Winston nodded and stumbled in. He stopped in front of a urinal and fumbled with his zipper. A toilet flushed and the stall door swung open.
Vic Junn came out and headed for the sinks. David folded his arms. Junn was a looker, the prick. A stroke of luck.
Junn chose the towel dispenser next to Winston. He dried his hands and peered over Winston’s shoulder. Winston hung his head, shoulders hunched forward.
“’Lo, Silver.”
David nodded.
“Ought to at least take the poor bastard’s cuffs off,” Junn muttered on his way out the door.
Winston stayed in front of the urinal, but nothing happened. He zipped his pants and looked at David in the mirror.
“Look, this is silly,” David said. He put his thumb on the release button of the handcuffs. The print registered, and the cuffs sprang open.
“There. I’ll be right outside, okay?”
Winston nodded.
David stood in front of the scarred metal door. Definitely against the rules, this time.
A few minutes later Winston tapped on the door. David took his elbow.
“This way.”
The interrogation room was small, cell-like, the green tile floor battered and dirty. The only furniture was a scarred wood table and two metal chairs, side by side. Mel had set it up just the way David liked. The ashtray was gone, and a pitcher of water and a glass were in the center of the table. A new Miranda-Pro sat to one side.
“Have a seat,” David said.
He pulled the Miranda-Pro close to his end of the table. Then he turned his chair so he faced Winston, almost knee to knee. For the average white middle-class American male, twenty-seven inches was the limit of comfortable proximity. David made sure he was closer.
“Your full name is Dennis Jacob Winston. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
The Miranda-Pro clicked, recording the voices, as well as printing a written copy.
David checked the voice registers. Fine.
“Can you speak up?” he said.
Winston leaned forward. “My name is Dennis Jacob Winston.”
“You are thirty-eight years old, and were born in Greenspier, Ohio. Is this correct?”
“Correct.”
“Your social security number is 2-770-999-321.”
“Yes.”
“Your address is 32 Cliffdale Road, Rainbow Townhomes, zip code 43226-99345-89.”
“Yes.”
“And you live alone?”
“Well, I … have Alex.”
“We usually don’t put cats into the official record, Dennis, but … if you like. You live alone, though you share your home with a cat named Alex. Correct?”
Winston straightened in his chair. “I do.”
“Mr. Winston, has anyone Mirandized you? Advised you of your rights?”
“Your partner. That … Mel.”
“Detective Burnett?”
“Yes, Detective Burnett.”
“Let’s go through it again. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court. You have the right to talk to a paralegal for advice before we ask you any questions, and to have the paralegal with you during questioning.
“You will be appointed a paralegal from the Gucci County Public Defender’s Office, but you are free to hire a paralegal from the private sector, if you so desire.
“If you decide to answer questions without a paralegal present, you retain the right to stop answering questions, at any time. You also have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to a paralegal. Do you understand these rights?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Is there any language you need explained? Any questions concerning these rights?”
“No. No questions.”
“Place your thumb here.” David guided Winston’s hand. The Miranda-Pro beeped. “Good. Now.” David tore the printed copy across the perforation. As usual, the left-hand corner pulled a ragged hunk from the next page.
“Sign this, please. Right there.” David handed Winston a pen. “Do you want a paralegal?”
“I don’t know. What am I being charged with?”
“There are, so far, no official charges lodged. My captain and the DA are working on conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to sell class-A illegal substances, and obstruction of justice.”
“But that … that’s no fair. I’m not the one …”
“Mr. Winston, are you waiving your rights to a paralegal?”
“Look, let’s talk about this. I’m not the one you want.”
David activated the Miranda-Pro. “Mr. Winston, you will have to sign this waiver, if you want to discuss this.”
Winston took the pen.
“Read it,” David said. “Out loud.”
Winston cleared his throat and read.
David leaned back in his chair. “You’re thirty-eight years old.”
Winston sighed loudly.
“Is that right, Dennis? Thirty-eight?”
“Why do you ask, if you already know?”
David folded his arms and waited. Winston sat quietly for three minutes. He swallowed and shifted in his seat. He looked up at David.
“Well?”
David stared at him.
“All right, yes, I’m thirty-eight years old.”
“You got a B.S. in chemical engineering at Georgia Tech.”
“Chem E and pharmacology.”
“And an M.S. in computer science. At Virginia Pol.”
“Virginia Polytechnical Institute.”
“You graduated Phi Beta Kappa with Highest Distinction. From Georgia Tech.”
“So?”
“You spent six years working for Procter and Gamble, then three years at Kaypon Pharmaceuticals. Then you moved to Washington, D.C., and spent two years working on a government project called Ferrus. What was your job title on that project?”
“I was … you would have to have a security clearance for me to talk about that. You have no ‘need to know.’”
Della had been told exactly that when she’d tried to get some background on Project Ferrus.
“And then you transferred here to Saigo City. To work on Project Horizon.”
“Yeah.”
“How long have you known Santana?”
“Not … not long.”
“A week?”
“Yeah. Yeah, ’bout that.” Winston’s muscles were rigid.
David poured water in the glass and pushed it toward him. Winston took it gratefully, draining it halfway.
“Maybe a month,” David said.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe, Winston, more like three years. Maybe since you started on Project Horizon.”
“No, I didn’t know him then. I only just … only just met him.”
David shook his head sadly. “Don’t lie to me, Dennis.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Dennis, I’ve been a cop a long time. I can spot the good ones.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
David sat back in his chair and folded his arms.
It was strange, but unmistakable, that the smarter they were, the more physiological changes when they lied. Unless, of course, you were dealing with a psychopath. Someone like Santana.
It would be fatal to let Winston get away with even a small lie.
David was aware of footsteps in the hallway.
“Look at you, Dennis. Your mouth is dry—go ahead, have some more water. Your face is red. Feel how hot your cheeks are. Your muscles are stiff as a board. You’re not going to get anywhere, unless you tell the truth. You’re going to jail. For murder. For dealing.”
“That’s not fair!”
David softened his tone. “No, of course it’s not fair. You were trying to do your job.”
“I was.”
“You wanted to help people.”
“But the thing is, I do. I really do!”
“Hey, Dennis, I understand
that. It’s the other people, the Santanas, who ought to be locked up. But I don’t have anything on Santana. And I do have a lot on you.”
“Like what?”
David smiled sadly.
“Honest to God, Silver, you got to believe me. I do not know anything about that end.”
“What end?”
“The … the dealing.”
“And the killing.”
“And the killing.” A drop of sweat rolled down Winston’s temple.
“See, Dennis,” David leaned close. “See, what I’m saying is, maybe you weren’t a part of it. You’re not the kind of man who murders young women, who kills policemen. But you know some things that can help me get the ones who did. What I’m trying to find out here is … are you the kind of guy who doesn’t care? Who can turn away when a young girl’s neck gets snapped by a drug dealer?”
Winston flinched.
David opened the file. “Here she is. Not too pretty. Want to look at this?”
“No.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Of course not!”
“No, of course not. Decent people don’t look at things like this. They’re not used to it. And, Dennis, I think you’re a decent guy. Santana—he’s not a decent guy. You and I both know that. When did you first meet him?”
“I met him … one summer. 2037. Right after I started on Horizon.”
“Did you ever see this man?”
David held up a picture.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Do you know who he is?”
Winston shrugged.
“This is Vernon Ray Clinton. Machete Man. I thought you would have recognized him from the newspapers. They printed his picture several times.”
“I guess … yeah, he does look familiar. I didn’t read the articles.”
“Too upsetting, Dennis? Weren’t you curious? Didn’t you want a look at the guy who broke into your grandmother’s home?”
“Look, Silver, I …”
“The guy who crept through her house. She heard him come in, Dennis. Think about that. She lay in her bed. An old woman, heart beating like a scared rabbit, up against a man who has already hacked five people to death. Against a guy who was going to cut her up, and enjoy it. Have fantasies, Dennis—sexual fantasies—about cutting up your grandmother. He masturbated all over her bedspread, Dennis.”
“For God’s sake, Silver.”
“Not for God’s sake, Dennis. For her sake. For your grandmother. Who would still be alive, if she hadn’t been a convenient tool for guys like Clinton and Santana!”
“Look.” Winston licked his lips. “You got to understand. I don’t want you going out to the lab. I want to keep working. I don’t want this in the news!”
“It’s too late for all that, Dennis. Don’t you see, this has gotten out of hand? I can give you one thing. I can keep this out of the media. For a while. So your people out there can finish up, and make their announcements, before they get blown away by a hostile press.”
“I … but what about me?”
“We’ll protect you.”
“But my work—”
“No go. We can’t let them get at you. Maybe you can pick it up after this all blows over. Maybe it will be a good thing—clean out all the bad elements.”
“They’ll close the whole thing down.”
“That might be a good idea. You could get a fresh start. No crooks. No dealers. No scum.”
Dennis was right, David knew that. Once the project got closed down, it would never be funded again. But he told Winston what he wanted to hear. It always worked, telling people what they wanted to hear.
“You’re not one of them, Dennis. Are you?”
“No.”
“Look at this picture again. You sure you’ve never seen him with Santana?”
“That summer … when I first signed on. I saw them together a couple of times in the lab. After that, no. They were getting careful.”
“What were they doing when you saw them?”
“Talking.”
“You overhear what they said?”
“No. Just that they laughed a lot. They looked at us funny. The staff.”
The footsteps outside got heavier.
“You hungry, Dennis? I didn’t get lunch so I sent for something.”
David opened the door. Mel handed him a grease-specked bag.
“Thanks, Mel.”
“Wait. Don’t forget the drinks.”
David shut the door. “Come on, Dennis. Grab a sandwich. Orange Crush or Coke? Here, don’t forget fries.” David handed him a napkin, and waited for him to take a bite. “Okay, now, when did they first start raiding Little Saigo?”
Winston stopped chewing.
“When, Dennis?”
Winston spoke around a mouthful of food. “Two years ago.”
David took half a sandwich. The roast beef was hot, shaved thin, piled generously on fresh, soft bread. He chewed mechanically and swallowed, the food settling in his stomach like sawdust.
He listened.
Dennis Winston talked between bites until he’d eaten all the sandwiches, fries, and pickles. Winston was one of the ones who needed the right opportunity. He talked until dinner, and between slices of a large pepperoni and onion pizza. He talked through three pots of coffee, five glazed doughnuts, and four trips to the men’s room.
When it was over, David went to Halliday’s office and sat at the table. His fingers shook—too little sleep and too much caffeine. He was barely able to hold his cup of coffee. Which was just as well, he’d had enough.
Halliday’s face was grey with fatigue and worry. His tie was off—hanging over the lamp. The precinct outside was dark, lights on at Mel’s desk and David’s.
“Where’s Mel?” Halliday asked.
“Seeing Winston safely tucked up. He’ll be along. Della and Pete will look after Dennis for tonight.”
“Marathon session.”
David looked at his hands. “I didn’t want to give him time to sleep on it and change his mind. This guy blows with the wind.”
“How’d it go?”
David stared at the floor. He saw Judith Rawley’s bloody throat. Naomi Chessfield’s dead face. Dyer, in pieces, at the morgue.
“Went well,” David said. “We got Santana connected to Clinton. We got Clinton connected to Dyer, and maybe Santana, too. And we got Myer.” David heard the note of satisfaction in his voice. “We got Myer for arranging the murder of Judith Rawley.”
“God damn, David. God damn.”
FIFTY
David knew he should be working—there were files to update, a case to build against Myer. Della and Pete were on the streets, talking to informers, trying to connect Myer to Judith Rawley’s killer. Warrants were being prepared. They could search Santana’s van, if they ever found it.
Della came through the door, walking like her feet hurt. She put a cold can of Coke to her cheek and eased herself down in her chair. She rubbed her eyes.
“Anything?” Mel said.
“Not yet. Maybe Pete will get something.”
“Maybe.”
David wiped sweat off his forehead. Della leaned back in her chair and held the Coke to her lips while she studied a printout. David could hear her breath echoing in the can.
“God, Della, drink it or put it down.”
She looked up, eyes narrowed.
David rubbed the back of his neck. The fluorescent lights were humming. So were the terminals. The room was a snarl of tiny mechanical noises. David knew his breath was coming too fast. His head hurt. He needed to get out of the precinct. Get some air.
Halliday’s door slammed open.
“In my office,” Halliday looked at David and Mel. “Both of you. You too, Della.”
The precinct quieted suddenly, as it always did when String came in. Halliday glanced over his shoulder.
The Elaki looked like he’d been chewed by a dog. His mid-section sagged. He shed s
cales as he walked.
“How you been, Gumby?” Mel said.
“Most involved. I have news that is not good.”
Halliday crooked a finger at him. “In my office.”
Everyone sat down, except String. Halliday turned on the TV. A red dot flashed, signifying an emergency broadcast. The familiar face of Enid West, WKBC’s news reporter, filled the screen. Her voice rasped unmercifully on the ear, but her information, as always, was current and correct.
“… and sources close to the investigation confirm that the Elaki involved in Project Horizon have used people in their laboratory experiments, committing murder in the name of science. As word spreads, Elaki are being stopped in the street by angry bystanders. We go now to the office of Shula Boyo, otherwise known as Topguy.”
An Elaki face filled half the screen.
“Mr. Topguy. You are in charge of Project Horizon?”
“Yesss. I run the Horizon Project. It is a joint Elaki-Human endeavor.”
“And do you use people as so-called guinea pigs in experiments?”
“But most emphasis not. We treasure life, which is why we have the involvement. Horizon is to find cure for human addictive behavior. Drug abuse, eating disorder, alcohol abuse. These things which tear so bad the life of you good people.”
“Mr. Topguy, do you think you’ll ever find such a cure?”
“Most yes. We are close to this. Soon to announce.”
“Sir, we have witnesses who say known criminals, associated with your project, kidnapped people from the disadvantaged area known as Little Saigo, and delivered them to your lab, for use as guinea pigs. What do you say to that?”
“Nonsense most complete.”
“Would you allow us to go into the lab and take a look around?”
“I am afraid that possibility is not in the cards of the question. I will not have such important work disruptured.”
“I understand the Homicide Task Force of Saigo City is preparing a warrant to search your facilities.”
“We will comply with local laws. Please to understand that diplomatic status has recently been granted to this project. Notification came through this morning. Such status includes all personnel and facilities.”
“Why won’t you let us take a look, Mr. Topguy? What are you hiding?”
The Elaki quivered. “We will soon make our announcement. Until then, I have no need of further comment.”
Alien Blues Page 24
