by Blake Pierce
“No,” said Ripley.
“Japanese. Focuses on pressure points. Hit certain areas until they’re disoriented. Temple, abdomen, spine.”
“Good old paralysis. It’s extreme, but seems to have done the trick,” Ripley said. She bent down next to Rick. “Didn’t expect it would be you in the restraints tonight, did you?”
Rick coughed up another ball of fluid. “You’ve got nothing on me,” Rick shouted. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” He tried to pick himself up to his feet but fell under the weight of his drunkenness.
“We’ll see about that.” Ripley lifted Rick to his feet. Ella helped steady him. Rick desperately tried to free his hands but he quickly admitted defeat when he realized it was a lost cause. Ripley and Ella marched him to the trailer door, and when they opened it, two young women were standing outside. Both of them were platinum blonde and barely out of their teenage years. One of them had a cigarette lodged between her lips.
“Change of plans,” said Ella, shooing them out of the way with a wave of her hand. Her battle with Rick had given her a newfound sense of authority. The adrenaline was still coursing through her. She was the law, and they damn well better respect it. “We’ll be doing the escorting from here.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ella held open the precinct doors as Ripley pushed the handcuffed man through them. Rick stumbled occasionally, purposely slowing down his pace to annoy the agents. But Ripley’s sharp jabs to his spine soon hurried him up.
Down the corridor and into the main office, their footsteps drew the attention of the night shift officers. Up ahead, Ella spotted Sheriff Harris staring into a pile of paperwork. He jolted out of his chair when he saw them approaching and rushed over to give them a hand. He placed his pen behind his ear and looked the arrestee up and down. A disproving head shake followed.
“Old Rick Corny,” Harris said. “It was only a matter of time before you wound up in here again.”
Rick, dressed in a stained vest and sweatpants and clearly feeling the effects of the cold, snarled at Harris as he swayed between Ripley and Ella. “Just give me my phone call,” Rick said. “I gotta tell your mama I won’t be seein’ her tonight.”
Harris shook his head in disapproval. “Stick him in the ice room, ladies. End of the hallway on the right.”
The entire journey back, Rick had become more obnoxious by the minute. At first, he’d just made lewd comments, something which both agents were used to. But the liquor in his system had slowly reduced him to an incoherent mess. The sudden pang of cool air had given him a second wind, but once Rick was thrust into the interrogation room at the precinct, he went back to mumbling nonsense and zoning in and out of consciousness. Ripley sat him in a hard wooden chair, purposely designed to be uncomfortable. Rick didn’t utter a word. The two agents took a seat opposite him.
“Ice room?” said Ella. She addressed the question to Ripley.
“It means interrogation room. It’s an old police trick to turn the air conditioning up to the max to put the suspect under additional stress.”
Ella was a little surprised Ripley revealed such information in front of Rick, but given that his eyes were shut and he was slumped forward against the desk, it didn’t seem too much of an issue. She idly put herself in his position as she let the room’s prickly temperature settle into her nerve endings. She felt the cold air seep into her lungs and throat and eyes. It was sharp, unpleasant.
“Mr. Cornette, you’re not here to sleep. You’re here to answer our questions. Understand?” Ripley said.
Rick gave nothing in the way of a response. He stirred in his chair, rocking from side to side. Ella looked at Ripley and shrugged.
Ripley suddenly booted the underside of the table, lifting the whole thing off the ground and jerking Rick back to life. He blinked furiously and caught a stream of drool from his lips.
“What?” he said. “What do you want?”
“I want to put you in jail for the murder of your ex-wife, and you’re making it very easy for me,” Ripley said. “Are you going to talk, or shall we take your silence as an indication of guilt?”
Rick spurted out something that almost resembled words, but neither Ella nor Ripley understood any of it. “I think we’re wasting our time here,” Ella said. “He’s too sloshed to give us any real information.”
Finally, Rick collapsed face down onto the wooden table in front of him. Ripley sighed. “I hope that hurt. Come on.” She motioned to Ella. “Let’s leave him here. You’re right, we’re wasting our time.”
The two agents stood up and left the room. Ripley summoned Harris over to lock Rick in for the night.
“We can try him again in the morning,” Ella said. The agents headed back to the desk Ella had been working at. She picked up her bag which she’d stashed underneath. There were still a few dreary-eyed officers dotted around the room, pushing themselves on with the aid of coffee and confectionary.
“When I say we’re wasting our time, I mean by talking to this drunkard at all. He’s not our guy, and I’ll bet my life on it,” Ripley said. “We’ll keep him here until morning. Harris, charge him for being drunk and disorderly and attempted GBH. After that, he’s free to go.”
Glancing back at Rick through the small window, Ella realized that all she could determine from looking at Rick was that he was a man, with all of the features that made him human and nothing else. She could visualize Rick carrying out the murder of Christine Hartwell, but at the same time couldn’t imagine him doing anything of the sort. It occurred to her that she had no idea what Rick might be thinking, or what secrets he might be hiding. She saw an impenetrable wall of human anatomy, with all of the truth concealed and impossible to uncover. The fact that Ripley could so easily claim with such certainty that Rick wasn’t responsible for this murder filled her with awe, jealousy, and a dread that she didn’t possess this ability herself.
“How can you be so sure?” Ella asked.
“Look at the state of him. The man is a mess. Physically, mentally, emotionally. He couldn’t have pulled off a crime scene as elaborate as the one we saw. Besides, if he wanted his ex-wife snubbed out, why go to such lengths to kill her? He would have done it discreetly and with as little mess as possible.”
Now, Ella saw it. Ripley was right, but she pushed her further, desperate for a deeper explanation. Not just an explanation into her willingness to free Rick, but an explanation into how Ripley was able to simply see these things.
“What if he did it as a way to throw us off the scent? Like, he purposely went overboard with the kill to make us think it wasn’t him?” Ella asked.
“Like I said before, get your head out of those books. Very few killers would be that smart. When we met Rick, he barely knew what day it was. And judging by his trailer, he’s been living like an ape for months. He drowns his sorrows with booze and buys hookers. That’s his life. He doesn’t have the mental or physical capabilities to be our perpetrator. I could smell it right from the get-go. We needed to bring him in,” Ripley continued, “because we’re stuck for leads here. And abusive assholes like him really test me.”
Ella nodded, taking it all in. The exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours hit her, sending a spike of sharp pain through the center of her brain. All of the traveling and rushing around was a whole new world to her, and the adrenaline comedown had completely depleted her energy levels. “Call it a night?” she asked.
“Already? It’s only nine p.m.”
Ella felt her heart sink.
“Sheriff,” Ripley called out, “can you take us down to the coroner’s office? Rookie here wants her first taste of bodies on the slab.”
“The other victims?” said Ella. “Now?”
“Now?” Harris echoed Ella’s statements from the other side of the room. “It won’t be open this late. All my guys are drained and I’ve gotta get myself home too. My wife is starting to think I’m playing away with all these late nights.”
“All right,” Ripley sa
id. “Come on then, Rookie.”
Thank heavens, Ella thought. I need to be alone to reenergize.
“Want me to drive to the hotel?” Ella said.
“Hotel? No, no, no. We’re heading somewhere else. And we definitely aren’t driving there.”
CHAPTER NINE
Freya’s Tavern reminded Ella of the Milestone pub back in D.C., which was the go-to place for any law enforcement personnel. But here, there was a much different clientele. Judging by the looks she and Ripley got as they walked in, something about their appearance was worth gawping it.
An independent bar located within spitting distance of Christine Hartwell’s hardware store, it was haunted by a strong scent of stale beer and boasted décor ripped straight from a British pub of the nineteen eighties. Circular tables, gambling machines, and not a single neon sign anywhere to be found. Its drab interior was almost impressive.
On a Saturday night, Freya’s was the go-to place for locals looking to drink away the stress of the working week. But tonight, only the most hardened booze hounds had ventured out of their homes. Ella had a good idea why.
Ella found a small booth near a window and looked out as she sat. She could see the cordoned-off row of shops. Two officers sat in a police car outside, keeping any curious visitors at bay.
“What are you having?” Ripley shouted from the bar.
“Coke, please.”
She felt a little dirty drinking alcohol while a murder victim’s blood dried only a stone’s throw away, which was why she stuck to soda.
Ripley, on the other hand, wasn’t so reserved. She came back to their table clutching a whiskey tumbler half-filled with golden brown liquid. Ripley gulped the whole thing down in one and relaxed back in her seat. Ella sipped hers slowly, feeling like perhaps she was being judged for ordering something soft.
“No, I don’t have a drinking problem,” Ripley said. “Except when I can’t get a drink.”
Ella laughed. “I would never suggest such a thing. I’m just trying to keep a clear head myself. The last thing I want is to wake up feeling more tired than I already do.”
“It’s fine, I know you were thinking it, but what’s life without a drink or two? Especially in this game.”
Ella got an urge to prod around, to maybe ask some things which weren’t related to murder or profiling or FBI protocols. If there was ever a time to do it, it was now.
“Do you think your job drives people to drink?” Ella asked.
“Oh yes, it does, and for two reasons. A lot of law enforcement drink to forget, but I’m not quite there yet.”
“No?”
“The way I see it, I’m already in the green. Most agents don’t make it to my age. I’ve probably got less than ten years left in the job before I have to hang up my badge. When that day comes, I give it another few years before my number gets called, so I might as well enjoy something while I’m still around.”
“You mean you don’t enjoy much anymore?” Ella asked, keeping it as casual as possible.
“It’s difficult. In my thirties, I always swore I’d never be one of those career types who were married to their jobs and had nothing else to live for. Twenty years later, that’s exactly where I am. My sons are off doing their own thing, only coming back to see me at Christmas. I got a four-hundred-thousand-dollar house with three empty bedrooms waiting for me back in Washington, and a couple of ex-husbands who don’t want to speak to me.”
Since the bar was relatively quiet, Ripley simply called the bartender from her seat for another whiskey. He flashed her an “OK” sign.
“But you’ve done everything else,” Ella said. “There are people all across the country who look up to you. You’ve got accolades people would kill for. You get to travel the world and get paid well for it. Sounds like a dream to me.”
“Exactly. It sounds like fun, but so does camping out on Mount Fuji. People tend to change their minds when they’ve got icicles on their nipples in the middle of the night.”
Ella laughed again. Who knew that the battle-scarred, FBI Hall of Famer Mia Ripley actually had a sense of humor? Maybe it was the drink talking, but this was the most Ella had learned about Ripley since meeting her. The bartender came along and dropped a whiskey in front of Ripley and a multicolored cocktail in front of Ella.
“Sorry, this isn’t for me,” Ella said.
“I know, it’s—”
“Don’t say it,” Ripley interrupted. “A present from those gentlemen propping up the bar over there?”
“Correct,” the bartender said. “I can take it back if you wish?”
Ella looked across to see two guys, probably late twenties, desperately trying to look like they were in mid-conversation. They looked like farmer types, a far cry from the usual city slickers who pulled the same trick in bars around Washington.
“No, I’ll keep it, thank you,” Ella said. The bartender left. She didn’t want to upset whoever it was who sent it. It was more trouble than it was worth. Besides, there was a part of her that appreciated it.
“Lucky you. I can’t remember the last time that happened to me,” Ripley said. “It must be nice to know you’ve still got it.”
“It’s a really nice gesture, but it always feels so empty, you know?”
“I know exactly. Do you have a boyfriend back home?”
“Nope. No boyfriend.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Does a housemate count?”
“Sure.”
“Then yes, I have one girlfriend,” she laughed. Ella pushed the cocktail over to Ripley’s side of the table. “There you go. Consider this my first gift to you.”
“Well, it’s probably sweeter than a diabetic’s pee but a free drink is a free drink. She clinked the cocktail glass against her whiskey tumbler to attract the attention of the two gentlemen, then raised it to them. “Thank you, boys,” she shouted, “but it takes more than a cheap cocktail to bag a rookie like this.” Ripley took a gulp, then winced. “Ugh. Hideous.”
Ella slid along her chair to hide away from the two guys. She felt a little embarrassed. From her past experiences, there was no such thing as a free drink. They always wanted something in return. The moment where they usually come over and introduce themselves passed slowly and painfully. Ella breathed a sigh of relief as the two men left the bar.
“Why the questions, anyway?” Ella asked. “Trust me when I say my life isn’t all that interesting outside of my Intelligence bubble. If anything, I should be the one grilling you. Isn’t that what an inquisitive student should do?”
“Go on then. Hit me with your best,” Ripley said.
“Most intense case you ever worked on?”
“David Parker Ray. 1999.”
Ella expected a little more but nothing came. She already knew all about the David Parker Ray case, and the details went beyond disturbing into another realm entirely. Ripley turned her attention toward the outer world while a brief silence lingered in the air. Ripley took a big gulp of her drink. Ella thought it best not to push any further, so she changed the topic. “Biggest regret?” she asked.
Ripley placed a now-empty whiskey tumbler on the table and swallowed heavily. Next to it, the cocktail still sat half-full.
“Not retiring at fifty,” Ripley said, settling back into her seat. “But I knew if I was just sitting around at home I’d want to get back out in the field. But when I’m out in the field, I regret not giving it all up. It’s a constant battle.”
“Like Rocket Man,” Ella said.
“Who?”
“Rocket Man. The story. The astronaut who misses his family while he’s in space, but misses space when he’s with his family. It’s about the struggle between contentment and chasing that one last high. A lot of people find themselves in your situation when they hit retirement age.”
“And the best advice I can give is don’t let it get to that point. Don’t make the mistake of romanticizing this job, or the people we chase. Serial killers aren’t some k
ind of exotic species to be admired. They’re normal people who shit and stink just like the rest of us. They’re pond scum, and they’re certainly not worth dedicating your life to,” Ripley said. “If I give you a hard time, it’s because I see a little of me in you. But I see a version of me that could have a different ending. Once this is over, go back to your desk job. Make a life outside of work and don’t neglect it. Don’t spend your life hunting killers, or you’ll end up another victim.”
Ella was taken aback. She wasn’t sure what to say. The last thing she expected was to receive a compliment from Mia Ripley, however backhanded it might have been.
“Or even worse, you’ll end up a Rocket Man like me.”
They both laughed.
“The idea of going back to my desk seems really weird,” Ella said. “It’s only been a day, but it feels a million years away.”
“Why did you join the FBI in the first place?” Ripley continued. “A girl with your skills could be making big bucks in the technology world.”
The question she dreaded the most. She’d been asked it a hundred times in her life, and never once gave the honest answer. Maybe it was time to finally open up. She moved her gaze to a low-hanging light above the bar area where the two gentlemen had been sitting. The light blinded her, consuming her vision entirely. For a few moments, she was in a different place and time. Freya’s Tavern dissolved into her childhood bedroom, and she found herself staring at a flashing digital clock.
It was 5:02 a.m. Ella couldn’t remember ever seeing the numbers start with 05 before. She shut her eyes tight in the hope that when she opened them, it would be closer to her usual wake-up time of 7:30.
But it didn’t work. Something had stirred her and now she was wide awake. She sat up in bed and peered behind her curtains. Outside was still pitch-black. Her dad’s sedan was parked crookedly outside their house. He said it dissuaded car thieves from trying to take it.
Ella listened closely to the midnight sounds she’d never been privy to before, the songs the night sang. No cars sped past her window and she couldn’t hear any sign of life from her own house or her neighbors’. Everything was so still and motionless, to the point that she felt a sudden urge to cry. She’d never been the only person awake in the house before.
