We head back out to the living room. Alan takes his seat again. I remain standing.
“Sorry about that,” Alan says.
“No problem,” Hollister replies. He looks relieved not to have to continue his conversation with Burns.
“I want to talk to you about neurolinguistic interviewing, Mr. Hollister.”
Hollister frowns. “Neuro what?”
“Neurolinguistic interviewing. There’s a lot of technical jargon, but I’ll simplify it for you. It’s a way of finding out when someone you are interviewing is using their cognitive process and when they’re remembering something. By cognitive process, I mean thinking. Creating an answer to a problem. Like, when I asked you earlier what movie was Eastwood’s best directing effort, you had to review the movies you’d seen and then come up with an answer based on the data you have. You follow?”
“I guess.”
“When you remember something, you don’t have to use the cognitive process. It’s a memory. You have to locate it. We access different parts of the brain for each function, and we have specific physiological reactions when we do that.” He leans forward. “It’s in the eyes.”
The tic in Hollister’s own eye starts again. “The eyes?” he repeats, somewhat moronically.
Alan nods. “Yes, sir. Most people, when they are remembering something, look up and to the right. When they’re solving a problem, they generally look down and to the left. It varies, but you ask each kind of question and establish a baseline. You know why?”
“So you can tell when they’re lying,” Hollister whispers, hollow-eyed and dreadful again.
“That’s right. If you ask them for a memory, and they access the cognitive function of their brain, that means they’re lying. When I asked you to remember what day your wife was abducted, for example, you weren’t lying. You were remembering.” He shrugs. “There’re other indicators, of course. Nervousness is an obvious one.” Alan smiles. “You were already nervous and sweating like a pig when we arrived. You said you were sick and napping, but I don’t think so.”
Hollister says nothing. He’s turned into the bird. Alan is the cobra.
“Here’s the thing I’m really concerned about, Mr. Hollister.” Alan moves closer, parting Hollister’s knees with one of his own, creating an unconscious threat to his manhood. “When I asked you about your sons? When I asked where Avery and Dylan are? You lied to me. I could see it. And that bothers me—us—Mr. Hollister. Why would you need to lie about the location of your sons?”
Hollister’s eyes have gone wide. His mouth is hanging open, though I doubt he realizes it. He’s falling apart right in front of us.
“We’re also trained to keep an eye on what we call ‘affect,’ Mr. Hollister. Do you know what that is? Roughly, it’s the observable effects of someone experiencing a particular emotion or emotions. You can have a bored affect, a sad affect, so on.” He moves in even closer, pushing his knee in further. It’s now only an inch or two away from Hollister’s crotch.
Hollister farts, once. He’s unaware of it. It’s a small toot, but it’s telling. You see this, and sometimes belching, in a highly skilled interrogation. The person doesn’t even have to be guilty. It’s a physiological reaction of fear.
“Your affect when I asked you about your sons went from fearful to a near total absence of emotion. Do you know who I see that kind of reaction in the most?” He cranes his neck forward, so that his nose is almost touching Hollister’s. “I see it in murderers.”
“Gahhh …” Hollister says.
He is shattering now. Most people have no idea how devastating an interrogation can be. Men have fainted dead away when faced with nothing more than an accusation and a badge.
“Jesus, he’s wetting himself,” Burns mutters.
I see the stain spreading before the smell reaches my nose. Alan doesn’t move.
“Where are Avery and Dylan’s bodies, sir?” Alan asks.
Hollister doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have the presence of mind for words. He extends his arm and he points. Upstairs.
I waste no time. I leave Douglas Hollister to Alan and Burns and I race up the beige-carpeted stairwell to the second floor. The lights are on in the upstairs hallway. The walls are white and covered in a patchwork of framed and carefully hung photos. I was wrong about the bedrooms. I see only two here: the double door of a master, and then a single door on the right at the end of the hallway. The other is a bathroom; I can tell because it’s open.
I begin with the master. I open the door and am hit with the faint odor of feces. I curl my nose and pull my gun and enter. It’s an unimaginative but entirely acceptable room. A ceiling fan hangs above a king-size bed. There’s a dark-blue accent wall, but the rest is white. All the furniture is wood, neither too old nor too new.
I’m never going to look at beige the same way again.
The humor doesn’t dispel the willies, and I almost fire my weapon when I hear the sound. It’s a snort, followed by a wet smacking noise. It’s coming from the master bathroom. I take a breath and clear my mind and head toward it. I reach the door, which is cracked, and I open it.
I see Avery and Dylan Hollister right away. I had expected it, but still, my heart sinks. The floor of the bathroom is carpeted with a thick shag, all the way up to the separate tub and shower. One of the boys is lying on his side, his face turned in to the carpet so that only the back of his head and his ears are visible. There is bruising around his neck. The other lies faceup, on his back, his eyes closed and his mouth open. I kneel down and check for a pulse on the first boy, hoping but not really expecting to find one. Nothing.
The smacking sounds start up again, bringing me to my feet, gun raised. They’re coming from the bathtub, which is a deep whirlpool tub. I inch over to it. I can see what I know to be a body bag inside the tub. A white tube sticks out of the bag. Suddenly the bag moves and a wet, gargling noise comes from it.
I holster my gun and climb inside the tub without thinking twice. My hands are shaking as I undo the zipper. The smell of feces is strong, but I ignore it. All I can think of is that someone’s alive inside there, maybe injured, and time’s an enemy. I push the flaps of the bag open and a horrible odor wafts out. I look down at the woman inside and I can feel the blood draining from my face. I feel dizzy for a moment.
I sit down on the edge of the tub. I want to call for Alan, but I seem to have lost my voice. All I can do is stare.
It’s Dana Hollister; I recognize her from the black-and-white photograph. She’s nude. Her eyes are empty and they stare into nothing, and her open mouth yaws, hungering at the level of instinct only, the plastic tube falling out and away.
“Dana?” I whisper.
No reply. She continues to stare without seeing. Drool runs freely from her mouth, and everything about her is a slackness and a void. Something terrible moves through me, a mix of grief and rage and misery. I kneel down next to her and open the bag farther. I don’t care about the smell. I just want to touch her, so she knows she’s not alone, if there’s anything in her that is still aware. I reach into the bag and grab her hand. I cradle it in one of mine, and I reach out and stroke her forehead. There is no reaction. Her mouth opens and closes once, that smacking sound.
I notice a hole above her eye but within the socket, and a single full-body shiver rocks me.
Is that what I think it is? It’s something I’ve seen before.
When the other boy—the one I hadn’t checked yet because Dana had surprised me—cries out softly, I almost fall backward off the tub in sheer terror. I recover, and I crawl over to him and feel for a pulse. I find it, weak and thready but there. He coughs twice, and his eyes flutter.
“Alan!” I yell. “Get up here, please! Right now!”
I wait until I hear the heavy thuds of his shoes on the stairs, and then I let myself weep a little. Grief, anxiety, fear. I cradle the boy in my arms and thank God for his moans. They mean he is alive. Dana Hollister grunts once. The other child
stares into the carpet with sightless eyes.
What we do is primordial.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dana and Dylan Hollister have been taken away in an ambulance. I’ve arranged for them to go to the same hospital Heather is in. Avery Hollister has been confirmed dead.
My grief has fled, brushed aside by a hot wind of rage. I want to go and rip the arms and legs off Douglas Hollister, to put his eyes out, to tear out his tongue.
I feel a large hand on my shoulder. “Now is the time to interview Hollister,” Alan says. “He’s been read his rights; he’s not asking for a lawyer. If we’re going to get it out of him, we should strike while the iron’s hot.”
If I close my eyes and listen hard, I can still hear the ambulance sirens howling in the distance. “Do you want to transport him first?”
“No. The more time we give him to think, the greater the chance he lawyers up. I’ve already asked him. He’s agreed to be interviewed here. He even provided us with a video camera and a fresh tape.”
“Why is he being so cooperative?”
“He’s scared. He’s not the one who did that to Dana.”
I turn the ramifications of this over in my mind. “Let me make a call, and then, yes, let’s do the interview here.”
Callie is silent, processing what I’ve just told her about Dana and the Hollister boys.
“My, my,” she manages. “What do you want us to do?” She’s all business, flippancy put aside for now.
“Have James continue distilling the information from the case files. I want you to do a ViCAP search. We’re looking for similar crimes to Dana Hollister’s.”
“You think he’s done it before?”
“I don’t know, but what I do think is that it’s relatively unique. I think if he has done it before, it will definitely be in ViCAP and it will definitely be him.”
The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program was established by the FBI in 1985. It was a stroke of genius and has lived up to its name. It’s a cooperative endeavor. We provide participating law enforcement around the country with a form that can be filled out. I am always struck by the clinical contrast it provides to the reality of the horrors it records. It’s filled with if yes then go to item … directions, like some twisted tax return.
Were there elements of unusual or additional assault/trauma/torture to victim? Yes/No/Unknown. Assuming yes is checked, then question 88b follows, a laundry list of possible additional abuses: If yes, indicate what elements occurred (check all that apply and describe). Some possibles among many are: Beat sexual areas with hands/fists, with objects; body cavities or wounds explored/probed; cannibalism; douche/enema given to victim; skinned, and, my personal favorite at the end of this impossibly long list of awfuls, Other.
The first time I read the form, I wondered about the people who’d come up with it. What would you have had to see to make that list? What would you have to know to ensure it was complete? I wondered then, but I know better now: I could rattle off most of the list from memory, based on the things I’ve seen myself.
Once filled out, the form is sent to ViCAP in Quantico. The information is entered into the database and then compared against the existing database to try to identify similar cases.
“Give me the pertinent information,” Callie says.
I force myself to be as clinical as the form she’ll be filling out. It won’t be complete. That’s not necessary right now. I explain what I want her to search for, the thing unconfirmed by a doctor but that I believe, in the gut of me, to be true.
She’s silent for a moment. “Are you certain about this?”
“Not certain, but I’d bet my home on it.”
“I’ll get in touch with them right away.”
If anything, Douglas Hollister seems calmer now than when we first knocked on his door. I’m not really surprised. This is something you see a lot with a confession. Hiding what they’ve done is stressful. One offender described it to me as a “huge building pressure with nowhere to go.” Many are relieved when they no longer have to hold it in. One of the most common requests after a confession, from my own experience, is to sleep. They’re finally able to relax.
He’s seated on the couch. Alan has positioned the coffee table so that the camcorder can face him directly. Alan is seated nearest, with Burns to one side, as before. I decide to remain standing. I’m afraid to get too close to Hollister, afraid of what I’ll do.
The sliding-glass door that leads into the backyard lets in the light. I think that it does not belong here, but the sun shines on everyone equally, I guess.
“Can I have a cigarette?” Hollister asks. “Do you mind? Dana didn’t like me smoking, but I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
“It’s your home, sir,” Alan says.
His voice is all business without being cold. It’s a part of the deal: cooperate and get treated with respect. Why? Because pragmatism rules in what we do. We want suspects talking, not silent. So even if we’d personally like to set them on fire, as long as they’ll continue to hang themselves for the camera, we’ll bring them sodas and light their cigarettes.
“They’re in the kitchen,” Hollister says. “Can I get them?”
“Where are they, sir?” Burns asks. He, too, is polite. I’m sure he wants to destroy Douglas with his bare hands, but he knows the tune.
“In the drawer to the left of the stove.”
Burns gets up and returns in a moment with a pack of Marlboro Reds and a green lighter. I feel twin pangs of hunger and irony shoot through me. I quit smoking almost four years ago, but stress can still bring out the craving. Marlboro Reds were my brand too. I watch him light up with an envy made greater by my hatred of him. He inhales deeply, eyes closing in a moment of brief bliss. Alan pushes record on the video camera.
“This is FBI Special Agent Alan Washington interviewing Douglas Hollister in his home, located at …” He goes through the process of listing all pertinent information, including date and exact time, who is present, why we are there. Hollister smokes and listens, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. “Mr. Hollister, can you testify for the camera that I previously read you your rights?”
“Yes, I can. You did.”
“And can you confirm for the camera that you’ve waived your right to have an attorney present for this interview and confession?”
“Yes.”
“And can you further confirm that you’re doing this of your own free will and not as the result of any duress or coercion?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us why, in fact, you’ve agreed to this interview and taped confession?”
Hollister pauses, using the moment to take another pull on the cigarette. There’s no ashtray, but he’s beyond caring. He taps ash onto the top of the coffee table.
“I’m scared. The guy who did … what happened to Dana … he’s after me. I’ve decided my best chance at surviving is being protected by the police.”
“Thank you, sir. One last thing. You supplied us with this video camera?”
“I did.”
“And you supplied us with the tape currently being used to record this interview?”
“Right.”
“You confirm that we tampered with neither the camera nor the tape?”
“I so swear!” Hollister says, then giggles.
“Can you give me a contemporary affirmative answer, sir?” Alan’s patience is endless, awe-inspiring.
Hollister stubs the cigarette out on the coffee tabletop and lights another. “Sorry. Yes, I confirm no tampering has happened.”
“Thank you.” Alan says nothing for a moment. I know he’s collecting his thoughts, settling in for however long this takes. “Let’s talk about Avery, Mr. Hollister.”
Douglas seems to sink into himself. His eyes gain a furtive quality. “Avery.”
“Avery was your son?”
“Yes.”
“We found Avery dead in the master bathroom of this house, sir. He was s
trangled. Did you kill him?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.” He sounds amazed.
“When did you kill him, sir?”
“Late last night.”
“About what time?”
“I guess around three in the morning.”
“How did you kill him, sir?”
Hollister puts one hand over his eyes as he speaks. He doesn’t want to see us seeing him as he tells it. “I gave both the boys drugs to make them sleep. Told them it was medicine. I didn’t want them to be awake and afraid when they died. I went into Avery’s bedroom first. I didn’t want to use a pillow to smother him—I wasn’t sure about that. I was afraid it would take too long. I read yesterday on the Internet about the carotid arteries, about how you could use them to knock someone out quickly. I figured I’d do that first, in case the drugs hadn’t worked right, just to make sure he was out.”
Burns jots something down in a notebook. Probably a reminder to check the browsing history on Hollister’s computer.
“I came in and sat him up and got behind him. He started to wake up when I put my arms around his neck. I don’t know what happened. I thought I gave him enough drugs, but maybe he slipped some of the pills to his brother when I wasn’t looking. Avery was clever that way.” He swallows once, his Adam’s apple bobbing hugely. “He just kept struggling. It wasn’t knocking him out.” The hand over his eyes remains. The hand holding the cigarette rests on one of his knees, burning away, forgotten. “So I had to do it the old-fashioned way. I let go of him and he was kind of freaking out. So I hit him a couple of times in the face, really hard.”
“You used your fist?” Alan asks, probing for more details, guiding Hollister gently toward the hanging rope.
“Yeah.” His breath hitches. “He got out half of one word. You know what it was? Da-, he said, and then my fist hit his mouth. God. He wasn’t even totally awake.”
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