by Lane Diamond
"I understand."
"Nonetheless, we'll take a look. Okay?"
"Yes sir. Thank you."
"No need to thank me. It's my job. Thank you for coming in."
"Yes sir. Uh... sir... I was wondering if you could keep me posted on things. Mr. G. and Deputy Ricks are... well, they won't tell me anything, and I'm so worried about Diana."
He stared at me for a moment. "Tony, I need you to trust me to take care of things, okay? However, if we hear anything about Diana, I'm sure you'll be one of the first ones to know."
"Okay. Thank you."
He walked me to the front door and shook my hand again. Given the funny look on his face, for the life of me, I couldn't tell if he suspected me or not.
Frank had said earlier that I must give the chief a little time and be patient.
Be patient, my ass! If that sonuvabitch Norton kills Diana, I'll have his head!
Now to someone who might help me with my plan, which I'd been considering since I awoke this afternoon following the hypnosis. I hadn't told Frank—not sure how he'd take it—but I needed to do something myself. I couldn't sit around and wait for the police. Diana might die while they went through the motions.
I couldn't let that happen, not if there was any way to prevent it. I needed to prepare for my own move against Norton, but a little advice would help.
It was time to see Master Komura.
Chapter 41 – June 13, 1995: Mitchell Norton
The police station buzzes with activity, with cops running about as though in the midst of some crisis. I stopped in to follow up on the big scene at the coffee shop, that little dance with that fuckin' Hooper. I'm determined to hold Chief Radlon's feet to the fire on this.
I ain't takin' no more shit from Hooper.
Feels like a thousand eyes glare at me, and the cops whisper to one another as they look in my direction. It sucks being so recognizable, and they sure-as-shit don't suffer any pretense of discretion. Feels a little like being a Hatfield upon entering a room full of McCoys, or like a storm cloud has entered the room, threatening a deluge of suspicion, disgust and anger.
The desk sergeant puts the phone down and barely looks at me before leading me back to an interrogation room. This ain't exactly where I'd hoped to end up. Bad memoires. I ask the sergeant for something to drink before he leaves, but he feigns not hearing me and closes the door behind him.
I might not get satisfaction here. Maybe I should have gone right to a lawyer. Yet somehow, I have a desire to play the game with these cops. Why is that?
Whatever. Might be fun.
A window of one-way glass dominates one wall. I use the mirror—this side of the window—to comb my hair and straighten my tie. I decided to dress for the occasion and show the proper respect—all part of the game.
Why did they bring me to this room instead of the chief's office? Do they wanna observe me for some reason? I got a strong sensation that someone is already watching me from the other side of the glass.
What the hell, if I'm gonna have fun with this, I might as well get started.
I walk right up to the glass, press my forehead against it, and cup my hands around my face to cut the glare, like I can see through it. Then I back up and give 'em my biggest smile.
Two wire-mesh circles—microphones—jut from the wall to the left and right of the glass. I lean toward them and say cheerily, "How are you doing back there? Do I look all right?"
What's the worst that can happen? If nobody hides back there, no harm done—one can only make a fool of one's self before witnesses. If someone is there, then maybe I've irritated them a teensy bit. Fun stuff.
I sit again and fold my arms on the table. Patience.
Two minutes later, Chief Radlon enters the room with a deputy sheriff.
"Howdy, Chief," I say. "I appreciate you seeing me."
"This is Deputy McAllister from the sheriff's office."
We nod at each other. "You involved the sheriff's department in this, Chief? Glad to see you're taking it seriously."
He looks at me like I have a booger dangling from my nose. Maybe he's waiting for me to say something more.
"I take it you've spoken to Hooper," I say.
"I have. I'm sure he won't be looking for you, Mr. Norton, but you must remember that this is a small town. It's conceivable—likely, in fact—that you'll bump into one another from time to time. Just keep to yourself when it happens. He's assured me he'll do the same."
"All right, I guess that'll do it—nice and simple."
I slide my chair back, but the chief continues.
"Before you go, we'd like to take this opportunity to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind. We planned on paying you a visit, but you can save us a trip."
"I'm not looking for trouble with Hooper. I just want him to leave me alone."
"This isn't about Tony Hooper. It's about you. As you might imagine, a lot of people are nervous about you being out of prison and back in the community."
"Yeah, I've read the newspaper reports. Whatever. I've been cleared, and I have every right to a fresh start."
"No one is arguing that," he says. "Nonetheless, in a small town like this, we need to be mindful of community concerns. You can help us in this regard."
"Oh? And how can I do that?"
I look at the deputy. Why are you here? And why does the chief act like he gives one shit about me?
"It shouldn't take long," Radlon says.
"How does this concern you, Deputy, if you don't mind my asking?"
Radlon holds his hand up and answers for him. "Deputy McAllister is the county's chief murder investigator. He assists us here in Algonquin on those rare occasions."
"Murder? Come on, it's been seventeen years—case tried, sentence served, game over. Don't you think we ought'a give it a rest?"
"If you'll bear with me, we'll get through this in no time."
We all stare at each other for a few seconds, and he continues.
"First, have you found a job yet? If not, do you have any prospects?"
"Not yet."
"Are you planning to stay with your mother?"
"Probably, at least until I get a few paychecks in the pocket. Is that a problem, Chief?"
"Not at all. How have you been adjusting to life back at home? Is everything going all right?"
Come on! What the hell is this about? "Everything is peachy."
"Are you keeping yourself busy? Perhaps pursuing a hobby?"
"I just got out, Chief, haven't had time for anything but catching up with Mom and Tommy." I pause for only a second and hunch forward. "You wanna tell me what this is really about?"
He says he has to complete a formality, and pulls a Miranda card from his pocket and reads me my rights, assuring me it's no big deal.
Sure.
I waive my right to an attorney. For now.
He continues. "Can you tell us, Mitchell, where you were the night before last?"
He's calling me Mitchell now; must make us best buds.
"I was home, catching up with the family, watching a little TV."
"And what were you doing between the hours of one and four in the morning?"
"Uh... sleeping."
"And where were you last night, during the same timeframe?"
"Sleeping again. I'm funny that way." I couldn't resist, but the gentlemen don't find it terribly amusing. No sense of humor.
"Can anyone confirm that?"
"My mom and my brother."
"They saw you during those hours?"
"Gee whiz, Chief, they might'a been sleeping themselves. They're also funny that way. My mommy-wommy didn't tuck me into my blanky-wanky and then check on me every hour, if that's what you're getting at."
Not so much as a smile from either of them.
"Please tell me how you know Mrs. Melody Nesmith," he says.
"I don't. Never heard of her."
"And do you know Mr. John Adams?"
"Who doesn't? He was the second pre
sident of the United States."
The deputy bores holes in me with his gaze, but leaves all conversation to the chief. "Are you saying you didn't know either of those two individuals?"
"That's right. Are you gonna tell me what's going on here?"
He turns to the deputy and shrugs, then looks at me again. "It'll hit the news shortly, anyway, and people will jump to their own conclusions. Two nights ago, someone murdered Melody Nesmith in the middle of the night, though we didn't discover it until this morning. Also this morning, we discovered that someone murdered John Adams in his home last night."
"Damn, I suppose we'll need a new president."
Neither man so much as blinks, like two statues. Maybe I should lay off the smartass comments. Such serious circumstances call for a measure of decorum.
"You realize," he says, "what people are likely to think. This attitude will make things tougher on you, Mitchell. Why don't you help us to help you?"
"That sounds real hunky-dory. How can I do that?"
He and the deputy don smiles, like they're my new best pals. "Take a polygraph to confirm what you've told us about your non-involvement in these cases. Remove yourself from suspicion."
Condescending asshole!
I've read about polygraphs. Not entirely reliable—they can be beat, or wrong. Many factors can affect the results, everything from not enough sleep to too much booze or drugs prior to a test. There's a reason courts don't allow polygraphs as evidence. If I fail, these cops will never leave me in peace. If I pass, will they leave me alone?
No way. They'll assume I beat it. No upside for me. Besides, they're pissing me off. "Polygraphs are not reliable, as everyone knows."
"Wouldn't you like to remove yourself from the suspect list? We're offering this for your benefit, Mitchell. With your history, you know what everyone will think. Wouldn't you like us to tell the public that we have reason to believe you're not involved with these murders?"
"People beat polygraphs all the time. You know it and I know it. You'll keep me on your suspect list until you have someone else in mind, regardless of the results."
"We're trying to help you here, Mitchell. Why don't you let us help you?"
"Do you think I'm an idiot, Chief? Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not, and I'm getting a little tired of playing this game of yours. I came here to follow up on Hooper's attack, not to sit through an interrogation. You know, I hear you and Hooper are thick as thieves. I don't suppose that has anything to do with this, does it?"
He no longer smiles, nor does the deputy, whose jaw muscles and temples appear ready to jump off his face, run across the table, and choke the snot outta me.
"You realize," the chief says, "that this reinforces our suspicions."
"Take your polygraph and shove it! We both know—excuse me, all three of us know—you've already made up your mind. This is bullshit! You'd be judge, jury and executioner if you had your way."
"That's something you know about, isn't it, Mitchell?"
Now he's laid the cards on the table. The chief has let down his guard, but I don't respond.
"Seventeen years is a long time to go without getting your jollies. What's the matter, did you get the itch already?"
I raise my left arm and scratch my armpit. "Yep, right here."
"Perhaps you chose Melody Nesmith and John Adams at random, without knowing their names. That fits your history, doesn't it?"
"Christ, you're a laugh a minute, Chief. Am I under arrest?"
"Why don't you want to help us with this, Mitchell? What do you expect us to think when you respond this way? Be smart. It's in your best interest to help us."
I can't help but laugh. "Once again you treat me like I'm an idiot. I think my best interests, as you put it, would best be served by ignoring your ridiculous accusations."
They don't like me much. Whatever. I ain't even sure if the deputy has blinked yet.
A knock on the door interrupts us, and a woman enters the room a second later. She looks different from our previous encounter, with her hair up and wearing make-up. The fun might truly begin now.
"My, my, my," I say. "Look, everyone, Special Agent Linda Monroe of the FBI has joined us. Have you been on the other side of the glass? Are you the type that likes to watch, darling? That's so kinky. I like it."
"I'm so glad you find this amusing, Mitchell," she says. "I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation. We're trying to help you here."
"Do you folks all work from the same playbook or something? Abbott and Costello. Excuse me, Deputy, the Three Stooges, or maybe the Marx Brothers—you do talk about as much as Harpo. Hey, where's your horn? Beep, beep!"
No smile. No blink. Nothing. Someone needs to check that guy's pulse.
"You picked up a sense of humor in prison," Ms. FBI says. "You must have liked it there. Perhaps you can't adjust to life outside. It happens. I suppose you're looking forward to going back."
Bitch!
Everyone remains quiet for several seconds, and I smile, determined not to give any of them the satisfaction. This entire day has turned right to shit! The chief defers to Ms. FBI. Apparently, the feds get to do all the talking.
"Run out of funny things to say, Mitchell?"
"Just protecting myself against a lynch mob. That's my constitutionally protected right, unless you guys already have a rope and a tree out back."
"Yep, you're a real funny guy. Why do you insist on this course of action? Perhaps you think this is a big game, or that you're smarter than we are. You should give us a little more credit, and you should help yourself. Make things easier on yourself."
"But the game is such fun, don't you think, Ms. FBI?"
"Is that what this is about, Mitchell? Is that why you killed those people, tortured and sliced them up, because it's such fun for you?"
"Nice try, Ms. FBI." I laugh at the three of them. Poor things. They aren't having nearly as much fun as I am. "And now, if you're arresting me, I'll say no more until I get my lawyer. If not, then y'all have a nice day, y'heah."
I stand and walk to the door. Nobody stops me.
"Be sure to stay in the area, Mitchell," Ms. FBI says. "I'm sure we'll be seeing you soon."
"I'll look forward to it."
PART 7 – Hell Bent
Chapter 42 – June 13, 1995: Tony Hooper
"Whenever anyone is against his will, this is to him a prison." – Epictetus
~~~~~
I received the call from Linda a few minutes ago.
All of Algonquin will soon understand that their nightmare has truly returned. Mitchell Norton is back in business. The two victims of torture, murder and dismemberment—shades of the reign of terror that gripped Algonquin in 1978—bring to an end the seventeen-year respite.
Why does this not surprise me? I still remember the eyes of the devil. I knew he couldn't help himself. Now two additional deaths, two more innocent victims, pile onto my already heavy conscience.
Well join the frickin' party!
"I know you're not blaming yourself for this," Frank says from his La-Z-Boy.
I swear he can read my mind.
He holds his gaze. "This isn't like the other cases. This one is personal and everyone knows it. There are too many eyes on you this time. Let the authorities handle it."
"If I'd done what I should have done seventeen years ago, they wouldn't have to handle it, and Melody Nesmith and John Adams would still be alive."
"You must let it go. You did what was right at that time and place. You did what a person of conscience does."
I jump up and start pacing around his living room, and laugh. "Oh? So what does that say about what I've been doing since then? About my special avocation?"
"That's unfair. You know what I mean. You were only eighteen, still a boy. It would have been unfair to expect you to kill Mitchell Norton. That was too much to ask of an eighteen-year-old. How long will you go down that road?"
"I'll go down that road until I hear h
is last terrified breath, and that won't be much longer."
"Tony, please be careful. There are too many people paying attention this time. They're watching Mitchell Norton, most assuredly, and possibly watching you as well. You always take frightful chances when you do what you do, but the risk will be even greater this time."
"I'll be careful to remain in the shadows. If the police catch him first, that's fine with me. As long as they lock him up and he can't kill again, I can live with it. But goddammit, the law doesn't always work. I know the chief is a good cop and Linda is a good cop, and that most cops are good cops, but the law is another matter. It focuses too heavily on the rights of bastards like Norton. I don't have to deal with the restraints the cops have to deal with."
"Sure, as long as you're willing to pay the price if you get caught. The law will not forgive you. Nor will most cops, for that matter."
"I've always been willing to accept the risks."
He looks at me with genuine concern, perhaps a touch of sadness. He's long expected the hammer to fall and to hear that I'm in custody. He says nothing.
"How are the finances doing, by the way? I'll need a fresh infusion of cash."
Uh-oh.
I don't like the look on his face. Frank has given me money for so long—paid my way—that I've come to take it for granted. What happens when there's no more money? I've never held a real job, not as an adult at any rate. I don't even know where to begin, if I must begin. What shall I do about my calling? How shall I walk the road I've chosen? Hell, it's more accurate to say the road chose me.
I plop back down onto the sofa. "Is money a problem?" I ask. "I always assumed.... I don't know exactly what I assumed. I took too much for granted."
"No, no, I was just thinking. I'm eighty-eight years old and I'm winding down, Son. I feel it in my bones, in my muscles, in my heart—everywhere. It should hardly be a surprise."
"What are you talking about? You'll probably make a hundred."
"I doubt that. At any rate, I've put this off for too long already. It's too risky to postpone it any longer. We need to talk about some things, to plan for the future."
I've wondered about Frank's past since I was a kid, but my emotions are mixed at this point. However strong my curiosity, or the prudence of discussing it, this talk, as if he faces his imminent end, is not my idea of a good time. He can't live forever but, given the dangers inherent in my avocation, I thought he might actually outlive me. Always the indestructible force, he's a mere mortal after all.
