Dance had been a reporter after college: journalism, that profession tailor-made for the aimless with insatiable curiosities. She ended up on the crime beat and spent hours in courtrooms, observing lawyers and suspects and jurors. She realized something about herself: She could look at a witness, listen to his words and get an immediate sense of when he was telling the truth and when he wasn’t. She could look at jurors and see when they were bored or lost or angry or shocked, when they believed the suspect, when they didn’t. She could tell which lawyers were ill-suited to the bar and which were going to shine.
She could spot the cops whose whole heart was in their jobs and the ones who were only biding their time. (One of the former in particular caught her eye: a prematurely silver-haired FBI agent out of the San Jose field office, testifying with humor and panache in a gang trial she was covering. She finagled an exclusive interview with him after the guilty verdicts, and he finagled a date. Eight months later she and William Swenson were married.)
Eventually bored with the reporter’s life, Kathryn Dance decided on a career change. Life turned crazy for a time as she juggled her roles as mother of two small children and wife and grad student, but she managed to graduate from UC-Santa Cruz with a joint master’s in psych and communications. She opened a jury consulting business, advising attorneys which jurors to choose and which to avoid during voir dire jury selection. She was talented and made very good money. But six years ago, she decided to change course once again. With the help of a supportive, tireless husband and her mother and father, who lived in nearby Carmel, she headed back to school once more: the California State Bureau of Investigation training academy in Sacramento.
Kathryn Dance became a cop.
The CBI doesn’t break out kinesics as a specialty so Dance was technically just another investigative agent, working homicides, kidnappings, narcotics, terrorism and the like. Still, in law enforcement, talents are spotted early and news of her talent quickly spread. She found herself the resident expert in interview and interrogation (fine with her, since it gave her some bargaining power to trade off undercover and forensic work, which she had little interest in).
She now glanced at her watch, wondering how long this volunteer mission would take. Her flight wasn’t until the afternoon but she’d have to give herself plenty of time to get to JFK; traffic in the city was horrendous, even worse than the 101 Freeway around San Jose. She couldn’t miss the plane. She was eager to get back to her children, and—funny about caseloads—the files on your desk never seem to disappear when you’re out of the office; they only multiply.
The cab squealed to a stop.
Dance squinted out the window. “Is this the right address?”
“It’s the one you gave me.”
“It doesn’t look like a police station.”
He glanced up at the ornate building. “Sure don’t. That’ll be six seventy-five.”
Yes and no, Dance thought to herself.
It was a police station and yet it wasn’t.
Lon Sellitto greeted her in the front hallway. The detective had taken her course in kinesics the day before at One Police Plaza and had just called, asking if she could come by now to give them a hand on a multiple homicide. When he’d telephoned he’d given her the address and she’d assumed it was a precinct house. It happened to be filled with nearly as much forensic equipment as the lab at the Monterey CBI headquarters but was, nonetheless, a private home.
And it was owned by Lincoln Rhyme, no less.
Another fact Sellitto had neglected to mention.
Dance had heard of Rhyme, of course—many law enforcers knew of the brilliant quadriplegic forensic detective—but wasn’t aware of the details of his life or his role in the NYPD. The fact he was disabled soon failed to register; unless she was studying body language intentionally, Kathryn Dance tended to pay most attention to people’s eyes. Besides, one of her colleagues in the CBI was a paraplegic and she was accustomed to people in wheelchairs.
Sellitto now introduced her to Rhyme and a tall, intense police detective named Amelia Sachs. Dance noted at once that they were more than professional partners. No great kinesic deductions were necessary to make this connection; when she walked in, Sachs had her fingers entwined with Rhyme’s and was whispering something to him with a smile.
Sachs greeted her warmly and Sellitto introduced her to several other officers.
Dance was aware of a tinny sound coming from over her shoulder—earbuds dangling behind her. She laughed and shut off her iPod, which she carried with her like a life-support system.
Sellitto and Sachs told her about the homicide case they needed some help on—a case that Rhyme seemed to be in charge of, though he was a civilian.
Rhyme didn’t participate much in the discussion. His eyes continually returned to a large whiteboard, on which were notations of the evidence. The other officers were giving her details of the case, though she couldn’t help but observe Rhyme—the way he squinted at the board, would mutter something under his breath and shake his head, as if chastising himself for missing something. Occasionally his eyes would close. Once or twice he offered a comment about the case but he largely ignored Dance.
She was amused. The agent was used to skepticism. Most often it arose because she simply didn’t look like a typical cop, this five-foot-five woman with dark blond hair worn usually, as now, in a tight French braid, light purple lipstick, iPod earbuds dangling, the gold and abalone jewelry her mother had made, not to mention her passion—quirky shoes (chasing perps didn’t usually figure in Dance’s daily life as a cop).
Now, though, she suspected she understood Lincoln Rhyme’s lack of interest. Like many forensic scientists, he wouldn’t put much stock in kinesics and interviewing. He’d probably voted against calling her.
As for Dance herself, well, she recognized the value of physical evidence, but it had no appeal to her. It was the human side of crime and crime solving that made her own heart race.
Kinesics versus forensics . . .
Fair enough, Detective Rhyme.
While the handsome, sardonic and impatient criminalist continued to gaze at the evidence charts, Dance absorbed the details of the case, which was a strange one. The murders by the self-anointed Watchmaker were horrific, sure, but Dance wasn’t shocked. She’d worked cases that were just as gruesome. And, after all, she lived in California, where Charles Manson had set the standard for evil.
Another detective from the NYPD, Dennis Baker, now told her specifically what they needed. They’d found a witness who might have some helpful information but he wasn’t forthcoming with details.
“He claims he didn’t see anything,” Sachs added. “But I have a feeling he did.”
Dance was disappointed that it wasn’t a suspect but a witness she’d be interviewing. She preferred the challenge of confronting criminals, and the more deceitful the better. Still, interviewing witnesses took much less time than breaking suspects and she couldn’t miss her flight.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she told them. She fished in her Coach purse and put on round glasses with pale pink frames.
Sachs gave her the details about Ari Cobb, the reluctant witness, laying out the chronology of the man’s evening, as they’d been able to piece it together, and his behavior that morning.
Dance listened carefully as she sipped coffee that Rhyme’s caregiver had poured for her and indulged in half a Danish.
When she’d gotten all the background Dance organized her thoughts. Then she said to them, “Okay, let me tell you what I’ve got in mind. First, a crash course. Lon heard this yesterday at the seminar but I’ll let the rest of you know how I handle interviewing. Kinesics traditionally was studying somebody’s physical behavior—body language—to understand their emotional state and whether they were being deceptive or not. Most people, including me, use the term now to mean all forms of communication—not just body language but spoken comments and written statements too.
“F
irst, I’ll take a baseline reading of the witness—see how he acts when he’s answering things that we know are truthful—name, address, job, things like that. I’ll note his gesturing, posture, word choice and the substance of what he says.
“Once I have the baseline I’ll start asking questions and find out where he exhibits stress reactions. Which means he’s either lying or has some important issues with the topic I’m asking him about. Up until then, what I’ve been doing is ‘interviewing’ him. Once I suspect he’s lying, then the session will become an ‘interrogation.’ I start to whittle away at him, using a lot of different techniques, until we get to the truth.”
“Perfect,” said Baker. Although Rhyme was apparently in charge, Dennis Baker, Dance deduced, was from headquarters; he had the belabored look of a man on whose shoulders an investigation like this ultimately—and politically—rested.
“You have a map of the area we’re talking about,” Dance said. “I’d like to know the geography of the area involved. You can’t be an effective interrogator without it. I like to say I need to know the subject’s terrarium.”
Lon Sellitto gave a fast laugh. Dance smiled in curiosity. He explained, “Lincoln says exactly the same about forensics. If you don’t know the geography, you’re working in a vacuum. Right, Linc?”
“Sorry?” the criminalist asked.
“Terrarium, you like that?”
“Ah.” His polite smile was the equivalent of Dance’s son saying, “Whatever.”
Dance examined the map of lower Manhattan, memorizing the details of the crime scene and of Ari Cobb’s afterwork schedule the previous day, as Sachs and a young patrol officer, named Pulaski, pointed them out.
Finally she felt comfortable with the facts. “Okay, let’s get to work. Where is he?”
“A room across the hall.”
“Bring him in.”
Chapter 7
A moment later an NYPD patrol officer brought in a short, trim businessman wearing an expensive suit. Dance didn’t know if they’d actually arrested him but the way he touched his wrists told her that he’d been in cuffs recently.
Dance greeted the man, who was uneasy and angry, and nodded him to a chair. She sat across from him—nothing between them—and scooted forward until she was in a neutral proxemic zone, the term referring to the physical space between a subject and an interviewer. This zone can be adjusted to make the subject more or less comfortable. She was not too close to be invasive but not so far away as to give him a sense of security. (“You push the edge of edgy,” she’d say in her lectures.)
“Mr. Cobb, my name’s Kathryn Dance. I’m a law enforcement agent and I’d like to talk to you about what you saw last night.”
“This is ridiculous. I already told them”—a nod at Rhyme—“everything I saw.”
“Well, I just arrived. I don’t have the benefit of your previous answers.”
Jotting responses, she asked a number of simple questions—where he lived and worked, marital status, and the like—which gave her Cobb’s baseline reaction to stress. She listened carefully to his answers. (“Watching and listening are the two most important parts of the interview. Speaking comes last.”)
One of the first jobs of an interviewer is to determine the personality type of the subject—whether he’s an introvert or extrovert. These types aren’t what most people think; they’re not about being boisterous or retiring. The distinction is about how people make decisions. An introvert is governed by intuition and emotion more than logic and reason; an extrovert, the opposite. Assigning personalities helps the interviewer in framing the questions and picking the right tone and physical demeanor to adopt when asking them. For instance, taking a gruff, clipped approach with an introvert will make him withdraw into his shell.
Ari Cobb, though, was a classic extrovert and an arrogant one at that—no kid gloves were needed. This was Kathryn Dance’s favorite kind of subject. She got to kick serious butt when interviewing them.
Cobb cut off a question. “You’ve held me way too long. I have to get to work. What happened to that man isn’t my fault.”
Respectful but firm, Dance said, “Oh, it’s not a question of fault. . . . Now, Ari, let’s talk about last night.”
“You don’t believe me. You’re calling me a liar. I wasn’t there when the crime happened.”
“I’m not suggesting you’re lying. But there still might’ve been something you saw that could help us. Something you think isn’t important. See, part of my job is helping people remember things. I’ll walk you through the events of last night and maybe something’ll occur to you.”
“Well, there’s nothing I saw. I just dropped some money. That’s all. I handled the whole thing badly. And now it’s a federal case. This is such bullshit.”
“Let’s just go back to yesterday. One step at a time. You were working in your office. Stenfeld Brothers Investments. In the Hartsfield Building.”
“Yeah.”
“All day?”
“Right.”
“You got off work at what time?”
“Seven thirty, a little before.”
“And what did you do after that?”
“I went to Hanover’s for drinks.”
“That’s on Water Street,” she said. Always keep your subjects guessing exactly how much you know.
“Yeah. It was a martini and Karaoke thing. They call it Martuney Night. Like ‘tunes.’”
“Clever.”
“I’ve got a group I meet there. We go a lot. Some friends. Close friends.”
She noticed that his body language meant he was about to add something—probably he was anticipating her asking for their names. Being too ready with an alibi is an indicator of deception—the subject tends to think that offering it is good enough and the police won’t bother to check it out, or won’t be smart enough to figure out that having a drink at 8 P.M. doesn’t exculpate you from a robbery that happened at seven thirty.
“You left when?”
“At nine or so.”
“And went home?”
“Yes.”
“To the Upper East Side.”
A nod.
“Did you take a limo?”
“Limo, right,” he said sarcastically. “No, the subway.”
“From which station?”
“Wall Street.”
“Did you walk?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Carefully,” he said, grinning. “It was icy.”
Dance smiled. “The route?”
“I walked down Water Street, cut over on Cedar to Broadway then south.”
“And that’s where you lost your money clip. On Cedar. How did that happen?” Her tone and the questions were completely nonthreatening. He was relaxing now. His attitude was less aggressive. Her smiles and low, calm voice were putting him at ease.
“As near as I can figure, it fell out when I was getting my subway pass.”
“How much money was it again?”
“Over three hundred.”
“Ouch . . .”
“Yeah, ouch.”
She nodded at the plastic bag containing the money and clip. “Looks like you just hit the ATM too. Worst time to lose money, right? After a withdrawal.”
“Yep.” He offered a grimacing smile.
“When did you get to the subway?”
“Nine-thirty.”
“It wasn’t later, you sure?”
“I’m positive. I checked my watch when I was on the platform. It was nine thirty-five, to be exact.” He glanced down at his big gold Rolex. Meaning, she supposed, that a watch this expensive was sure to tell accurate time.
“And then?”
“I went back home and had dinner in a bar near my building. My wife was out of town. She’s a lawyer. Does corporate financing work. She’s a partner.”
“Let’s go back to Cedar Street. Were there any lights on? People home in their apartments?”
“No, it’s all off
ices and stores there. Not residential.”
“No restaurants?”
“A few but they’re only open for lunch.”
“Any construction?”
“They’re renovating a building on the south side of the street.”
“Was anybody on the sidewalks?”
“No.”
“Cars driving slowly, suspiciously?”
“No,” Cobb said.
Dance was vaguely aware of the other officers watching her and Cobb. They were undoubtedly impatient, waiting, like most people, for the big Confession Moment. She ignored them. Nobody really existed except the agent and her subject. Kathryn Dance was in her own world—a “zone,” her son, Wes, would say (he was the athlete of the family).
She looked over the notes she’d taken. Then she closed the notebook and replaced one pair of glasses with another, as if she were exchanging reading for distance glasses. The prescriptions were the same, but instead of the larger round lenses and pastel frames these were small and rectangular, with black metal frames, making her look predatory. She called them her “Terminator specs.” Dance eased closer to Cobb. He crossed his legs.
In a voice much edgier, she asked, “Ari, where did that money really come from?”
“The—”
“Money? You didn’t get it at an ATM.” It was during his comments about the cash that she noticed an increased stress level—his eyes stayed locked on to hers, but the lids lowered slightly and his breathing altered, both major deviations from his nondeceptive baseline.
“Yes, I did,” he countered.
“What bank?”
A pause. “You can’t make me tell you that.”
“But we can subpoena your bank records. And we’ll detain you until we get them. Which could take a day or two.”
“I went to the fucking ATM!”
“That’s not what I asked. I asked where the cash in your money clip came from.”
He looked down.
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 95
