Into the Black Nowhere

by Meg Gardiner

  Unforgivable bitch.

  “You can’t be serious,” he said, louder. “I step out for a drink and this is your response?”

  “Both hands behind your head,” Caitlin said.

  He shook his head. Then. Then . . .

  The blond swiveled out from under his arm and twisted his hand behind his back.

  34

  Caitlin walked toward Detrick across the parking lot, Glock leveled, blading her body to reduce her target profile. Under the tavern sign, the falling snow flared into shards of light. Detrick had frozen, half twisted, shoulders canted, gargoyle-like. His eyes were in shadow beneath the brim of a black cowboy hat, but his mouth, fighting to form a smile, instead looked like a rictus.

  At his side, Special Agent Arinda Sayers spun neatly from beneath his grip. Hand on his right wrist, she twisted his arm behind his back and pushed him against the snow-dappled side of his rental car.

  He hit the chassis with a metallic thunk. Under his breath he muttered, “Shit.”

  Sayers, an FBI agent from the Flagstaff Resident Agency, kicked Detrick’s feet into a shoulder-wide stance.

  “You double-teamed me?” he said.

  A curse escaped his mouth. He was figuring it out.

  “What’d you do, put a GPS tracker on my rental car before I even picked it up at the airport?” he said.

  The shock was bright in his gray eyes. That was precisely what she’d done—twice. Because he had figured that the FBI might do exactly that, and tried to outsmart them by requesting a last-second upgrade at the airport car rental counter. But she had warned the rental company to expect that ploy, and managed to get the tracker on the replacement car.

  He craned his neck to get a look at Agent Sayers. Her blond wig was askew, falling over one eye. She pulled it off. Detrick spat, fuck.

  Caitlin’s pulse was thundering. Despite the snow and the blistering cold, she felt hot, all the way to her fingertips. She pulled her handcuffs from beneath her parka and snapped them around his wrists.

  Sayers raised her wrist to her face and spoke into a radio. “Suspect is in custody.”

  “What the hell?” Detrick said.

  He was breathing hard. Then, like he was shutting off a floodgate, he exhaled and seemed to spin down. The rage left his voice.

  “This is a misunderstanding,” he said. “I’m hurt. You”—he nodded at Sayers—“you lied to me.”

  “How’s that?” Sayers pressed her forearm against the back of his neck, holding him against the car.

  “You pretended to be drunk. You pretended . . .”

  When his voice trailed off, Sayers didn’t fill in the rest. You pretended to believe me.

  Down the street came two police cruisers, lights flashing.

  “Which leg is prosthetic?” Sayers said.

  “Come on, can’t you take a little hyperbole in the name of romance?” he said.

  “Which branch of the military did you serve in? What was your unit in Afghanistan?”

  “Nobody could have taken that seriously.”

  Caitlin holstered her gun. Her adrenaline was jacking. Everything seemed sharp edged and bright.

  Detrick had not only been caught in the act—he was confessing to the ruse. She couldn’t help thinking of Aaron Gage, an actual combat veteran, carrying on strong after suffering catastrophic injuries. She swallowed the acidic taste in her mouth and dug through Detrick’s jeans pockets. She unzipped his ski jacket and pulled it open.

  “Huh,” she said.

  In an interior slash pocket was the item that had caused the metallic thunk when Sayers shoved him against the car. It was a tire iron.

  The handcuffs Detrick was carrying were in an outside pocket. Caitlin held them up. They reflected in the police cruisers’ spinning lights. Two officers got out and approached.

  Detrick spat, “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

  She hauled him upright. “I’m arresting you for attempted kidnapping.”

  She had him.

  35

  With flashing lights strobing red and blue across the road, Crying Call looked arc lit and shadowed. From the tavern parking lot, the road led to the town square. A red stone courthouse stood on one side and, next to it, the police station and city jail. Caitlin followed the Crying Call police cars. In the headlights of her rented pickup truck, the rear of Detrick’s head was brightly illuminated in the back-seat cage of the cruiser, behind the Lexan partition.

  She felt triumphant and relieved—and chilled. Detrick’s rental car was being loaded on a flatbed tow truck for transport to Impound. Inside it, she had found a DISABLED placard hanging from the rearview mirror. It would have been the final prop that convinced a real victim he was a wounded vet—a sign that led women to lower their guard and approach the vehicle that would spirit them to their deaths. The rental car’s child safety locks were engaged. Once inside, a victim couldn’t open the doors.

  Quite a coup de grace.

  But the DISABLED placard and child locks weren’t all of it. She’d also found a handheld spotlight and a badge wallet with a toy detective’s shield. Detrick had a backup ruse ready to go at the right moment.

  She saw now how he must have taken Phoebe Canova from her car at the railroad crossing in Solace. Wait for the crossing barrier to swing down. Pull up behind Phoebe’s car as a freight train passes, blocking any escape path. Aim the spotlight at her, and walk toward the driver’s side with his fake badge prominently displayed. When Phoebe lowered the window, ask her to step out of the car. And he had her.

  Special Agent Sayers had stayed behind at the tavern parking lot, supervising the impounding of the car. The Flagstaff Resident Agency was contacting a judge who would issue a search warrant for Detrick’s room at the Roundup Motel.

  Caitlin’s fingers tingled, chilled. Ahead, in the police cruiser, Detrick turned and squinted at her over his shoulder. The headlights turned his features cold.

  At the jail, the Crying Call officer got out and opened the back door of the patrol car. Caitlin jogged over, her breath ghosting the freezing air.

  “May I?” she said.

  The officer stepped back and extended a hand. His expression was droll. “All yours, ma’am.”

  She beckoned Detrick with a small, dismissive wave. He wriggled out. She led him by the elbow into the police station, with the local officers following like her knights at arms. Detrick hunched into his parka, absorbing the atmosphere: the cold lighting, the scarred counter of the front desk, the cheap linoleum, the brick walls. The station had been built when this was a frontier town.

  Still not much more than a frontier town now.

  The desk clerk pointed down a hall. Caitlin led Detrick into the jail wing, through a door with a buzzing electronic lock. A desk sergeant waited on the other side.

  “Process him,” she said.

  • • •

  The FBI team arrived in Crying Call four hours later, after flying into Flagstaff on a Bureau jet. It was two A.M. when Emmerich walked through the door of the police station with Rainey. The Crying Call chief of police met them in the lobby, looking alert and grave. The attempted kidnapping was a state crime, not federal, so his department was in charge. But he had already formally invited the BAU to assist in the case against Detrick. He shook Emmerich’s hand and gestured to the back of the station, which was twenty feet from the front.

  Caitlin was waiting for them. Emmerich walked over to her. Behind his somber demeanor, his eyes were animated.

  “Well done.”

  “Agent Sayers was a star,” she said. “She deserves a lot of the praise.”

  His suit was creased, his white shirt tired, but his gaze was sharp. “Noted.”

  She nodded. He stood there another second, and his expression seemed to fill with satisfaction. Maybe pride. He nodded back.

/>   Energy flooded Caitlin’s system. And relief.

  The police chief, Hank Silver, led them to the station’s Investigations section. It was the size of a single-wide trailer. Detrick had been taken to an interrogation room. The chief showed them a CCTV video feed.

  Cuffed, isolated, Detrick looked antsy. He sat, his feet shackled to a ring in the floor, squirming in his seat.

  “How’d he handle being booked?” Emmerich said.

  “He acted like it was an insult,” Silver said.

  “Good.”

  “At first he was self-important about it. Couldn’t believe he was being treated ‘this way,’” the chief said. “Then he got angry. Didn’t say anything, but looked like he was ready to blow. He’s been cooling his heels in there since ten P.M.”

  “Has he said anything? Asked for a lawyer?”

  “Nope.”

  Emmerich watched the video feed. “He will. Sooner rather than later. We need to talk to him before he gets himself together and decides that’s the avenue he wants to take.” His tone turned diplomatic. “We’d like to take the lead on interrogating him.”

  “All right with me,” Silver said. “You’ve been after this guy and it’s your show.”

  “Thank you.”

  Emmerich turned to the team. “He’s stewed long enough. We should conduct the interrogation now.”

  Rainey was peering intently at the screen. “Teri Drinkall.”

  Chief Silver said, “Excuse me?”

  “She’s the woman missing from the Dallas parking garage. It’s been two weeks since she disappeared but we know he kept at least one victim alive that long. We have to find out if Teri is still alive.”

  “You think he’ll tell you?”

  “We can work on it. The police searched his house in Austin tonight, but it’s been sterilized.”

  Emmerich looked grave. “The odds are slim, but not zero. For any chance to save Ms. Drinkall, we need Detrick to talk.”

  The Investigations office was chilly, the furniture nicked and cheap. Emmerich crossed his arms.

  “Strategy?” he said. “Suggestions for how we approach it?”

  Rainey had dark rings beneath her eyes but was straight-backed and thrumming with energy. “You should lead the interrogation.”

  “Because?”

  “Detrick’s a narcissist who’ll want to impress the guy running the show. His personality is organized around gaining and maintaining power,” she said. “Omnipotent control is the source of all his pleasure and pain. He’ll want Special Agent in Charge Emmerich to admire his audacity.”

  “Agreed.” Emmerich considered it. “He sees himself as a master of all games. He’s going to want to talk to authority figures as if we’re on the same plane. If I can convince him we’re working this investigation with him, collegially—all in it together, if not exactly from the same perspective—he may talk to me like I’m a colleague.”

  The chief shook his head. “You gotta be kidding.”

  “I’ve seen it happen more than once. We give him some time, convince him we’re as fascinated by these murders as he is, and he may break down and discuss the case in detail.”

  “Like Rader,” Rainey said. To Silver, she added, “Dennis Rader, the BTK killer—when he was finally captured, he confessed to the arresting officers at length. He said he’d always envisioned that if he were apprehended, he would sit down with the lead detective over a cup of coffee and discuss the case.”

  “I take it he was mistaken,” Silver said.

  “As he discovered after confessing to ten murders.”

  Caitlin had her hands jammed in her pockets. Detrick wasn’t Rader. Detrick knew he’d been a suspect and thought he’d outwitted them. Emmerich’s idea was good, but Detrick would be tough to wear down.

  Emmerich turned back to the video feed. “Detrick believes implicitly in his ability to manipulate women. I want to turn that against him.” He looked up. “Hendrix. You come with me.”

  Caitlin couldn’t hide her surprise. This was an opportunity. Something she wanted. And she wanted to hear Emmerich’s reasoning.

  “Sir?”

  “Rainey’s older than Detrick,” he said.

  Rainey raised an eyebrow, wanting to see where he was going.

  He turned to her and spread his hands, softening his words. “And we don’t know enough about his relationship with his mother to tell whether he’d regard you as a Madonna or Mommy Dearest.”

  “Fair point,” Rainey said.

  “But he’s attracted to Caitlin.” Emmerich paused, staring at her frankly.

  They all stared at her. Strangely, she didn’t feel awkward.

  “You can use that to turn the tables on him,” Emmerich said.

  Caitlin thought about it. “So, to him, am I a virgin or a whore?”

  “Maybe Sleeping Beauty. See which way he jumps, and trip him up.”

  They headed down the hall. The interrogation room door had a laminated sign that read NO WEAPONS. Chief Silver peered through a peephole and unlocked the door with his jangling key ring. Giving Emmerich a sober nod, he opened it.

  Caitlin and Emmerich entered. The chief followed.

  At a particleboard table, Kyle Detrick sat on a tired plastic chair. His eyes were rimed with fatigue. His stylish ski fleece smelled of sweat. Under the buzzing fluorescent lights, his looks were darker, deeper edged.

  Emmerich dropped a brown FBI file folder on the table. The walls in the small room deadened the sound.

  He turned to Silver. “I don’t think we need the handcuffs.”

  The chief ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek.

  Across the chipped table, Detrick raised his chin. He seemed assured and self-satisfied.

  Silver looked like he really, truly wanted to punch him in the nuts. “Not when he’s so outnumbered. Hold out your hands.”

  Detrick raised his wrists and the chief uncuffed him.

  “Knock when you’re done.” Silver left, closing the door. It locked with a rough click.

  Detrick stretched his fingers and rubbed his wrists. Emmerich took off his suit jacket, draped it over the back of a chair, and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  “Getting an FBI team to a mountain town in the middle of the night—you managed quite a feat, Mr. Detrick.”

  Emmerich sat. Caitlin took the chair next to him. Detrick refused to look at her.

  Emmerich rested his hands on top of the file folder. The FBI seal was prominent. “You know why you’re here?”

  Detrick leaned back in the chair. He couldn’t move far—though his hands were free, his feet were still shackled to the ring in the floor. “Somebody’s got a hard-on for me.”

  He smiled and tilted his head at Caitlin, coyly.

  “Why do you think that is?” Emmerich said.

  “I’m insulted—and not a little shocked—at the way I’ve been treated. They actually call it being ‘processed.’ Like I’m a bull being led to the slaughter. Photographed, fingerprinted—and that cotton swab they ran around the inside of my cheek.”

  Emmerich remained impassive. “That’s to gather saliva and epithelial cells for a DNA sample.”

  “We all watch CSI,” Detrick said.

  But hearing that his DNA was going to be analyzed seemed to set him on edge. His eyes took on a wary cast. Caitlin thought: He doesn’t know for certain whether he left DNA at any of the crime scenes.

  Emmerich pulled a sheet of paper from the file folder. The arrest report.

  “Tire iron, handcuffs . . .”

  Detrick shifted. His glib smile returned. “It was late. I flew in and couldn’t legally bring a firearm on the plane.”

  “You normally carry a firearm?” Emmerich said.

  “No. My point is, I don’t know whether to be more amused or outrage
d that she actually arrested me for pulling a joke.”

  “Wounded vet?”

  “Is that what the bait agent told you?”

  “‘Bait’?”

  “The fake blond. The lure. You know—what predators use to entrap you.”

  “You had a weapon on your person, and restraints. You were carrying a kidnap kit.”

  Detrick shook his head, looking disgusted. “It’s a game.”

  “The DISABLED placard?”

  Detrick shrugged. “Chicks dig guys with a limp. No law against plumage.”

  “You a peacock?” Emmerich said.

  “What can I tell you?”

  “The child locks in the car were enabled.”

  “I came on vacation with a six-year-old.” He spread his hands like, Duh.

  “We’ll be talking to Emma,” Emmerich said. “What did you plan to do with the young woman you were leading to your car?”

  “I wasn’t leading her anywhere. We were going to party.”

  Emmerich nodded, as though digesting that. “Why do you think we came to be interested in you to begin with?”

  “No idea.”

  Emmerich’s expression was one of concern and curiosity. “Really?”

  Detrick paused, gauging Emmerich’s sincerity. “Somebody doesn’t like me. That’s all I can think. Professional envy, maybe someone I outmaneuvered on a deal.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “Could be anybody.”

  He glared at Caitlin. She returned the look.

  Detrick turned back to Emmerich. “You guys are really over the top, you know.”

  “We’re the FBI,” Emmerich said.

  “I’ve done nothing illegal,” Detrick said. “You have to see that. I come up here to get away for a while, bring the girlfriend and her kid, but you know, after a week, all she wants to do is watch Disney and sip lemonade. I’ve been cooped up. I just wanted to blow off some steam.” His smile returned. “You understand that, right?”

  Buddying up to Emmerich: Caitlin had to admit surprise that the profile fit Detrick so well.

  “You wanted to paint the town red,” Emmerich said.

  Detrick shrugged and gave a little-boy smile. “Saturday night. You can’t blame a guy for trying.”