CHAPTER 32

 

Slater sat back in his chair. His RayBans were perched on the back of his head. It was just after seven in the evening and Mitchell and Lumley had left him on his own in the interview room for the best part of two hours. It was a standard technique, letting the suspect worry about what was going to happen. But it didn’t seem to have fazed Slater in the least and he grinned at them as they took their places on the opposite side of the table.

Mitchell stared at Slater impassively for several seconds before speaking. “When was the last time you saw Jenny Cameron?”

Slater shrugged. “A few days ago. I’m not sure. Last time I was in Grose’s class, I guess.”

“What about her apartment? When was the last time you were there?”

“Never been to her place.”

“You sure about that?” asked Mitchell.

“It’s not the sort of thing I’d forget,” said Slater. “She’s fit, is Jenny Cameron.”

“She gets your pulse racing, does she?” asked Lumley.

Slater grinned at her. “Not as much as you do, Joe.”

“Detective Lumley to you,” she said.

“I thought we’d moved beyond the formal stage,” he said.

Mitchell pointed his finger at Slater. “If you were in that apartment, the CSU guys will find out. And then we’ll have you.”

“CSU? Don’t you mean CSI?”

“What?” said Mitchell.

“I thought it was CSI. Like the TV show.”

“In New York it’s the Crime Scene Unit. CSU. You don’t want to believe everything you see on the TV, Slater. Real CSU investigators don’t carry guns.” He pulled his automatic from his holster. “But detectives do. We carry guns and every now and again, if we’re lucky, we get to use them.”

“Ed…” said Lumley.

“Don’t worry, Joe,” said Mitchell, holstering his weapon. “I wouldn’t dream of accidentally putting a bullet into Mr Slater’s head.”

“See there’s the thing, Sergeant Mitchell,” said Slater, taking his pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“You can’t smoke in here, “ said Lumley.

“I’m not smoking. I just want to hold the pack. It’s a tactile thing.” He put the pack on the table and began turning it around slowly. Side. Top. Bottom. Side. “Like I was saying, Sergeant Mitchell. It’s not CSI, it’s CSU. But ninety per cent of people would think it’s the latter because they watch the TV show. And most people think CSI investigators carry guns and solve crimes when in fact all they do is process crime scenes.”

“Your point being?” said Mitchell.

“My point being that you’re telling me not to believe what I see on TV, yet you seem hell bent on believing what I wrote in a work of fiction. A novel.”

“It’s not the same thing at all,” said Mitchell.

Slater shrugged and continued to play with the pack.

“You said you were going to kill a student,” said Mitchell. “Now Jenny Cameron has disappeared and her bathroom is awash with blood.”

“But no body, right?”

Mitchell narrowed his eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you haven’t mentioned a body. Just the blood. So all you have at the moment is a missing person who might have cut her finger.”

“There was a lot of blood,” said Lumley. “But you know that. You were there. You did it.”

“I don’t even know where Jenny lives,” said Slater.

“You never went to her apartment?”

Slater shook his head. “She said she lived in Chelsea but that’s all I know.”

“In your book you said you followed her to her apartment.”

“My book’s a work of fiction.”

Mitchell’s eyes hardened. “What did you do with the body, Slater?”

Slater sat back in his chair and folded his arms and said nothing.

Mitchell leaned forward. “Cat got your tongue?”

Slater smiled. “See, I’ve never understood what that meant? How could a cat possibly have my tongue? In the whole history of emergency room medicine has a patient ever turned up with his tongue missing and blamed a cat?” He toyed with his cigarette pack as he spoke.

“You’re good at avoiding answering questions that make you uncomfortable, aren’t you?” said Mitchell. “Where is Jenny Cameron’s body?”

“You tell me,” said Slater. “And we’ve already agreed that all you have is blood on the floor.”

“Where else could that have come from?”

Slater shrugged carelessly. “Maybe it was the wrong time of the month.”

“You bastard,” hissed Mitchell. He grabbed the pack, dropped it onto the floor, and stamped on it. “I’ve just about had as much as I can take from you.”

Lumley pulled back the empty chair and sat down next to Mitchell. “How about a coffee, Adrian?” she asked. “I could do with a coffee. What about you?”

“Coffee would be good,” said Slater.

“How do you take it?”

“Same as my women,” said Slater. “Hot and black.” He grinned. “Joke.”

Lumley looked across at Mitchell. They exchanged a look and Slater realized that she wanted to be alone with him. Or at least to have Mitchell out of the room for a few minutes. He resisted the urge to smile. She wanted to play Good Cop, Bad Cop. He crossed his legs at the ankles and waited to see how she’d play it.

Mitchell left the room and Lumley waited for the door to close before speaking. When she did her voice was low and soothing, the way you’d talk to a spooked horse.

“I can see how it could've happened, Adrian. You were arguing. You lost your temper. It happens. It happens to everybody.” She leaned over the table towards him, like a priest waiting to hear confession. “You lashed out, maybe she fell, hit her head. You didn't mean to do it. It just happened.”

Slater put his head in his hands and muttered incoherently.

“So she's dead. It's not your fault, maybe she even asked for it. But then you panicked. That's when you remembered the book. That's what gave you the idea of getting rid of the body. So you did what anyone else would do. You got rid of the evidence. I can understand that, Adrian. She was dead. It didn't hurt her. But you have to tell us where the body is. You have to help us so that we can get you out of this mess.”

Slater shook his head and mumbled something.

Lumley leaned closer. Her face was inches from his. “You can tell me, Adrian. I’m here to help you.”

Slater turned his face slowly towards her, then before she could react he licked her cheek. She jumped back and yelped. Her chair fell backwards as she stood up, her eyes blazing. “If you don't start answering some questions, I’m gonna beat the living shit outta you,” she shouted.

Slater leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “I’m shaking,” he said.

“You think I’m joking, Slater? You think I can’t do it? You think because I’m a woman I can’t take you? Because you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”

The door opened and Mitchell walked in with three coffees on a plastic tray. “What’s wrong?” he asked Lumley.

Lumley picked up the chair. “Nothing,” she said.

“Detective Lumley was just explaining how investigations are carried out here in New York City,” said Slater. He reached over and took one of the coffees. “You didn’t spit in it, did you?” asked Slater.

“Nah,” said Mitchell. “I pissed in it, though.”

“Nice,” said Slater. He sipped his coffee and smacked his lips appreciatively.

Mitchell sat down. “You think you’re pretty darn smart, don’t you?”

Slater shrugged. “I’ve got a pretty high IQ, that’s true.”

“Through the roof, I’m told.” Mitchell sipped his coffee.

Slater did the same. They put their cups down on the table together. “Told by whom?”

“The therapist who treated you in Los Angeles after your father killed himself.”

Slater smiled thinly. “I’m confused, Sergeant. Wouldn’t my sessions with a medical professional be covered by privilege?”

“Probably,” said Mitchell. “And we probably wouldn’t be able to use them in court. But all we’re doing here is talking. Chewing the fat.”

“You spoke to my therapist?”

“Let’s just say that I know that you were a bright kid but that you had issues. Bed-wetting. A few pets that got hurt. The odd fire. All the common or garden precursors of a serial killer. And that was before your father blew his head off with a shotgun.”

“You’re treading on dangerous ground, Mitchell,” said Slater, quietly.

“Compared with what? Killing a girl and butchering her?”

“You’ve no proof of that. Don’t you get what’s happening here? The accusations you’re making are pure fiction. The same as my book.”

“You think this is a game, don’t you?” said Mitchell.

“If it is, you’re not making a very good job of it.” He looked at his watch. “Time’s a wasting,” he said. “And as much as I enjoy these little chats. I do have a book to write.”

“We’ve not finished,” said Mitchell.

Slater stood up. “Yes you have,” he said. “You’ve no body and no evidence. You’ve got nothing. If you had anything you’d have charged me already. It’s time to put up or shut up, Sergeant. Either you arrest me or I’m out of here.” Mitchell and Lumley looked at each other but said nothing. Slater grinned, knowing that he’d won. He threw them a mock salute. “You guys have a great day, what’s left of it,” he said, and walked out of the room.

Mitchell cursed and slapped his hand down on the table.

“Well that went well,” said Lumley.

“We’ll get the bastard,” said Mitchell. “Guys like that, they want to get caught.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“He wants to know how smart he is. That’ll be his downfall. Because eventually there’s only one way that he can prove to us how smart he is and that’s to confess.”

Lumley sipped her coffee. “I’d prefer we got him by old-fashioned police work,” she said.

“That’d be nice,” said Mitchell. “Any thoughts on how the hell we’re going to do that?”

“My thinking cap’s on,” she said. “Did you see the mirroring, by the way?”

“The what?”

“The mirroring. He was doing it to you all the time. When you reached for your coffee, he did. When you folded your arms, he copied you. He was even matching his breathing to yours.”

“Why the hell would he do that?”

“To put you at ease.”

Mitchell scowled. “Well that sure as hell didn’t work, did it?”

“It’s something sociopaths do, instinctively. Good salesmen do it, as well, you make a customer feel that you’re in synch with him and he’s more likely to do business with you. Sociopaths do it so that you’ll think they’re normal, when of course they’re not.” She nodded at the door. “Slater’s a Grade A sociopath, Ed. No question of it. He’s never going to confess. The big question is whether he’s going to kill again or if it was just a one time thing.”

“And what do you think?”

Lumley grimaced. “I think Adrian Slater is one sick son of a bitch, and one murder is more than enough. I’m going to put him behind bars if it’s the last thing I do.”