The crowd outside the interview rooms was even larger now, and boisterous. Cigarette haze was heavy; some of the night-shift cops were liquored up. Bodies were close; the room was claustrophobic and smelled of sweat.
Westermann had walked out of the Chief’s office angry and frustrated. Maddox had maintained his cool, made no mistakes. The presence of Big Rolf had confused Westermann—initially because of the betrayal he’d felt, but even more perplexing was the way Maddox had treated Big Rolf: like a servant, without the deference he usually commanded. Westermann’s head throbbed with stress.
Kraatjes, though, had been more sanguine. “He’s hiding something, Piet. I know you wanted to get the big admission or a slip or something, but he’s too smart and your father would have stopped him even if he’d started to slip. You could tell from the moment we walked in—he feels protected; doesn’t think there are consequences to stonewalling us. So he went with that not-of-this-world shit and what can you do? But he’s hiding something, and I wasn’t sure about that until today.”
“You have a theory?”
“No. Not yet. Maybe we’ll get something out of Koss. He strikes me as someone we might be able to persuade to say more than he intends to.”
Koss was sitting straight in his chair, shoulders squared to the door, when Kraatjes and Westermann came in. Koss’s face was flushed with the heat. His lawyer, a normally fastidious man, had his jacket on the back of his chair and his shirt was already soaked through. Westermann and Kraatjes sat down opposite Koss and his lawyer. Koss nodded to Westermann; cocky, familiar. Kraatjes registered this, then introduced himself to Koss and then both himself and Westermann to the lawyer. In the cramped confines of the IR, Koss seemed even bigger, his shoulders barely contained by the collared shirt he wore.
Kraatjes said, “I assume you’ve been briefed about why you’re here.”
Koss nodded. “Sure. The girls they found on the bank.”
“Three of them. One ID’d as Lenore, last name unknown,” Kraatjes said.
“Right.”
“Did you know her?”
“Sure. Of course.”
Westermann leaned forward in his chair. “Say that again.”
Koss shrugged. “I knew her. I knew Lenore. Not well, but I knew her.”
Kraatjes said, “Explain how you knew her.”
“Dr. Vesterhue, I don’t know if you know, but he did work with a lot of the whores for the church. We paid him to do it. I was the liaison. I paid him, helped out when necessary. I met a lot of the girls.”
“Do you know where Vesterhue is?”
Koss frowned. “Why? Is he missing?” Maddox had professed surprise, too. Westermann ignored the question. “These girls that you met, do you remember a Mavis Talley?”
Koss’s eyes darted to Westermann. “Mavis? Sure, I know her, too. Again, not well. I just know who they are.”
Kraatjes picked up again. “What’s Lenore’s last name?”
Koss shrugged. “I wouldn’t have known Mavis’s if you hadn’t just told me.”
“Were you aware that Lenore was very ill?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How about Mavis Talley?”
Koss shook his head. “Dr. Vesterhue made his visits. I don’t remember him visiting anybody specifically because they were sick. Maybe … no, I don’t think so. I don’t know.”
Westermann was aware of something at the back of his mind, a question that he needed to ask. He couldn’t pull it forward; too much else happening.
Kraatjes asked, “Did you visit Mavis Talley at City Hospital and subsequently have her discharged?”
“Mavis was in the hospital?” Koss made a good show of really thinking this one over. “I don’t believe I knew she was there. I can tell you for certain that I didn’t visit her.”
“Did—,” Kraatjes began.
Koss’s lawyer spoke up. “I’m afraid I have to interject. My understanding regarding this interview was that Mr. Koss was going to provide you with some help vis-à-vis the investigation into the young woman’s—”
“Women’s,” Westermann said.
“Thank you. Women’s deaths. This seems as though he is being treated as a suspect.”
Kraatjes nodded. “I’m sorry if we have given that impression. We are trying to determine the nature of the church’s—and your client’s—relationship with these young women.”
“Whores,” Koss said, and everyone looked at him.
The lawyer’s eyes bulged. “I think that maybe this interview should end now.”
Westermann wiped the sweat from his brow, concentrating on the table. Koss began to stand.
“One last question?” Then, before the lawyer could object, Westermann asked, “Do you know a guy named James Symmes?”
Koss smiled. “Sure. Jimmy Symmes. Of course. We were in the army together.”