by James Carol
Never enough answers.
Winter kept his foot down all the way back to New York and only got pulled over once, just outside Cortland. The bored highway patrolman had his pen out ready to write them up, but had a change of heart after Mendoza flashed her badge. A couple of minutes later they were back on the road, heading south again, the needle on the speedometer hitting a hundred. The only other stop they made was at a gas station near Binghamton so they could grab something to eat.
When they reached the city, Mendoza directed them to Queens. She took them down shortcuts and side streets with the skill and confidence of a cab driver, the buildings rising higher and higher on both sides. New York was a tall city, a busy city. There was noise and bustle everywhere. The closer they got to Rikers, the more depressing the landscape got. Even the junkies and the homeless didn’t want to live out here. They smelled the East River before they saw it.
‘You know that this isn’t an actual river, don’t you, Mendoza? It’s a tidal strait.’
‘I don’t care, Winter.’
‘How can you say that? Education is the cornerstone of civilisation. Anyway, a strait is a navigable waterway that separates two larger bodies of water, like the Straits of Gibraltar, which links the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. The East River connects Upper New York Bay to Long Island Sound. On one side you’ve got Long Island and on the other you have Manhattan and the Bronx.’
Mendoza yawned dramatically. ‘Are you quite finished?’
‘Yeah, I’m done.’
‘Okay, when we see McCarthy, I want you to take the lead. He’ll be expecting me to, since that’s how I played it last time we spoke, but I’m not going to do that. He’s smooth. If we’re going to get anything out of him, we need to shake him up a little. Can you do that?’
‘I reckon so.’
They drove over the three-lane bridge that joined Queens to Rikers, bleak concrete structures looming large and foreboding in the windshield. A mist had rolled in off the water, cloaking everything in grey and silver. Off to their left was the Bronx, and beyond that, the ghostly shape of the George Washington Bridge rose out of the fog. The prison complex was a washed-out mess of concrete and steel. There seemed to be no real cohesion in the architecture. Tall spotlights surrounded the perimeter, along with plenty of open flat space. Anyone attempting to break out would be seen before they’d managed to get a couple of yards.
Winter thought that there was something cruel about having a prison so close to a city. Every time the inmates went outside they’d see skyscrapers reaching up into the sky and it would be a stark reminder of everything they’d lost. And maybe that was the point. Maybe when the decision was made to build here that was one of the things that had been considered.
They left the bridge behind and drove on to Hazen Street, the main thoroughfare that cut through the middle of the island. Rikers was a small city in its own right. The place was massive, a maze of roads and buildings. It was made up of ten prisons that housed in excess of twelve thousand prisoners. A staff of more than ten thousand people looked after them, and the annual budget ran close to a billion dollars.
Mendoza knew her way around well enough to direct them to the building where Ryan McCarthy was being held. They’d called ahead, but even though they were expected, it still took half an hour to process them. That was another thing with prisons. Time was long and moved slowly. In the outside world it slowed and accelerated depending on how much fun you were having. Trapped behind the tall walls and the razor wire, the second hand seemed to be going backwards.
The guy who escorted them to the interview room was a foot taller than Winter. He was white and bald, with a neck as thick as his thigh. No jokes, no laughter, and definitely no small talk. He opened the door and stood aside. Mendoza went in first, Winter following. The door slammed shut behind them with a bang that echoed around the room.
49
Ryan McCarthy was sitting in handcuffs on the far side of the table, watching them. The steel cuff around his ankle was attached to a steel hoop on the floor and his bright orange prison uniform was two sizes too big. He’d aged since they last saw him. It had only been two days, but it could have been years. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. His skin had already taken on the grey pallor that came from eating crappy food and spending most of the day under artificial lights.
Even so, there was no doubting that he was a handsome guy. Blue eyes, a disarming smile, dimples in his cheeks and chin. His fair hair still held the shape from when it was last cut, but it wouldn’t last much longer.
Mendoza sat down in the left-hand seat and Winter took the one on the right. For almost a whole minute nobody spoke. Winter had played this game before, more times than he cared to remember. The FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit regularly interviewed convicted serial criminals in a bid to find out what made them tick. The programme had one of those immediately forgettable bureaucratic titles that managed to say everything and nothing. It was known informally as the ‘Interview an Asshole’ programme.
During his eleven years with the BAU, Winter had carried out as many interviews as he’d been allowed to. Unless it was a high-profile criminal, his colleagues hadn’t wanted to know. It was one of those assignments where you bitched and shook your head and went on and on about your workload. Not Winter. You could only learn so much from reading about what a killer had done. Sitting opposite one while they laid it all out in graphic detail, well that was another matter.
It was Winter who finally broke the silence. ‘Good to see you again, Ryan. So how’s life treating you?’
‘How do you think it’s treating me? I’m locked in a cell for twenty-three hours a day.’ McCarthy’s voice was quiet and gentle and a little too high-pitched to ever be described as macho. Winter figured this was how he’d disarmed his victims. He didn’t look like a threat, and he didn’t sound like much of one either.
‘That’s for your own protection.’
McCarthy’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to tell us how you know Amelia Price? Then I want you to tell us everything you know about her.’
‘Who’s Amelia Price?’ asked McCarthy.
Winter gave him a hard stare. ‘Come on, Ryan, let’s not play this game. We know that you know her.’
‘No games. I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.’
‘Sure you don’t.’
‘It’s the truth. I don’t know anyone by that name.’
Winter was watching carefully. Words lied, body language didn’t. McCarthy seemed to be telling the truth, but that was impossible. They knew that he knew her. They even had the photograph to prove it. Mendoza gave him a puzzled look from the next seat. She was clearly thinking along the same lines as he was. Winter pulled out his cell phone and found the photograph he’d taken back at the Price place. He slid the phone over the table and McCarthy glanced down at it.
‘You’ll have to excuse the quality,’ Winter told him. ‘It’s a photo of a photo, so inevitably you’re going to lose something, and it would obviously be better if we had a bigger screen. However, you can see enough of what’s going on for our purposes.’ He stood up and leant over the table and started pointing things out. ‘Now that’s the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park, no question about that. And that’s you, no question about that, either. And that’s Amelia Price cuddling up to you, which is where the confusion seems to be creeping in.’
‘I don’t know who Amelia Price is.’
Winter snatched the phone up and placed it neatly on the table, making sure it was parallel with the edge. He looked McCarthy in the eye. ‘Now that is a lie Ryan. Please don’t lie to me.’
‘It’s the truth. Obviously that’s me in the photograph. I’m not denying that. And I remember the picture being taken because it was all a bit strange. I was walking through the park and this tourist stopped me and asked if she could have my photograph taken with her. It would have been rude to say
no.’
‘No it wouldn’t have been rude, it would have been the New York thing to do. The New York thing would have been to keep walking and not say a word. Also, you’re a serial killer, and no self-respecting serial killer would let some random stranger take a picture of them.’ Winter did a fast rat-a-tat-tat drum roll on the table, making McCarthy jump. ‘Lastly, and this is the clincher, you’re not a Hollywood A-lister. I mean, you’re a good-looking guy and everything, but seriously, who’s going to want to have their photograph taken with you?’
McCarthy locked eyes and said nothing, trying for the hard stare, and failing by a mile.
‘Computers rule the world,’ Winter continued. ‘For all intents and purposes our whole lives have been reduced to a series of ones and zeroes. Like in here, for example. Your name’s in the computer system. There’s a whole file devoted to you. It contains everything that anyone might want to know from your date of birth to your blood type. Now somewhere in there you’ll find a little tick box, and next to that box are the words Protective Custody. At the moment there’s a tick in that box.’
McCarthy smiled, but he was looking worried. He started tapping the table, realised what he was doing and stopped.
‘Here’s what’s going to happen Ryan. There’s going to be an administrative screw up and that tick is going to disappear.’ Winter brought his fingers up to his lips and blew them apart with a phh. ‘And like that it’s gone.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘I can and I will. But you’re focusing on the wrong thing here. Now I know for a fact that you’ve imagined what life would be like if you were in the general population. The thing is you’re looking from the perspective of a jail cell where you’re locked down for twenty-three hours of the day, and you’re thinking about how you managed to dodge a bullet there. Now here’s another way of looking at it. Imagine what it would be like if you were sharing a cell with one of those tattooed sweethearts from the Aryan Brotherhood. That would give things a different spin. I mean, how terrifying would that be? Just the other morning I was in a similar situation, contemplating a similar fate, and I’ve got to say it scared the shit out of me.’
McCarthy looked across the table, his gaze flitting between Winter and Mendoza. ‘Let me see that photo again.’
Winter activated the cell phone and slid it across the table. McCarthy picked it up and studied the photograph. Before passing it back, he touched Amelia’s face through the screen, the tip of his finger gliding gently across the glass. His expression was ambiguous. He looked as if he was holding back a smile, but it could just as easily have been the start of a scowl or a frown.
‘Okay, I know who she is,’ he said eventually. ‘However, if I help you, I’m going to need something in exchange.’
Winter reached for his cell phone and put it back in his pocket. ‘The only thing we’ve got to offer is peace of mind. Let’s face it, sleeping with one eye open can’t be much fun. It’s really going to screw with your biorhythms.’
‘Not good enough.’
Winter leant forward. ‘We haven’t come here to negotiate. That’s not what this is about.’
‘Isn’t it?’ McCarthy stared at him and said nothing.
‘Okay, I’m done.’ Winter jumped to his feet, startling McCarthy. ‘We’re clearly wasting our time here. If you don’t want to help, then that’s your prerogative.’
Mendoza scraped her chair back and stood up too. They turned and began walking to the door. Winter counted off the seconds in his head. He got to four before McCarthy cracked.
‘Okay, okay. The name Amelia Price means nothing to me. As far as I’m concerned the woman in the photograph is Maddie Phillips.’
Winter studied him for a moment then sat down. He waited for Mendoza to get comfortable before speaking. ‘So where did you meet Maddie?’
‘On the internet.’
‘And your father abused you, right?’
The smile dropped from McCarthy’s face. ‘What’s that got to do with this? Are you trying to get inside my head, is that it?’
‘Maddie’s father abused her, too. But you know that already, don’t you?’
No response.
‘Don’t you?’ Winter repeated.
McCarthy shrugged, then nodded.
‘I’m guessing you met in a chat room for victims of childhood abuse. Trust is always an issue, which means it probably took some time before you guys got down to the really interesting stuff. So how long ago did you meet Maddie online?’
Another shrug. ‘A while ago, I guess.’
‘You guess?’
‘Eighteen months.’
‘In the early days there would have been plenty of hypothetical conversations about what you’d both like to do to your fathers, and somewhere along the line those hypothetical conversations turned into more detailed discussions about what you’d really like to do. And further down the line still those conversations turned into actual plans. Your first murder took place back in April, so you had eleven months of dancing before you got down to business.’
McCarthy licked his lips.
‘So who was leading the dance? I’m thinking Maddie. But that’s not the real question, is it? The real question is, who did you think was leading it? She had you believing that you were calling the shots, didn’t she? She made you believe that you were the big man.’
McCarthy grinned and waited for Winter to meet his eye. ‘You think you’re so damn clever, don’t you?’
50
The interview room fell silent. Winter could hear breathing, and air being pushed through the vents, but they were the only sounds. On the other side of the walls thousands of prisoners were going about their day-to-day business, and thousands of guards were keeping an eye on them, but it was like they didn’t exist. There was a tickle of panic in his stomach. The idea that he’d missed something significant was running around inside his head.
‘Don’t play games,’ said Mendoza from the next seat.
McCarthy ignored her. He was staring across the table at Winter, his eyes cold and unforgiving. The grin had disappeared and for the first time since they got here, Winter could believe that he was looking at someone who was capable of hacking someone to pieces just for the fun of it.
He’d seen this sort of transformation before. Highly organised serial killers were masters at hiding in plain sight. They created personas to disappear behind, friendly non-threatening ah-shucks disguises that were designed to disarm. And the thing was, it worked. John Wayne Gacy used to dress as a clown for fundraisers, parades and parties. None of his friends or neighbours had any idea that he’d murdered more than thirty people. And Winter knew how charming his own father could be. He’d seen this side of his personality whenever they were out in public. Albert Winter had always been quick with a smile and a joke. If you’d got into a tight spot he would have been more than happy to help you out.
And if you were a young woman who fitted his victim profile he’d have been more than happy to take you into a forest under a killer’s moon and hunt you down with a high-power rifle.
That was the thing with these disguises. Scratch hard enough at that veneer and the killer’s true nature would eventually surface. Like now. On the other side of the table, McCarthy smiled again.
‘Okay, here’s how I see things. I’ve got something you want, you’ve got something I want. I need assurances that I’m not going to be moved out of protective custody. And I need access to any books I want from the library. No waiting list. No vetting.’
‘Why do you care?’ asked Mendoza. ‘If I was in your shoes, being moved into the general population and ending up stabbed would be a blessing. As for the books? Why would you want to read about a life you’re never going to see again?’
He shook his head. ‘But you’re not me. You see, I’m a hopeful kind of guy. My glass is always half full.’
‘Even in here. I don’t think so.’
‘You’ve got a deal,’ Winter told him. Mendo
za glared at him, no doubt wondering what the hell he was up to now. He ignored the dirty look and added, ‘You tell us what we want to know and you get to read all the airport thrillers and romances you want. That works for me.’
‘How can I trust you?’
‘That strikes me as incredibly cynical, particularly coming from someone who claims their glass is half full.’
McCarthy said nothing.
‘Okay, how about this? The idea of you rotting away in a cell for the next fifty years appeals to me more than the idea of you getting shanked in a shower.’
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘As a heart attack.’
McCarthy looked at him over the table, sussing him out, weighing up his options. ‘You think I’m sick in the head, well, I’m telling you this for nothing, I’ve got nothing on Maddie. That girl is a whole new brand of crazy.’
‘All well and good, Ryan, but we need specifics.’
‘Earlier you were talking about how Maddie and me were dancing together in that chat room. You wanted to know who was leading the dance, right?’
Winter nodded for him to go on.
‘You were right. It was Maddie. She initiated our first conversation, and pretty much led things from there.’
Mendoza laughed. ‘Of course he’s going to say that. He’s angling for a reduction in his sentence on the grounds of diminished responsibility.’ She leant across the table and waited for McCarthy to meet her gaze. ‘It’s not going to work. You’re going down for the rest of your miserable life.’
‘Is that what’s going on here?’ Winter asked. ‘Are you really trying to pull the diminished responsibility card? Are you trying to play me, Ryan?’
McCarthy shrugged. ‘I am not trying to play you. Why would I do that?’
Winter leant forward, edging towards McCarthy’s personal space. He heard Mendoza shift in the seat beside him. ‘Okay, I’m listening.’
