CHAPTER 28

 

Mitchell and Lumley watched through the window as five floors below Slater crossed the road, his black coat flapping behind him. His trademark RayBans were back on and as he reached the sidewalk he stopped and lit a cigarette.

“He enjoys playing with us, you know that,” said Lumley.

“Give him enough rope and he’ll hang himself,” said Mitchell.

“What do you mean, Ed? You want him to kill, is that what you’re saying?”

Mitchell looked across at her, his eyes narrowing. “Where did that come from, Joe?”

Lumley put up a hand. “I’m not arguing with you, I’m just saying we’re not doing a great job of warning him off, are we?”

Down below Slater turned and looked up at their window. He grinned and flashed them a mock salute. Mitchell made a gun of his right hand, pointed it at Slater and mimed firing it. Slater did the same with his left hand as he blew smoke, then walked off down the street.

“Bastard,” said Mitchell.

“And what was that about his father? Why didn’t you tell me Slater wasn’t his real name?”

“Only found out just before I went into the interrogation room. Got an email from Los Angeles PD.”

“A heads-up would have been nice,” said Lumley. “So who was the father?”

“Ben Henderson. Wrote a slew of action movies but before he went Hollywood he won a Pulitzer for a book he wrote. Summer Sons, remember?”

“I’m not a big reader,” said Lumley.

“Me neither, but I remember Oprah raving about it. Blew his head off with a shotgun.”

“That’ll do it,” said Lumley.

“What with that and his mother in the nuthouse, it’s hardly surprising that Slater’s turned out to be such a psycho.”

There was a coffeemaker on top of a filing cabinet by the door and Lumley went over to get herself a fresh coffee. “You want one?” she asked Mitchell.

Mitchell shook his head. “Doctor says I’ve got to cut down.” He grimaced. “What the hell, go on. What do doctors know, right?”

Lumley made two mugs of coffee. Black with one sugar for Mitchell, just a splash of milk for her. “Ed, do you really think that Slater is a potential killer?”

“You’ve spoken to him, what do you think?”

“Until you dropped the bombshell about his parents I was coming around to thinking that he’s all talk.”

“And now?”

Lumley carried over the coffees and gave Mitchell his mug. “The father’s death, it definitely was self-inflicted?”

“I’ve only just got the email, but I would have thought the LAPD would have been pretty thorough if a high-profile was found dead. Why, are you thinking Slater might have killed his father?”

“The mum blames the dad, resentment simmers over the years, the boy becomes a man and takes his revenge.”

“Are you serious, Joe?”

Lumley frowned as she sipped her coffee. “He’s either a stone-cold sociopath or he’s a smartass who gets a kick out of giving us the runaround. There’s no real middle ground here. He’s either a killer, potential or otherwise, or he’s a writer who’s pushing the creative envelope and forcing us to be part of that. My money’s on the sociopath.”

Mitchell sat down. “I think you mean psychopath, don’t you?”

“Same thing, right?” said Lumley. “What is it the experts call it? Anti-Social Personality Disorder? Someone who causes pain to others without feeling any guilt.”

“Yeah, but the last time I was on a psych course they were saying that sociopaths are disorganized and psychopaths are organized. So a sociopath will act rashly and make an extreme response to a normal situation, as if their impulse control has been switched off.”

Lumley’s jaw dropped in surprise. “Are you shitting me?” she said.

Mitchell grinned. “Hey, the woman giving the lecture had a great rack, what can I say? I paid attention and I asked questions. “But she said that psychopaths were more organized and often fantasized about their acts before carrying them out. And that’s what Slater’s doing, right? He’s writing down what he plans to do, which is about as organized as you can get. Anyway he’s a psychopath. Doesn’t matter what’s on the label just so long as we put him away.”

“Except he hasn’t actually done anything yet, has he?”

“Yeah, well I’m gonna get his file and go through it line by line. Back then they were probably treating him like a distraught family member, it might start to look different if we’re thinking of him as a cold, hard killer.”

“So we go through his file and bring him back in, is that the plan?”

“Sure, but when we do, keep your distance,” warned Mitchell.

“What do you mean?”

“Psychopaths can be charming. Charismatic. Manipulative. That’s how they get close to their victims.”

Lumley’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, Ed? I’m a moth to his flame, is that what you think?”

“I’m just saying be careful, that’s all.”

“I’m not the victim type, Ed,” she said. “Never have been, never will be.”