He was halfway down the hallway when the sergeant called, “Captain?”
He turned.
“That was a good job you guys did. Getting him, I mean.”
Boyle, a thick file under his arm, nodded and continued down the windowless corridor to room I-7.
What he saw through the square window: a benign-looking man of about forty, not big, not small, thick hair shot with gray. His amused eyes were on the wall, also cinderblock. His slippered feet were chained, his hands too, the silvery links looped through a waist bracelet.
Boyle unlocked and opened the door. The man grinned, looked the detective over.
“Hello, James,” Boyle said.
“So you’re him.”
Boyle’d been tracking down and putting away murderers for nineteen years. He saw in James Kit Phelan’s face what he always saw in such men and women at times like this. Insolence, anger, pride, fear.
The lean face, with a one- or two-days’ growth of salt-and-pepper beard, the eyes blue as Dutch china.
But something was missing, Boyle decided. What? Yes, that was it, he concluded. Behind the eyes of most prisoners was a pool of bewilderment. In James Phelan this was absent.
The cop dropped the file on the table. Flipped through it quickly.
“You’re the one,” Phelan muttered.
“Oh, I don’t deserve all the credit, James. We had a lotta folks out looking for you.”
“But the word is they wouldn’t’ve kept going if you hadn’t been riding their tails. No sleep for your boys and girls’s what I heard.”
Boyle, a captain and the head of Homicide, had overseen the Granville Park murder task force of five men and women working full-time — and dozens of others working part-time (though everyone seemed to have logged at least ten, twelve hours a day). Still, Boyle had not testified in court, had never had a conversation with Phelan before today, never seen him up close. He expected to find the man looking very ordinary. Boyle was surprised to see another quality in the blue eyes. Something indescribable. There’d been no trace of this in the interrogation videos. What was it?
But James Phelan’s eyes grew enigmatic once again as he studied Boyle’s sports clothes. Jeans, Nikes, a purple Izod shirt. Phelan wore an orange jumpsuit.
Anyway, what it was, I killed her.
“That’s a one-way mirror, ain’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s behind there?” He peered at the dim mirror, never once, Boyle noticed, glancing at his own reflection.
“We sometimes bring witnesses in to check out suspects. But there’s nobody there now. Don’t need ’em, do we?” Phelan sat back in the blue fiberglass chair. Boyle opened his notebook, took out a Bic pen. Boyle outweighed the prisoner by forty pounds, most of it muscle. Still, he set the pen far out of the man’s reach.
Anyway, what it was…
“I’ve been asking to see you for almost a month,” Boyle said amiably. “You haven’t agreed to a meeting until now.”
Sentencing was on Monday and after the judge pronounced one of the two sentences he was deciding upon at this very moment — life imprisonment or death by lethal injection — James Kit Phelan would be permanently giving up the county’s hospitality for the state’s.
“‘Meeting,’” Phelan repeated. He seemed amused. “Wouldn’t ‘interrogation’ be more like it? That’s what you have in mind, right?”
“You’ve confessed, James. Why would I want to interrogate you?”
“Dunno. Why’d you put in, let’s see, was it something like a dozen phone calls to my lawyer over the past coupla months wanting to ‘meet’ with me?”
“Just some loose ends on the case. Nothing important.”
In fact Boyle kept his excitement under wraps. He’d despaired of ever having a chance to talk to Phelan face to face; the longer the captain’s requests had gone unanswered the more he brooded that he’d never learn what he was desperate to know. It was Saturday and only an hour ago he’d been packing up turkey sandwiches for a picnic with the family when the call from Phelan’s lawyer came. He’d sent Judith and the kids on ahead and sped to the county lockup at 90 m.p.h.
Nothing important…
“I didn’t want to see you ’fore this,” Phelan said slowly, “’cause I was thinking maybe you just wanted to, you know, gloat.”
Boyle shook his head good-naturedly. But he also admitted to himself that he certainly had something to gloat about. When there was no arrest immediately following the murder, the case turned sour and it turned personal. Chief of Homicide Boyle versus the elusive, unknown killer.
The contest between the two adversaries had raged in the tabloids and in the police department and — more importantly — in Boyle’s mind. Still taped up behind Boyle’s desk was the front page of the Post, which showed a picture of dark-haired, swarthy Boyle glaring at the camera from the right-hand side of the paper and the police artist’s composite of Anna Devereaux’s killer from the left. The two pieces of art were separated by a bold, black VS., and the detective’s was by far the scariest shot.
Boyle remembered the press conference held six months to the day after the murder in which he promised the people of the town of Granville that though the investigation had bogged down they weren’t giving up hope and that the killer would be caught. Boyle had concluded, “That man is not getting away. There’s only one way this’s going to end. Not in a draw. In a checkmate.” The comment — which a few months later became an embarrassing reminder of his failure — had, at last, been validated. The headline of every story about Phelan’s arrest read, of course, CHECKMATE!
There was a time when Boyle would have taken the high ground and sneered down the suggestion that he was gloating over a fallen enemy. But now he wondered. Phelan had for no apparent reason killed a defenseless woman and had eluded the police for almost a year. It had been the hardest case Boyle had ever run, and he’d despaired many times of ever finding the perp. But, by God, he’d won. So, maybe there was a part of him that had come to look over his trophy.
…I killed her…. And there’s nothing else I have to say.
“I just have a few questions to ask you,” Boyle said. “Do you mind?”
“Talking about it? Guess not. It’s kinda boring. Ain’t that the truth about the past? Boring.”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s not much of an answer. The past. Is. Boring. You ever shot anybody?”
Boyle had. Twice. And killed them both. “We’re here to talk about you.”
“I’m here ’cause I got caught. You’re here to talk about me.”
Phelan slouched in the chair. The chains clinked softly. It reminded him of the bell he’d heard when he entered the interrogation room corridor.
He looked down at the open file.
“So what do you want to know?” Phelan asked.
“Only one thing,” Boyle said, opening the battered manila folder. “Why’d you kill her?”
* * *
“Why?” Phelan repeated slowly. “Yeah, everybody asked me about the motive. Now ‘motive’… that’s a big word. A ten-dollar word, my father’d say. But ‘Why.’ That cuts right to the chase.”
“And the answer is?”
“Why’s it so important?”
It wasn’t. Not legally. You only need to establish motive if the case is going to trial or if the confession is uncorroborated or unsupported by physical evidence. But it had been Phelan’s fingerprints found at the crime scene and the DNA testing verified Phelan’s skin was the tissue dug from beneath Anna Devereaux’s perfect dusty-rose — polished fingernails. The judge accepted the confession without any state presentation of motive, though even he had suggested to the prisoner that he have the decency to explain why he’d committed this terrible crime. Phelan had remained silent and let the judge read him the guilty verdict.
“We just want to complete the report.”
“‘Complete the report.’ Well, if that ain’t some bureaucratic crap, I
don’t know what is.”
In fact Boyle wanted the answer for a personal, not professional, reason. So he could get some sleep. The mystery of why this drifter and petty criminal had killed the thirty-six-year-old wife and mother had been growing in his mind like a tumor. He sometimes woke up thinking about it. In the past week alone — when it looked like Phelan was going down to Katonah maximum security without ever agreeing to meet Boyle — the captain would wake up sweating, plagued by what he called Phelan-mares. The dreams had nothing to do with Anna Devereaux’s murder; they were a series of gut-wrenching scenes in which the prisoner was whispering something to Boyle, words that the detective was desperate to hear but could not.
“Makes no difference in the world to us or you at this point,” Boyle said evenly. “But we just want to know.”
“‘We’?” the prisoner asked coyly and Boyle felt he’d been caught at something. Phelan continued, “Suppose you folks have some theories.”
“Not really.”
“No?”
Phelan swung the chain against the table and kept looking over the captain with that odd gaze of his. Boyle was uncomfortable. Prisoners swore at him all the time. Occasionally they spit at him and some had even attacked him. But Phelan slipped that curious expression on his face — what the hell was it? — and adjusted his smile. He kept studying Boyle.
“That’s a weird sound, ain’t it, Captain? The chain. Hey, you like horror films?”
“Some. Not the gory ones.”
Three ringing taps. Phelan laughed. “Good sound effect for a Stephen King movie, don’tcha think? Or Clive Barker. Chains at night.”
“How ’bout if we go through the facts again? What happened. Might refresh your memory.”
“You mean my confession? Why not? Haven’t seen it since the trial.”
“I don’t have the video. How ’bout if I just read the transcript?”
“I’m all ears.”
* * *
“On September 13 you were in the town of Granville. You were riding a stolen Honda Nighthawk motorcycle.”
“That’s right.”
Boyle lowered his head and in his best jury-pleasing baritone read from the transcript, “‘I was riding around just, you know, seeing what was there. And I heard they had this fair or festival or something, and I kept hearing this music when I cut back the throttle. And I followed it to this park in the middle of town.
“‘There was pony rides and all kinds of food and crafts and stuff like that. Okay, so I park the bike and go looking at what they got. Only it was boring, so I walked off along this little river and before I went too far it went into this forest and I seen a flash of white or color or something I don’t remember. And I went closer and there was this woman sitting on a log, looking at the river. I remember her from town. She worked in some charity store downtown. You know, where they donate stuff and sell it and the money goes to a hospital or something. I thought her name was Anne or Annie or Anna or something.’”
Anna Devereaux….
“‘She was having a cigarette, like she’d snuck off to have one, like she’d promised everybody she wasn’t going to but had to have one. The first thing she did when she heard me come up was drop the cigarette on the ground and crush it out. Without even looking at me first. Then she did and looked pretty freaked. I say, “Hey.” She nodded and said something I couldn’t hear and looked at her watch, like she had someplace she really had to be. Right. She started to walk away. And when she passed me I hit her hard in the neck and she fell down. Then I sat on her and grabbed this scarf she was wearing and pulled it real tight and I squeezed until she stopped moving, then I still kept squeezing. The cloth felt good on my wrists. I got off her, found the cigarette. It was still burning. She didn’t crush it out. I finished it and walked back to the fair. I got a snow cone. It was cherry. And got on my bike and left.
“‘Anyway, what it is, I killed her. I took that pretty blue scarf in my hands and killed her with it. And there’s nothing else I have to say.’”
Boyle’d heard similar words hundreds of times. He now felt something he hadn’t for years. An icy shiver down his spine.
“So that’s about it, James?”
“Yeah. That’s all true. Every word.”
“I’ve been through the confession with a magnifying glass, I’ve been through your statements to the detectives, I watched that interview, you know, the one you did with that TV reporter…”
“She was a fox.”
“But you never said a word about motive.”
The ringing again. The waist chain, swinging like a pendulum against the metal table leg.
“Why’d you kill her, James?” Boyle whispered.
Phelan shook his head. “I don’t exactly…. It’s all muddy.”
“You must’ve thought about it some.”
Phelan laughed. “Hell, I thought about it tons. I spent days talking it over with that friend of mine.”
“Who? Your biker buddy?”
Phelan shrugged. “Maybe.”
“What was his name again?”
Phelan smiled.
It was known that while Phelan was generally a loner, he had several friends who ran with a tough crowd. In particular, witnesses reported seeing him in the company of a biker who’d hid Phelan after the Devereaux murder. The man’s identity never came to light. Boyle wanted him on aiding and abetting but was too focused on collaring Phelan himself to spend time on an accessory.
Phelan continued, “Anyway, what it was, him and me, we’d pass a bottle around and spend days talking ’bout it. See, he’s a tough son of a bitch. He’s hurt people in his day. But it was always ’cause they crossed him. Or for money. Or something like that. He couldn’t figure out why I’d just up and kill that lady.”
“Well?”
“We didn’t come up with no answers. I’m just telling you that it ain’t like I didn’t think about it.”
“So you drink some, do you, James?”
“Yeah. But I wasn’t drinking the day I killed her. Nothing but lemonade.”
“How well did you know her? Anna Devereaux?”
“Know her? I didn’t know her.”
“I thought you said you did.” Boyle looked down at the confession.
“I said I’d seen her. Same as I seen the pope on TV one time. And Julia Roberts in the movies and I’ve seen as much of Sheri Starr the porn queen as there is to see. But that don’t mean I know ’em.”
“She had a husband and a child.”
“I heard.”
The ringing again. It wasn’t the chains. The sound came from outside. The bell he’d heard when he first entered the interrogation room corridor. Boyle frowned. When he looked back Phelan was watching him, a bemused smile on his face. “That’s the coffee break cart, Captain. Comes around every morning and afternoon.”
“It’s new.”
“Started about a month ago. When they closed the cafeteria.”
Boyle nodded, looked down at his blank notebook. He said, “They’d talked about getting divorced. Anna and her husband.”
“What’s his name?” Phelan asked. “The husband? He that gray-haired guy sitting in the back of the courtroom?”
“He’s gray-haired, yes. His name’s Bob.”
The victim’s husband was known as Robert to everyone. Boyle hoped that Phelan would somehow stumble over the name difference and give something away.
“So you’re thinking he hired me to kill her.”
“Did he?”
Phelan grunted. “No, he didn’t.”
The cloth felt good on my wrists…
Robert Devereaux had seemed to the interrogating detectives to be the model of a grieving husband. He’d passed a voluntary lie detector test and it didn’t seem likely that he’d had his wife murdered for a fifty-thousand-dollar insurance policy. This wasn’t much of a motive but Boyle was determined to pursue any possibility.
Anna Devereaux. Thirty-six. Well liked in the town.
A woman losing the battle to quit smoking.
I took that pretty blue scarf in my hands and killed her with it. And there’s nothing else I have to say.
An old scar on her neck — from a cut when she was seventeen; she often wore scarves to conceal it. The day she’d been killed, last September, the scarf she’d worn had been a silk Christian Dior and the shade of blue was described in the police report as aquamarine.
“She was a good-looking woman, wasn’t she?” Boyle asked.
“I don’t remember.”
The most recent photos of Anna Devereaux that either of the two men had seen had been at trial. Her eyes were open, frosted with death, and her long-nailed hand was held outward in a plea for mercy. Even in those pictures you could see how beautiful she was.
“I didn’t fool around with her, if that’s what you’re getting at. Or even want to.”
The profiling came back negative for lust-driven killing. Phelan had had normal heterosexual responses to the Rorschach and free association tests.
“I’m just thinking out loud, James. You were walking through the forest?”
“That day I killed her? I got bored with the fair and just started walking. I ended up in the forest.”
“And there she was, just sitting there, smoking.”
“Uh-huh,” Phelan responded patiently.
“What did she say to you?”
“I said, ‘Hey.’ And she said something I couldn’t hear.”
“What else happened?”
“Nothing. That was it.”
“Maybe you were mad ’cause you didn’t like her muttering at you.”
“I didn’t care. Why’d I care about that?”
“I’ve heard you say a couple times the thing you hate most is being bored.”
Phelan looked at the cinderblock. He seemed to be counting. “Yeah. I don’t like to be bored.”
“How much,” Boyle asked, “do you hate it?” He gave a laugh. “On a scale of one to—”
“But people don’t kill ’causa hate. Oh, they think about killing who they hate, they talk about it. But they really only kill two kindsa people — folk they’re scared of and folk they’re mad at. What exactly do you hate, Detective? Ponder it for a minute. Lotta things, I’ll bet. But you wouldn’t kill anyone ’causa that. Would you?”
More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II Page 12
