you should call me and we should get together when we get out of here. As pretty as you are and with your police background, I think we could probably get you some interesting roles. Especially on shows like Law & Order.”
“Special Victims Unit?” Maggie asked.
“If you wish.”
“Jesus Christ,” Astarita muttered to the others as they watched the monitor. “The son of a bitch is actually trying to set up a cop as his next victim. Talk about gall.”
“More like insanity,” said Diane Capriati.
Back in the interview room, Maggie said, “Well, that’s very flattering. Let me think about that. In the meantime, I just want to confirm that you’ve been read your Miranda rights.”
“Oh yes. I have the right to remain silent. The right to an attorney. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”
“And you signed off saying you read and understood your rights?”
Ziegler sighed as if he really wanted to steer the conversation back to getting a date with Maggie. “Yes, I did.”
“Good.” She dropped her smile. “Because, as much as I’ve enjoyed our little chat, I think now is the time for you to drop all that bullshit about just strolling innocently through the park and tripping over the bag . . .”