The Mentor

by Monticelli, Rita Carla Francesca

  The suspect seemed to stop breathing for a moment. Then he shook his head. “That’s a trick!” he shouted, shoving the photograph away. “Those aren’t my fingerprints on a murder weapon.”

  “Oh no?” Eric stared into the man’s eyes. “How come? Because you wore gloves?”

  Johnson smiled again. “You keep bluffing. You don’t have a thing.”

  “So if I test your right hand for gunpowder residue, it will come back negative, right?”

  Johnson struggled to hold back a grimace. He seemed to think about that.

  Eric knew perfectly well what was causing the suspect’s change in behavior. The day before, Johnson had fired a shot into the air to scare off some wild dogs—they had been foraging near a mansion he was keeping an eye on for work. He’d reported the event to the company he worked for in order to justify the missing bullet. The test would come back positive in any case, and that was precisely what Eric and Miriam were counting on, even though there was almost no chance the residue would be compatible with the bullets they’d recovered from the scene of the crime. Johnson wasn’t a criminologist, though, and if they got a confession, they might not even have to go to trial.

  “I use guns every day for work,” said Johnson, closing his eyes for a moment. Every inch of his body was struggling to project a calm he certainly didn’t possess.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Miriam, making no attempt to hide her sarcasm.

  Eric motioned to her with one outspread hand. He was careful to appear calm, like someone who had everything under control. He knew that this would only make suspects more nervous, especially if they were guilty. And Johnson was undoubtedly guilty. He had escaped punishment too many times for lack of proof, but this time it was going to be different. With just a little push, they’d be able to lock him up. The fact that he’d just used his gun on the job was exactly the kind of opportunity they’d been waiting for to act.

  “We have your prints on the gun. And as far as I understand, the residue tests on the gunpowder will come back positive.” He glanced at the suspect, letting a complacent smile creep across his face. “You were seen near the victim’s house the day before the murder. Maybe you were going over the final details of your plan?”

  “My fingerprints aren’t on that gun,” said Johnson, looking his accuser in the eye.

  “No? Are you sure?”

  “There. Are. No. Fingerprints.” The suspect pronounced his words carefully, one by one.

  In truth, he was right, because Johnson had undoubtedly worn gloves. Or at least there hadn’t been any fingerprints when they found the murder weapon at the scene. But there were fingerprints on it now. Because of the kind of work Johnson was doing, his fingerprints were registered in IDENT1, the digital British fingerprint database, so that he could be ruled out of any crimes that occurred in the places he was charged with keeping under surveillance. They were also registered in the military database, but fortunately they hadn’t needed to go that far in order to obtain them. If they’d accessed that database, their move would not have passed unnoticed. After they’d obtained the prints, it was easy for an expert like Eric Shaw to find a way to make them show up on the weapon.

  Shaw had asked personally to handle the case, something he did whenever one came along that he cared about deeply. His subordinates preferred to stay out of his way when he was working a case, even though Eric suspected that some of them realized he tended to fiddle a little with the proof. But who could blame him? He was certain they were dealing with an assassin who’d committed multiple crimes, but they couldn’t find a way to lock him up. Their suspect had been too careful, too skilled at hiding his involvement. Eric felt like it was his duty to do something. He couldn’t just stand by and let it happen.

  Too many times over the course of his career he’d found himself faced with cases that went unresolved due to lack of physical evidence. The development of increasingly sophisticated forensic investigation techniques and his position as chief of the department were just tools Eric used in order to guarantee he brought the highest number of criminals possible to justice. Sometimes he had to use methods that weren’t entirely orthodox.

  He’d never once regretted his actions.

  He was so good that all the evidence he provided proved to be ironclad, even during the trials. But his ability to invent evidence where there hadn’t been any had earned him a certain notoriety among criminals. People who wound up in his sights knew there was little chance of escape, and this had won the detective more than one death threat. Shaw wasn’t worried. By the same token, plenty of minor criminals were more than happy to roll on a larger fish in the hopes that they’d get special treatment in return.

  “Our tests say exactly the opposite,” Eric continued, pointing to the photograph in front of the suspect. “We found fingerprints on the murder weapon, and they are yours beyond a shadow of a doubt.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe you forgot to use gloves.”

  Johnson was about to say something, then stopped. Of course he’d been wearing gloves. Eric didn’t doubt it for a minute, but it was pointless to hope the suspect would admit that during an interrogation. No matter what Shaw said, Johnson knew he was burned. Shaw could see resignation in the man’s eyes.

  “I know you’re not so naïve that you wouldn’t wear gloves, but let’s suppose for a minute that the situation got a little out of hand.” Eric tapped his pen on the table. “It’s a bright, sunny day, almost like summer outside. You know you can’t walk around wearing gloves. You’d draw attention to yourself. Somehow you got into the victim’s house, maybe using an excuse. At a certain point you realized that something wasn’t working, and you had to kill him immediately. Then you cleaned the pistol, but you missed a fingerprint on the base of the handle. It happens—even the best of us get sloppy.” He concluded with a broad, satisfied smile.

  “I want a lawyer,” said the suspect, before closing his mouth. He appeared to have ended the conversation once and for all.

  “You could confess. You’d save us all a lot of time,” said Miriam, sitting down on the edge of the table. “Maybe your willingness to help could earn you a few rewards. Maybe it could keep you from winding up sharing a cell with some very unpleasant fellows. You know, a guy like you, so handsome . . . pretty, even . . . always attracts certain interests.”

  “I want a lawyer!” he insisted.

  “Okay.” The detective jumped off the table and nodded to Eric, who stood up as well.

  They left the interrogation room and closed the door behind them.

  “Well, I’d say that went reasonably well,” said Miriam, smoothing her shirt. “I think his lawyer will advise him to confess. That way we won’t even have to bother with an obnoxious trial.”

  “I hope so,” said Eric, smiling.

  Miriam raised her palm and they high-fived—the way they had ever since she was a young girl.

  The door to the next room opened. Martin Stern, an agent with the scientific investigations unit, walked out. He was accompanied by his young colleague, Adele Pennington. As soon as Eric saw her, he tensed up. He knew they’d had an audience looking on from the observation room, but he had no idea she was the one watching them.

  “You were great in there, boss,” Stern said with the enthusiasm of a little dog excited to see his master. Eric couldn’t stand this sort of behavior, and in response he frequently punished Stern with the most unpleasant tasks to handle. His colleague never complained, though—instead he merely went about his business.

  Adele, on the other hand, gave Eric a slight smile and a nod of approval, then spun on her heels and headed down the corridor.

  “Hey, where are you going?” said Martin. “Wait for me.”

  “The show’s over,” said Adele. She stopped for a moment and gave her boss a serious look, her eyes darting back and forth between Shaw and Stern. “We’ve got work to do. Instead of hanging aro
und here, you should come too,” she said, then continued down the corridor toward the elevator.

  Stern flared. For months Eric had watched as Stern tried everything he could to make friends with Pennington, and as she completely snubbed him in return. To be honest, Adele behaved that way with everybody. The only one she was polite to, or at least seemed to try to be polite to, was Eric, her boss. But even then she never stepped over the line. She spoke her mind with everyone, never worrying for a moment what their reactions might be, especially when it came to criticizing them for not working hard enough. At the same time, she was putting a wall up between herself and her colleagues in order to keep them from getting too close to her. This made her the object of unconcealed hatred among her female coworkers, while the men—as could be expected—were crazy about her.

  Not even Eric, three months away from his fiftieth birthday and twenty-two years her senior, was immune to her attractions. He was old enough to be her father, and knowing this made him uncomfortable, especially since he had the strong sensation that she was aware of how he felt and that it disgusted her. She had every right to be disgusted. In the end, he was an old man.

  Eric’s eyes met Stern’s. “Your colleague is right,” he said, growing serious. He enjoyed torturing Stern, perhaps more than he should. The more Stern tried to endear himself to Eric, the more Eric underlined his shortcomings.

  “Oh . . . yeah, of course. Right, boss,” said Stern, practically saluting. “I’ll get back to work right away!” He ran down the corridor. “Adele, sweetheart, wait up. Hold the door, would you?” But before he could reach the elevator, Adele waved to him with one hand and let the doors close in his face.

  Eric and Miriam started laughing. “Pennington’s just sugar and spice and everything nice, isn’t she?” said Leroux.

  Eric smiled. “You can say that again.”

  “Our fearless leader strikes again!” exclaimed Jane Hall, smiling as she stormed into Eric’s office. Hall was Eric’s second in command.

  From behind his desk, he shot her a questioning look, lifting his eyes slightly from the computer screen.

  “You haven’t heard?” Jane flopped down in a chair and put her feet up on the table.

  Eric grabbed a file pinned beneath one of Jane’s shoes, managing to pull it away as she crossed her legs. “Heard what?” he asked, smoothing the crumpled paperwork with one hand.

  “Johnson confessed. Right now he’s working out a deal with the crown prosecutor. He’s willing to give up the name of his client in exchange for a reduced sentence. Unfortunately, we can only connect him directly to the latest murder. We don’t have any proof for the others, save the fact that the killings occurred with the same modus operandi and that he was seen around the other victims’ houses. Both interesting clues. Maybe we can squeeze a little more information out of him with the threat of being charged with the other crimes as well.”

  Jane spoke all in a rush, the way she usually did. It was an approach that disoriented her interlocutors, especially when they were suspects or when she was speaking during trial depositions. On more than one occasion, it had allowed her to help prosecutors send a fair number of criminals to prison. She’d worked for the Forensic Science Service Laboratory, Scotland Yard’s scientific investigations unit, for over fifteen years and was one of the most talented criminologists on Eric’s staff. He trusted her completely, even though he felt that sometimes she tended to be a little too optimistic.

  “Johnson seemed pretty savvy,” he said, dropping the file in a drawer. Eric took one last glance at the computer screen, then leaned back in his chair. He’d finish filing his report later. “If he figures out that our evidence is merely circumstantial and wouldn’t hold up in court, or if he learns that it shouldn’t even be allowed, then he’ll start denying everything. He’ll negotiate a deal for the last murder and manage to do as little jail time as possible.”

  Even though they’d caught him, the fact that they couldn’t tie Johnson to the other murders, which Eric was sure he was responsible for, left a bitter taste in his mouth. It wasn’t so much because the killer would get away—in any case, he’d spend quite a while behind bars—but rather because all those other crimes would go unpunished. There were eleven cases in London alone; nailing Johnson would only answer for one dead body.

  Despite often resorting to questionable methods and risking his reputation and career to see guilty parties punished, Eric knew that he simply wouldn’t be able to catch everyone. In truth, he didn’t care one whit about the shady tactics he employed. He didn’t have much to lose. His personal life was a disaster. His total, unyielding focus on work had distanced him from his family to the point that, one fine day, his wife had taken their only son, Brian, and left him for good. That was nine years ago, but Eric still hadn’t gotten over it. To cope, he’d thrown himself deeper into his work. Night and day bled together—sometimes he’d find himself working cases on Saturdays and Sundays. He spent less and less time at home, and when he returned he mostly sat around thinking about what he had left undone. He often slept in the office, where he always kept a clean change of clothing in case the need arose.

  The murders staged to look like suicides had been gnawing at him for months, and even now, after they’d finally gotten their man, he still didn’t feel satisfied. It was a minor victory, and really not much of one compared to the fact that plenty of criminals were still free walking the streets. He knew he’d done the best he could, overcoming every limit he’d imposed on himself in order to finally trap Johnson. But it hadn’t been enough.

  “Come on, don’t make that face.” Jane shrugged. “We’ll double our efforts. We’ll open the older cases back up and work twice as hard to unravel them. We’ll find something. There’s no such thing as a perfect killer. If we rifle through eleven cases, I’m sure we’ll find another mistake somewhere. And if we can connect him to at least one other murder, demonstrate the repeated use of a consolidated pattern, I’m sure we’ll be able to bring him to trial for the other murders too.”

  She always saw the positive side of things. That was one of the reasons Eric, as soon as he’d been promoted to head of the scientific investigations department, had selected Jane as his second in command. She was a little like a guardian angel, someone who dragged him back up into reality when depression threatened to gain the upper hand. Jane had been happy to accept the role, and she pulled it off with an almost maternal flair.

  He’d met her only after his separation, and she’d been by his side during the agonizing divorce. She’d never seen the old Shaw in action, the meticulous agent who, enamored with forensics, relied on the truthfulness of his evidence as the foundation for everything else. She’d only interacted with his subsequent disillusioned doppelgänger.

  They’d never spoken openly about his methods, but Eric was certain she knew. She was too careful and aware to miss certain details, but she’d never mentioned it to him. He couldn’t say whether she did this to protect him, or merely to protect herself. But even if the former were her only motive, it was still the right way to act. Making her an accomplice would have made him feel even pettier than he already did.

  A woman wearing a white shirt passed by the glass door to his office. Adele. Eric thought he caught a quick look of disapproval shot in his direction.

  Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

  He felt Jane’s hand tighten on his shoulder, dragging him back to the present. He’d been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t realized she’d stood up and walked over to where he was sitting at his desk. “If you keep on like this, sooner or later she’ll pick up on it,” she said with an allusive grimace.

  Eric pretended to be shocked by what she was saying, but he knew he wasn’t very convincing.

  Ever since Pennington had joined his team a little over six months ago, he’d felt overwhelmed by emotions he didn’t fully understand. He kept telling hims
elf he was just a lascivious old man ogling young women, and he reproached himself for his own feelings. He convinced himself that it was simply a minor midlife crisis, and that it would all blow over soon enough. But it wasn’t blowing over, and he’d begun to think that maybe he wasn’t so old after all. He looked good for a forty-nine-year-old. These were a man’s best years, and he might easily appear attractive to a young, twenty-seven-year-old woman.

  He shook his head at this thought. Who was he trying to fool?

  Jane started laughing. For a moment he was afraid he’d said something out loud, but the laughter was just Jane’s way of letting her colleague know she knew him all too well.

  Jane would have made the perfect companion for him. He needed someone capable of fending off his obsession for his work, and Jane was that. She was also married, happily. He pushed the thought from his head. She wasn’t his type anyway . . . or was she? That was just another excuse. The truth was he didn’t want a challenging relationship, one he’d risk fucking up the way he’d fucked up his marriage. It was much easier to spend time fantasizing about a young, unobtainable colleague than it was to actually get out there and start dating again.

  Suddenly his cell phone rang. A second later Jane’s cell phone rang too.

  The stench of death hung heavy in the room. A cloud of flies buzzed around, feeding off the mutilated body.

  The landlord had been the first one to discover the body after he had decided to use his keys to open the door. He hadn’t seen his tenant, Nicholas Thompson, for a number of days. Thompson had missed his rent, and a few of his neighbors had complained about the foul stink wafting from his apartment.

  Until then, Thompson had always been an excellent tenant. The landlord never had a single reason to complain about him. In fact, he found the man funny and personable, so these developments troubled him. He was quick to worry that something had happened to him. But when the landlord had opened the front door, he certainly wasn’t expecting to find himself face to face with a horrifying spectacle.