by Blake Pierce
Riley smiled warmly at Brad as she and Ann Marie sat down across the table from him.
As she set the folders on the table, she said in a kindly voice, “I’d ask how you’re doing, Brad. But I don’t guess you’re having a very good day right now.”
Brad slumped and sighed. “No, I can’t say that I am,” he said.
“Well, Agent Esmer and I will try to keep this short. Maybe this is all a misunderstanding.”
“Does that mean I can get out of here soon?” Brad asked.
Riley tilted her head sympathetically.
“Not right away, I’m afraid,” she said. “You resisted arrest back there. A bit roughly, I might add. You know that’s against the law, and you might get charged for it. But if you just answer my questions, maybe we can make things a whole lot easier. Maybe we can kind of play down the knife, for example.”
“That sounds good,” Brad replied, looking interested for the first time.
Riley opened the folder for the Deena McHugh case and showed him a picture of the middle-aged woman.
She said, “Tell me, Brad—do you recognize this woman?”
Brad shook his head.
“Are you sure?” Riley said. “It’s really important for you to be sure.”
Brad scoffed. “Hey, I’m not sure of much of anything right now. But she doesn’t look familiar to me.”
Riley exchanged a glance with her partner, inviting her to pitch in.
In her kindly, mortician-like manner, Ann Marie said, “Her name was Deena McHugh. Does that name sound familiar?”
“No,” Brad said. “Did something happen to her?”
Riley gave Ann Marie a nudge, signaling her not to answer the question. If Brad really was the serial killer they were looking for, it was best not to complicate things by telling him things he already knew. Their goal was to get him to tell them everything himself.
Riley opened the folder for the Henry Studdard case and showed him the picture of the long-missing boy.
“What about this boy?” she asked. “His name was Henry Studdard.”
Brad shook his head again.
“Are you sure?” Riley asked again. “The picture’s pretty old.”
“I guess I’m sure,” Brad said. “Should I know him?”
Again, Riley didn’t volunteer an answer.
Instead, she studied his face closely. She remembered the “math” Ann Marie had done in the car. Henry had been thirteen when he’d disappeared, and Brad was probably twelve or thirteen. Riley tried to imagine Brad as he might have been in the beginning of adolescence—slighter, more awkward, but full of raging emotions.
Would such a boy have been capable of murdering a younger boy?
She wasn’t yet sure, but she thought maybe he might be.
She opened the folder for the Yvonne Swenson case and showed him a picture of the slain vice principal.
“I’m sure you know who this is,” she said, not disagreeably.
“Yeah, but what’s the point of getting into that?” he said in a defensive tone. “The sheriff and his cops really put me through hell when she went missing. It was a waste of time. I had an alibi.”
Scanning the report, Riley said, “Yeah, you were working at the mall, and your workmates vouched for you. Sorry to dredge up ancient history, but we’ve got to be thorough. I hope you understand.”
Brad let out a grunt of dismay.
“Anyway, you definitely knew Ms. Swenson, right?” Riley said.
“Oh, yeah,” Brad growled. “And if you want to know if I’m sorry about what happened to her, I’m not.”
“You didn’t get along?” Riley said.
“Nope.”
“Why not?” Ann Marie put in.
Brad snorted. “You’d have to ask her—if you could. She just took some kind of dislike to me, that’s all. I can’t explain it. I wasn’t the only one she was hard on, though. Lots of kids thought she was a bitch.”
Riley was pleased with what she was hearing. The “good cop” tactic was paying off, and Brad was starting to let out some genuine feelings.
It’s time to start leaning in a little more, she thought.
She thumbed through the file until she came to the notorious list with “FOR TERMINATION” written across the top. She pointed to where the vice principal’s name was written under the scrawled skull and crossbones.
“Why did you put her name on this list?” Riley asked.
Brad rolled his eyes.
“Come on,” he said. “You’re not going lay this on me again, are you? I was still a kid. I got pissed off with some people. I wrote this list to let off steam. I didn’t mean anything by it. And I sure as hell didn’t expect anyone else to go reading it.”
Riley ran her finger down the page until she got to the name “Ally.”
She said, “‘Ally’ is a girl’s name, right?”
Brad said nothing, but his face looked pained and sad.
Riley added, “And you were pissed off with her too, right? That’s why you put her name on the list, right?”
Brad actually started trembling a little.
Riley felt a sharp tingle of expectation.
“Just who is ‘Ally,’ Brad?” she said.
He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped.
I’ve hit a nerve, she thought.
She spoke again in a gentle voice. “I think you’d better tell us about Ally.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
It was obvious to Riley that Brad was struggling to keep his emotions under control. She just waited to see how that worked out, but her expectations were rising by the second.
If he breaks down now, everything might come out, she thought.
In a choked voice, Brad said, “I never meant Ally any harm.”
Ann Marie leaned toward him and asked, “Just who was Ally?”
Brad didn’t reply. He was fighting back his tears.
“Ally is—was—Allison Hillis,” Riley said. “Am I right?”
Brad nodded.
Riley said, “If you didn’t mean her any harm, why did you put her on this list?”
“I’m sorry about what happened to her,” Brad said. “It was terrible what happened to her.”
Riley studied his face closely. She wondered—what was he feeling at the moment?
Guilt?
Grief?
Both?
She was pretty sure that she and her partner were about to find out. She thought the boy was reaching a point where he wanted to tell them about Allison. He probably needed to let out some long-pent-up feelings.
Ann Marie asked, “You and Allison went to different schools, right?”
Brad nodded again.
“So how did you know each other?” Ann Marie asked.
“We met at a basketball game,” Brad said. “Our schools were playing against each other. We caught each other’s eyes in the stands across the court from each other. Through the whole game, she kept smiling at me, and I kept smiling at her. It was like we … already knew each other.”
He sighed at the memory.
“It was like … well, I can’t tell you what it was like. The girls at my school weren’t interested in me at all. I never knew why. And here was this pretty, sweet girl across the basketball court smiling at me like we’d always been lifelong friends. It was magical.”
Ann Marie asked, “Then what happened?”
“After the game, she got away from her friends and we managed to find each other. We walked and talked for an hour or so. We had so much to say to each other. I had a car, so I drove her home—she lived over in Aurora Groves. And when I walked her to the door, we kissed. It was …”
He shook his head as if unable to find the words for how he’d felt.
“Well, I couldn’t sleep at all that night. I kept worrying that I’d wake up and it would turn out to be a dream. But in the morning I texted her, and she texted me back, and she seemed as happy as I was to get in touch. She told me she’d h
ad trouble sleeping too.”
He seemed to slip away into memory for a moment. When Ann Marie opened her mouth to ask a question, Riley gave her glance that signaled not to. They’d reached a point in this interrogation that was familiar to Riley. Right now it was important to let the suspect speak on his own.
He continued, “We communicated a lot during the next few days—text messages, emails, video chats, phone calls. But it wasn’t enough—for me, at least. I kept suggesting we get together for a real date. She sort of kept avoiding the idea. Finally I just got her on the phone and asked her what the problem was.”
His jaw clenched tightly.
“She said she was sorry, but her parents would never let her date a guy like me. She hoped I’d understand.”
He drummed his fingers on the table.
“Oh, I understood, all right,” he said. “I felt like an idiot for ever thinking I could get anywhere with a rich girl from Aurora Groves—not a guy like me, living in a dump of a house, working at odd jobs to help my drunk of a dad pay the rent, with a police record going all the way back to when I was just a kid. No, I just wasn’t in her league.”
Brad’s face twitched.
“I got mad. I told her she should have told me where things stood between us from the start. I accused her of leading me on, getting her kicks from slumming with a poor kid from the wrong side of Winneway. She got upset and hung up. I can’t say I blamed her.”
He shook his head and added, “I guess I got a little crazy after that. I kept sending her texts and emails and leaving voicemails, begging her to give me another chance. She didn’t reply to any of them. Well, finally I got the message. I know when I’m not wanted, I’m used to it, believe me. But …”
His voice choked again with emotion.
“I sent her one last text, with just one word. ‘Bitch.’”
He raised his manacled hands to his face and wiped away a tear.
“I never heard from her after that, and she never heard from me. And now …”
He couldn’t force the words out, but Riley knew what he was starting to say.
“And now she’s dead.”
He was weeping softly now.
“I was mad at her when I put her name on that list,” he said. “I guess I was kind of mad at the world. I still get that way from time to time. But I never meant her any harm. I liked her a lot. She was a wonderful girl. Too wonderful for a guy like me. I should have just accepted that. That last text I sent … I shouldn’t have been mean like that … I should have just said, ‘I understand.’”
He kept crying quietly.
Riley felt startled. Whatever she was expecting to hear from him, this wasn’t it.
Was he the murderer they were looking for?
Maybe, Riley told herself. Don’t count him out yet.
This show of grief could all be an act. A true sociopath could fake all the emotions Brad was showing right now. On the other hand, his emotions could be authentic. Even if he really was the killer, he could genuinely feel guilty about killing this particular girl.
But Riley was far from sure of what to think.
She reached into her mind for a different approach, and something started to occur to her. In the research Bill had done yesterday, he had found a connection between the killer’s messages and the origin of the word “tragedy.”
He’d told her about it on the phone.
“The Greek word ‘tragedy’ literally means ‘goat song.’”
Maybe that’s the key, Riley thought.
She leaned across the table and spoke in a sympathetic voice.
“I’m sorry. It was a real … tragedy, wasn’t it? Not just for Allison, but for you too.”
He glanced up at her when she emphasized the word tragedy. Riley studied his face, trying to gauge his reaction. Did the word evoke anything in him? Did it seem to have any significance for him?
Then Brad shrugged and said, “I guess so, if you want to put it that way. I just … hate feeling this way about it. I feel so bad.”
Try as she might, Riley simply couldn’t read his expression. But she didn’t sense that the word had any significance to him. As he slumped down in his chair, she tried to think of yet another approach. She hastily considered details of the case that weren’t yet public knowledge, even though Madge Torrance knew more about them than she ought to.
She said cautiously, “Brad, what do you know about the Goatman?”
Brad looked up at Riley in apparent surprise.
“What?” he asked.
Ann Marie put in, “Have you heard of him? The Goatman?”
Brad wrinkled his brow.
“You mean that monster people talk about over around Beltsville? What’s that got to do with anything?”
Brad wasn’t crying anymore. He just looked confused, but Riley sensed that it wasn’t because she had touched a nerve. Instead, she got the strong feeling that he really had no idea why she’d mentioned the Goatman. The question had just seemed weird and out of the blue to him.
She also sensed that he’d told them everything he was going to tell them.
Before Ann Marie could ask any more questions, Riley spoke to him.
“Thanks for your time, Brad.”
“Wait a minute,” Brad said. “Aren’t I getting out of here?”
“That will be up to Sheriff Wightman,” Riley said. “Like I said before, resisting arrest is a crime.”
Without another word, Riley got up from the table. Ann Marie followed her out into the adjoining room, where they found Sheriff Wightman pacing impatiently.
“Why did you quit questioning him?” Wightman asked. “He was about to crack. He was about to confess.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Riley said.
“Why not?” Wightman asked.
“I don’t think he had anything to confess,” she replied. “Because in spite of all his shortcomings, he’s not our killer.”
Riley felt a chill to hear herself say that. She hadn’t been sure of it herself until now that the words were out of her mouth.
Wightman’s eyes widened.
“What do you mean, he’s not our killer? Hell, you got him to admit that he knew Allison Hillis—not only knew her, but was angry with her. And they didn’t even go to the same schools. Do you call that a coincidence?”
“Yes, I do.”
“That’s crazy.”
Riley stifled a groan of frustration.
Apparently she was going to have to educate this seasoned lawman about a basic fact of investigative work.
“Coincidences happen, Sheriff Wightman,” she said. “In fact, they’re inevitable in our line of work, and they can be really misleading. You ought to know that.”
Wightman’s face reddened. He obviously didn’t like being contradicted.
“I’m sure as hell not going to let him go,” Wightman said.
“Then don’t,” Riley said. “Like I told him just now, it’s your decision. He’s guilty of resisting arrest, but he has been cooperative during questioning.” She took a breath then added, “We’re not finished with this case yet. If I’m right, there’s still a killer out there, and—”
Wightman interrupted, “And I’m sure you’re wrong. We’ve got our man, and we can prove it. That’s what we should focus on. I’m going in there and I’m going to keep questioning him.”
“Go ahead,” Riley said.
Wightman continued, “And I’m going to wrap this up once and for all. If we keep chasing after somebody who doesn’t exist, we’ll just be spinning our wheels and wasting resources and taxpayer money. I won’t have it.”
“What are you saying?” Ann Marie asked.
Wightman scowled.
“I’m saying I won’t be needing BAU help anymore. You’re here at my request, and you stay at my pleasure. I’m telling you to go back to Quantico. The sooner the better.”
Riley was angry as well. But she knew better than to lose her temper.
Things are bad enoug
h as it is.
She said in a tight, controlled voice, “Whoever the killer is, he said he’s going to strike again tomorrow—or try to. At least impose a curfew for tomorrow night.”
Wightman scoffed. “And call off Halloween?”
Riley nodded.
Wightman shook his head incredulously.
“The whole town will be furious,” he said.
“So what if they are?” Riley said. “It isn’t your job to make everybody happy all the time. Are you sure you want to risk the public’s safety? Do you want another murder on your head?”
Wightman’s eyes narrowed, and he fell silent for a moment.
“I’ll order the curfew,” he said. “But I won’t be needing the two of you anymore.”
Riley nodded brusquely. As she and Ann Marie headed out of the booth, Sheriff Wightman was already on his way into the interrogation room to continue questioning Brad Cribbins.
As they left the building and walked toward the car, Riley saw that it was getting dark outside, and the reporters who had besieged them earlier had given up and left for the day.
When they climbed into the car, Ann Marie said, “Well. That was kind of a bummer.”
That’s an understatement, Riley said.
Ann Marie added, “Maybe we should get something to eat before we drive back to Quantico. Have we got enough gas for the trip?”
Riley didn’t reply. She thought hard as she sat at the wheel without turning on the ignition. Sheriff Wightman had made himself more than clear just now.
“I won’t be needing the two of you anymore.”
She knew that it was also true that she and Ann Marie were here at his pleasure, and he could order them to go whenever he wished.
But still …
She turned to Ann Marie and asked her, “Do you think Brad Cribbins is our killer?”
Ann Marie crinkled her brow, as if surprised at the question.
“No,” she said. “No way.”
Riley felt relieved that she and her new partner were in agreement.
“Good,” she said. “It looks like we’ll be spending another night in Winneway. Let’s go get something to eat.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The man was enjoying the dancing clatter of Pan’s cloven feet as they capered to the faint flutelike sound. Soon the tune would grow louder and these feet would leave their mark on a new sacrifice to the ancient god of chaos.
