IT WAS AN HOUR drive to the county jail in Hartsfield, where Benjy was being held. I didn’t mind the drive, though; it gave me plenty of time to bask in my victory. Brandon was letting me talk to Benjy. I’d remained persistent in my request until he came around, realizing he needed me.
I was on Brandon’s turf now, and he was waiting for me outside the four-story cement building right in the middle of a commercial street. Thirty years ago, the shops were booming. Internet, drugs, the economy killed it. Businesses came in and out of the storefronts; nothing but a dollar store stuck. Well, the dollar store and the jail.
The detective leaned against the railing. His sleeves were rolled up, arms crossed, looking as relaxed as ever. He pushed off the railing to stand on his own when he saw me round the corner from the parking lot.
“How was the drive?”
“It was fine.” I climbed the six steps and met him at the top. He almost went in for a hug but pulled back before contact. Based on our location and mission, he seemed conflicted over our personal and professional relationship. For me, there wasn’t any confusion. I felt like a professional. I wasn’t being paid, but he was, and we were kind of working together. That was enough for me.
“Are you ready?” he asked as he opened the front door for me.
I was ready. There wasn’t much to lose, and Benjy wasn’t scary. It’s not like they suspected the leader of the Hells Angels.
Brandon showed me into a small room with one window. There was a wooden table with three matching chairs. Police decor was pretty transparent. Metal was for interrogation, wood for visitation.
Brandon held out a chair for me on the side with two chairs. Apparently I could have brought a friend. He seemed nervous.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
He straightened at the implication. “Yeah, why?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t know what he’s going to tell you,” said Brandon, “but remember, this is a murderer who has been caught. He will say anything, and I know you’re desperate for answers, so just make sure to be cautious.” He touched my shoulder as he backed away. The gentle touch was back.
“I will,” I said. “I have no expectations. We just have to try.” I wondered if I scared him by referring to us as a we. I’m sure the thought of having an unqualified civilian partner was like a kick in the balls of his ego. He was tolerating my curiosity just enough to get into my pants. I was sure of it.
“Nothing he says can be used, remember. This is more for you. I want you to have closure. Even if he confesses, it doesn’t matter. We won’t be listening. It’s the only way the lawyer would agree to this,” he explained.
“He could shed some light on what she was into.” I just wished he would entertain other scenarios. Isn’t it more fun that way? If I were a detective, I would have a huge murder board with every person Jenny ever met. I would stand in front of it long into the night, moving Post-its around until I had an irrefutable conclusion.
“He’ll say anything. He’s desperate.” He ended on that note and slid out of the room.
Three minutes later, a uniformed police officer brought in Benjy. He was in what looked like khaki scrubs. I wondered when and why they stopped using black-and-white-striped uniforms. In this outfit, Benjy could wander into a hospital and start mopping the floors and no one would notice.
The officer guided Benjy to the chair across the table from me. He smiled when he looked at my face. Handcuffs restricted his ability to brace himself, and he landed with a thud.
“You can take those off,” I said to the officer.
“Detective Colsen said to leave them on. I’m sorry, ma’am.” He nodded and stepped out of the room.
It was just the two of us. No one was watching; no one could hear. If he were a murderer, this would have been scary. I was glad I didn’t believe it.
“Hi, Benjy, I’m Virginia.” I smiled, not to manipulate him but because I wanted to.
“You look like Jenny,” he said, like it was the greatest compliment he could give.
“Thank you.”
“You are very pretty.” He avoided looking directly at me as he spoke.
“How did you know Jenny?”
He looked back at the mention of her name and beamed. “She was my friend. I don’t have many friends. Just a few. Do you have a lot of friends?”
“No, I don’t have many friends at all.”
“Oh … I could be your friend. I like to write letters. Do you like to get letters?”
“Sure,” I said. Mark used to write me notes, slipping them into my backpack so I would find them later. I shook off the memory. It wasn’t the time for that.
“OK, I will write you a letter when I get home,” he said.
“I don’t know if you’ll get to go home.”
He looked down at his hands, bound together, like he knew.
“Benjy, can you tell me what happened when you saw Jenny a few weeks ago?”
He shook his head. “No, no, no, I did not see her. I haven’t seen her since the pageant.”
“I know you saw her. It’s OK. Your neighbor saw her at your apartment.”
He kept shaking his head. His face was pained. “She said I couldn’t tell anybody.”
“It’s OK, I promise. You can tell me. Look at me, Benjy. I’m not a bad guy. I’m not the police.”
He raised his eyes to meet mine, and my resemblance to Jenny gave him permission to tell.
BRANDON SLID INTO THE ROOM seconds after the officer took Benjy away, his response time negating any attempts to pretend he wasn’t curious. “So? What did he say?”
“Who the fuck is Gil?” I asked as I stood and pushed past him out of the room. I was furious. In twelve minutes, I’d found out my sister had been introduced to another pageant pervert in the weeks leading up to her murder. What the hell had the police been doing all this time?