by Jen Haeger
Three days later, Crone and I are making our way into the depths of Rikers. There’s an aura of palpable hatred coming from the place that’s hard to ignore as we pass block after block. A few new, colorful sexual insults are thrown my way, but they bounce off the armor I’ve already erected for Chester. I will my face blank, my hands steady, and my pace unbroken. Crone is smirking like he’s enjoying the atmosphere, and he may very well be. Some cops get off on seeing perps behind bars, like it’s a validation of their work. Not me. I’m not naïve enough to think prisons are or do any good. More criminal shit goes down in Rikers on a typical Friday night than in an entire week in the scummiest parts of the city. Prisons are a necessary evil, with evil being the key word.
It does give me the smallest relief to know that some individuals are behind these bars though, and right now Rachel Chester is at the top of the list. The journey to get to Chester is longer than most. Because of the high profile nature of her case, she’s kept in special solitary and she’s not supposed to have any visitors. Of course, they make an exception for detectives, especially when the case goes from solved to ongoing. Chester’s lawyer is no doubt wetting himself at the possibility we may have screwed something up, but the chief’s already told him not to get too excited. We’re playing things off like we’re dealing with a typical copycat, not a possible accomplice or someone Chester may have personally coached. That’s a sobering thought: personal murder coaching.
The arrangements for the interview are awkward. Chester is shackled to a chair in her cell with the solid metal door open, and there are two chairs for Crone and me to sit in just outside. The guard who’s been leading us opens the barred door leading into Chester’s private, dead end hallway and gestures us through but doesn’t follow.
“You’ve done this before?”
I hold up the panic button device issued at entry. “She twitches, I press this, you bust in, guns blazing.”
The guard’s face is stony. “When you’re done, approach this door but stay behind the line. I’ll close the inmate’s door before I open this one.”
He presses a button on the wall and the door slides shut between us with a clang that I feel in my bones. The churning in my stomach has reached a nauseating pitch, but I can’t let anything show. I can’t give Chester anything. Crone’s presence should be reassuring, but somehow it’s only making things worse. My not coming alone will seem like weakness to Chester. Maybe it is. I didn’t fight Crone on his being here, even though I don’t think Chester will give us anything with him present. I tell myself it’s all fine. When Chester gives us nothing, I’ll have ammunition against Crone being here next time.
We reach the chairs and sit. I avoid looking at Chester until I absolutely have to. When I do, she’s leering at me from her chair, her eyes full of quiet malice. I can’t believe she wasn’t always like this, that she once was a student in the same program at NYU as my son, worked in the same lab. My fingers are numb on the arms of my chair. At first, I don’t see her WHISP in the shadowy depths of the cell, but then my pupils adjust and its shape emerges from the darkness. It’s an inky mirror of Chester, also leering at me, but without eyes.
“I knew it was you.” Chester’s voice is a flat Midwest drawl, nasally and ugly. She completely ignores Crone. I knew she would.
Crone dislikes being ignored. “Didn’t know she was a fucking psychic. I suppose you know why we’re here too, then.”
“To what do I owe this honor Detective Harbinger? Still looking for a confession? Hardly seems necessary now. Or did you just miss me and Ray?”
Hiding a shudder by scratching my neck, I finally speak to her. “You’re a smart gal, Chester. I’m pretty sure you know why we’re here.”
The wheels are turning behind her eyes, always calculating. If you could catch Chester’s interest, it was unwavering. I caught her interest, Crone didn’t, simple as that. Some people were inconsequential to Chester, while others were games to her, puzzles to be systematically explored, dominated, broken down, and dismantled.
“You sound so bold, Detective. The therapy must be going well then.”
In my periphery, I spot a small smirk on Crone’s face. Asshole. He doesn’t constitute enough of a person to need therapy.
“Well, if this isn’t a social visit, I certainly hope you didn’t bring this ape along for a conjugal visit…”
The ape comment’s enough for Crone. “Come on, Chester, nothing you want to tell us about? Don’t even wanna gloat?”
A slight twitch of my finger is all that betrays my desire to reach out and slap Crone across his big stupid mouth. I have no idea where he picked up his interrogation skills, or poker skills, but he’s just shown our whole hand.
Chester shifts in her chair and her WHISP shifts too, reminding me of its presence with a jolt. Her face lights up like Orphan Annie’s on her first Christmas with Daddy Warbucks. Chester now knows what we know without us being able to know if she’d known before.
“Gloat? Why whatever would I have to glo—oh, ooooh! Something’s happened hasn’t it? Something you think I’d be proud of. Now let me see, what could it be, what could it be?”
A cracking sound comes from Crone’s jaw.
Interjecting before Crone can say anything else catastrophically moronic, “Actually, I didn’t think you’d be proud of it, at all. If fact, I thought you’d be kinda pissed off. Thought you were more of a one woman show, myself.”
“Oh, but I am, Detective. You know that.” Chester writhes in her chair, causing her WHISP to undulate behind her.
“Do I?”
Chester grins, showing straight, white teeth. “You should.”
I just stare into those cold eyes and wait. Chester likes to talk, and I wanted her to monologue, maybe give something away in her smugness. There’s something else too. For the briefest moment I see something behind her icy stare, a flicker of something, a crack, but before I can analyze it, of course, Crone is feeling left out and it hurts his delicate, fucking, baby feelings.
“I don’t know you, chicky, why don’t you enlighten me?”
And it’s over. Chester’s face turns like my college boyfriend’s face turned when we were in the preludes of sex and my grandmother called. The mood is spoiled. Chester won’t be giving us anything on the copycat, at least not today. Ignoring Crone, she says, “Detective, I assume you are responsible for keeping the monkey on its leash and cleaning up its doo-doo, so I think it’s time for his walkies. Don’t you?”
I do, in fact, but fuck if I’m going to agree with her…but then an angle presents itself. It’s a shitty angle, one that I feel grimy pursuing, but my delicate baby feelings are less important than stopping people from being brutally murdered, so I go with it. “Yeah, you’ll have to excuse detective Crone, he didn’t get his nap today. But why don’t you and I just pretend he’s not here?”
She considers my words, or at least pretends to consider them. I’m pretty sure she sees through my flimsy “us against him” ruse, but there’s always the possibility she’ll go with it just to fuck with me, to try to get back inside my head. Crone’s shockingly silent. I’d like to think he’s finally wised up to him not helping matters, but more likely he’s just reeling from me insulting him. I don’t even flick my eyes to him to see which it is because my eyes are still locked on Chester’s, and they’re starting to burn. Can’t blink. Can’t blink. Her irises shift subtly.
“Tempting, Detective, very tempting, but I think no. Come back without your pet sometime, but today’s interview is over.”
Chapter Six
“In what way has your WHISP affected your acting career?”
“Oh, I think that it’s opened up a lot of WHISP-specific roles for me.”
“What about non-WHISP roles, are you still getting those?”
“Sure. With digital technology, they can pretty much, like, photo-shop my WHISP out of any shot.”
“Have you ever been a victim of any anti-WHISP sentiment?”
“Until this latest role, most people didn’t know I had a WHISP, so there was some fall out from that. It’s sad some people think I’m like a different person now that I have a WHISP.”
Hollywood Insider Interview with Breathless WHISPer star Jason Stone
It is all that I can do to wait until we’re back in Crone’s car to give him a piece of my mind.
“So, Detective Crone, tell me, do you like cleaning up messes made by people like Chester? Like notifying mothers their only child is dead and oh, by the way, you’re gonna wanna plan for a closed casket, but you have my sincere condolences.”
Crone’s face turns crimson so quick it’s almost like he’s a cartoon character. “What do you think I was trying to do in there? I’m trying to get some fucking answers to stop these killings, not trying to buddy up with some psycho bitch!”
“You’re not going to get any answers from Chester.”
“Oh, right, I forgot, you’re the supposed fucking Chester expert. I’m guessing you’re the only person who can get answers from her then?”
I take a deep breath. This inane argument isn’t helping anything either. Though I would love to blame this on Crone, it’s not his fault. This whole damn debacle is actually my fault for not protesting Crone’s presence to begin with. It was me being a goddamn coward and not wanting to face Chester alone, even though I knew we wouldn’t get anywhere with him there. Pinching the bridge of my nose to avoid another migraine, I lighten up on Crone.
“I didn’t say that. Even if she does know something, it’s likely that she won’t give it up. She has very little to gain. The DA’s not willing to offer much in the way of deals for her cooperation due to his still being pissed about the verdicts. I hope you see I was just trying to get a little leverage with her.”
Starting the car like it’s personally wronged him, he grunts. “Yeah, I guess.”
I try to lift the mood of failure pressing down on us. “You’re aware all of her victims were men, right?”
Directing the car through the maze of exit gates, Crone grunts again, but in an amiable way. “It’s weird then.”
My brain’s busy coming up with a strategy for when I talk to Chester alone, while simultaneously trying to come up with an excuse not to. “What’s weird?”
“This copycat isn’t some man-hating wench, so they’re not a real copycat.”
By God, the man has a point, and a good one. Glad he finally got there, but we didn’t need to interview Chester to figure that out. Regardless, Crone continues.
“Probably doesn’t mean dick. I’m sure the FBI has big thick files on copycats who didn’t follow the original killer’s MO to the letter. Most are over-obsessed wannabe murder fans trying to impress psychos, but I’m sure there’s a few out there just mooching off the celebrity of the original, adding a little of their own flare to a successful formula.”
“Maybe, but I’m not dismissing anything that might be close to a lead on this.”
Crone chuckles. “You got a pal over at the FBI willing to help us profile this asshole?”
“Actually, I do.”
***
Jeffrey isn’t so much a pal as an old boyfriend. Maybe ‘old booty call’ is a better description, but still a good friend. I hadn’t contacted him about the original Chester case because we’d had a pretty solid suspect in Chester fairly early in the case and were just waiting to track down more evidence. Despite working for the FBI for nearly ten years and being one of the few survivors of the massive 2029 nuke-it-from-space-and-salt-the-earth overhaul, Jeffrey’s office is still a modest affair with a tiny window, crappy ventilation, and chairs with cracked vinyl cushions. After the preliminary hugs and queries about health and family, Jeffrey sits and takes a long swig from his coffee.
“So, Sylvy, I take it this isn’t a social call.”
“Well spotted. A carnal romp in your office is just a little crass, even for me.”
Jeffrey sets the mug on his immaculate desk. “Jokes. Must be important.”
Damn, he knows me. “Yeah, so this thing with Chester, I’m back on it.”
“You’re retired.”
“Technically, yes, but for the next three months I’m an official consulting detective.”
Jeffrey’s eyebrows meet his shaggy bangs. “Like Sherlock Holmes.”
“Jokes. You must not want to help me.”
“Sylvy, you were a damn good cop, but this Chester thing…well it was bad for you and I was happy when you told me it was going to be your last case. This copycat is just going to drag you back into all that shit.”
It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “How did you know? The chief’s supposed to have the press all bottled up.”
“I got my sources.”
“Well, if you know about the copycat, then you must know the victim was a woman.”
“Uh huh. I take it you want a profile.” Snatching a pen out of a cup of them on the corner of his desk, Jeffrey goes into his professional mode and flips open a notepad. “How close to the Chester murders was the copycat scene? A copy or a copy of a copy?”
“A copy.”
“Good quality or touched up?”
“Good quality.”
His pen is working a little too hard for my answers, but whatever Jeffrey’s writing has brought out the cute little crease on his forehead. “Any embellishments?”
“Not that jumped out. Forensics is still combing through the place with their finest combs, but it’ll take a while to sift through everything. You, uh, need details?”
“If it’s as close to the Chester killings as you think it is, then no. When I heard you were on the Chester case I requisitioned the files.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Oh, that’s…um…sweet?”
Jeffrey looks up from the pad. “Call it a mixture of professional interest and wanting to know what the hell kinda psycho my old friend was chasing.”
“That’s fair. Need to know anything else?”
“What’s your gut saying?”
“My gut’s saying that it’s Chester again, only now on a woman-hating kick. I know it’s impossible, but that’s what’s in my gut and you asked.”
“Hmmm.” Jeffrey scratches out a few more lines then closes his pad. “I’ll get you a profile within twenty-four hours.
“Thanks.”
“What does Saint Ben say about all of this?”
“He’s”—my gaze shifts to the haphazard rows of books behind Jeffrey’s head—“supportive.”
“Bullshit.”
Can’t lie to Jeffrey, not well anyway, so I skirt around how bad the situation is for Ben and me. “We’ve come to an agreement about it.”
“Uh huh. Listen, Sylvy, I don’t want to sound like an ass, but do you really think your marriage with Ben is going to survive another serial killer like Chester?”
Honestly, I’m not sure it will, but walking away isn’t a choice. Jeffrey has to understand that, so I’m pissed he’s acting like I have one. “It’s gonna have to.”
Chapter Seven
“So, you are saying that WHISPs are demons?”
“Demons, Jerry. Demons unlocked from the soul of man by technology!”
“Okay. So, if they are demons, then what, we need to exorcise them? How?”
“Like any other demon, Jerry, through faith, prayer, and the burning justice of the Lord.”
Reverend Cornelius M. Salt, The New Jerry Springer Show, September 4th, 2031
The more I pour over the evidence from the new crime scene, the more I am convincing myself that no one other than Chester could have killed the woman. But that conclusion doesn’t help anything, and Tina down in forensic biology is getting downright surly after my ninth call to check on the DNA processing.
“Still no DNA matches other than the victim, Detective. I’ll call you if anything changes. I’ll call you.”
Another migraine is knocking on the door of my frontal lobe, so I open the drawer of “my” desk, in actuality on
e that I’m sharing with a junior detective on maternity leave, and pull out the bottle of 600mg ibuprofen I’ve stashed there. I pop one and wash it down with the dregs of a cold cup of coffee just as Crone saunters up looking a bit like an expectant father.
“So,” he says.
“So, what?”
“So, what’s the FBI have to say?”
I rub my temples. “They’ll have a profile for us by tomorrow.”
“Spiffy. What are we doing until then?”
So, it’s we now? Interesting. I wonder what kind of bonding ritual Crone and I underwent in the past few days I’d somehow missed, but then decide he probably just wants to take partial credit for the FBI profile we’re about to get.
“I’m headed home. Forensics doesn’t have anything interesting yet and cyber is still looking for any e-mails, texts, etcetera they might have missed between Chester and an accomplice. So, nothing much we can do until we get the profile.”
Crone parks a butt cheek on the edge of the desk and I picture the whole thing collapsing beneath his girth. “Must be nice.”
I’m shutting down my laptop and packing away files into a worn, brown leather satchel Ben gave me when I made CDS. “What must be nice?”
“Getting to come and go as you please while the rest of us have to keep regular detective hours. I hope we’re not paying you based on an eight-hour-a-day salary.”
“Tell you what, Crone. I’ll probably be up till around three in the morning going back over statements by Chester’s known associates from the original investigation, so when you get up from your desk to get your 2 a.m. cuppa, why don’t you give me a call?”
“Maybe I will.”
I roll my eyes, not exactly at Crone, but not hiding it either. “Besides, I’ve just got the one case. Don’t you have other cases you should be working on until this one heats up again?”
Crone dislodges himself from the desk and turns to walk away. “Again, must be nice.”
***
