“Ah.”
“Chief saw the act, told me to expect you. Said you might be able to help, and that I ought to cooperate with you, but maybe we don’t document anything. Keep it informal.”
“And you said?”
“I said ‘Yes, Chief.’”
Winehart, at her desk, turned around. Whatever that call had been, she had her composure back. She looked her question at the back of Scarrey’s head. Mason coughed a little to hide his nod. Yeah, that’s the one. Winehart wiggled her fingers, faking spooky. Scarrey sighed, just as Mason realized the guy could probably see her reflection in the window glass. The guy didn’t say anything about it, though.
“May I speak with the prisoner?”
“YOU DON’T HAVE TO TALK WITH ME,” SCARREY SAID. “IT’S NOT REQUIRED. I’m not a policeman or a psychiatrist or anything like that.”
In addition to bars, the holding cell had a thick metal mesh too narrow to fit even a finger through. The floor was concrete, the three walls were brick painted with high-gloss cream-colored paint that came clean with a little Windex and a paper towel no matter what was smeared on it. The cot was a metal shelf bolted to the far wall with the small steel toilet beside it. The whole thing wasn’t more than six feet by eight, and most days it would have three or four people in it.
Sobinski sat on the floor, legs crossed, glaring out. His eyes were rimmed red, his mouth slack. Hanks of greasy hair hung down over his face, but there was an awareness in his eyes. He wasn’t zoned out. He was watching them both. Mason stood a step back, letting the expert do whatever he was going to do. Scarrey waited a long moment, then sat down himself, just outside the cage, looking in at Sobinski with their heads on a level.
“I was hoping I could talk to you about why you’re here,” Scarrey said. “About what happened.”
Sobinski’s elbows moved out to his sides with a sudden jerk. His head seemed to shift at the neck, putting his face at an angle that left him looking like someone had snapped something important in his spine. His voice was thick and greasy. The syllables ran into one another, sliding and slipping. Scarrey made a small, embarrassed noise in the back of his throat.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” Scarrey said. “I wanted to speak with Maury, please.”
“There is no Maury,” Sobinski said, his voice sounding like something forced out through raw meat. It was too big for the body. Too big for the space. It made Mason’s flesh crawl. “I am Beleth, King of Hell. This body is my property, ceded me by right.”
“I understand,” Scarrey said. “And with all respect, Your Majesty, I’ve come to speak with Maury, please.”
Sobinski’s jaw opened so wide it seemed in danger of coming unhinged. His tongue spilled out, lolling down toward his crossed legs.
“You want little Mo to come out and play?” the voice said again, each syllable wet and angry. The tone was mocking.
“Yes, please,” Scarrey said.
The prisoner chuckled. His shoulders shifted back into place, his face lost its expression of malefic glee, and the broken-necked angle of his head slithered back to true. Sobinski looked around like he was seeing them both for the first time.
“Maury?” Scarrey asked.
The prisoner nodded uncertainly.
“My name’s Rich,” Scarrey said, smiling. “I wanted to talk to you for a minute about why you’re in here. Will that be all right?”
“Are you a psychiatrist?”
“No,” Scarrey said. “I’m not anybody in particular. I understand you’ve been possessed by a demon?”
Sobinski looked from Scarrey up to Mason and back. His skin was pale and fragile looking. He swallowed and nodded. When he spoke, it was barely more than a whisper.
“They don’t believe me.”
“I know,” Scarrey said.
“I didn’t kill Sarah. I’d never kill Sarah. I’d never kill anybody.”
“All right.”
“The demons. They’re everywhere. They take people over and ride their bodies around. You can’t tell. No one can tell until they let you see them, and then it’s too late. They control everything. The president? The pope? You don’t know. You have to believe me.”
“I do believe you. I do. How did Beleth get into you, Maury? Can you tell me what happened?”
Sobinski rose to his feet. He looked like someone getting out of a hospital bed for the first time after surgery. Every movement was uncertain, every step tentative. Like he was waiting to see how far he could bend before it hurt again. Scarrey stayed sitting on the floor.
“It was maybe five years ago?” Sobinski said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “I was working at this place in Detroit. Chop shop. They sold some drugs too, but I was strictly on the car side of things, right? There was this black guy. Jamaican. They called him John Zombie.”
“John Zombie,” Scarrey repeated, nodding.
“He was crazy. Into all kinds of weird shit. I didn’t believe any of it. Figured he was just trying to look like a badass, you know? Scare people.”
“Did he ever mention Carrefour? Marinette?”
“He did. He used those names. But I can’t—” Sobinski said, and then without warning he leaped at Scarrey, screaming. The prisoner’s body clanged against the metal, his shriek like a saw going through meat. Mason found his hand on the butt of his pistol and made himself relax.
Sobinski was yelling the same strange syllables he had before. His spine humped up and his arms shifted in repulsive jerks. Flecks of spit wetted the mesh cage. When Sobinski beat his fists against it, the metal rang. Mason stepped forward.
“Okay, asshole, you can stop that now,” he said.
Scarrey rose, wiping spit from his nose and cheek.
“I think we’re done here for now, Detective. I may want to come back later.”
“I know you, little man,” Sobinski said in his deep, demonic voice. “I know your heart. I will find you in your sleep.”
“You can come back if you want to,” Mason said with a shrug. “It goes like this pretty much all the time.”
Scarrey nodded politely to the screaming man, and Mason led him away. With the holding cells behind them, Mason led the man to the break room and poured him a cup of coffee.
“Well?” he asked as Scarrey poured cream and sugar into his mug.
“I’ll want to look through the reports. I may also need to see the crime scene? If you can take me there? As to the man himself, it’s early to say. But there are some points of interest. This John Zombie he talks about may be worth remembering, but . . .”
“What about that nonsense he keeps babbling?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. It’s Aramaic.”
“Yeah? How’s his accent?” Mason asked.
Scarrey looked up, confused. Then, catching the joke, smiled.
“Terrible.”
SCARREY ADJUSTED ANDERSON’S CHAIR FIVE OR SIX TIMES WHILE MASON brought over the reports. It had everything from the original missing-person report the ex-boyfriend had filed through the medical examiner’s write-up through the report Mason had written covering the arrest. Scarrey looked it over like he was trying to make up his mind where to start on the buffet line.
“You need anything else?” Mason asked.
“Could I have a few sheets of paper? Just printer paper would be fine. For notes.”
“Sure,” Mason said.
“And a pen?”
Once the guy was settled in, going over the paperwork with his face squinched into a comic mask of concentration, Mason headed for the break room. Having someone else at his partner’s desk felt too weird, and he could use a little caffeine anyway. He was still there, drinking the last black dregs, when the chief found him.
He wasn’t old, but he’d seen a lot, and he wore it in the angle of his shoulders and the way he held his back straight. He nodded to Mason when he came in and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“He’s here?”
“He is, sir,” Mason said. “I gave him the
files. Full access. Just like you said.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Sir? About Anderson—”
“I’m not going to talk about that,” the chief said, stirring nondairy creamer into the black.
“He’s a good cop,” Mason said. “I’ve worked with him for six years now, and he’s the sharpest guy we have on this team. We lose him over this, and it means bad people walking.”
“I’m not talking about it, Mason. And neither are you. When the Internal Affairs review is finished up, we can—”
“It was a couple hundred dollars,” Mason said. “This department goes through more than that in free cappuccinos every week.”
The chief put his cup down, leaned against the counter, and crossed his arms. His expression was the empty calm that meant Mason had come close enough to see the line, but he hadn’t crossed it yet.
“I respect your concern for your partner,” the chief said. “I share your high opinion of Detective Anderson. Speaking as a professional law enforcement officer and as your superior, I’m telling you right now that we are going to toe the line on this. Whatever IA wants to know, you tell them. Whatever they want to see, you show.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When Detective Anderson is exonerated of all wrongdoing, I don’t want anyone thinking it was on some kind of technicality, or that we pulled one over on IA.”
“No, sir.”
“And speaking as myself, don’t worry. I’m taking care of it.”
Mason fought not to grin.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I don’t need gratitude. I need a confession out of Sobinski.”
“All right, then.”
The chief took his coffee, nodded, and walked away.
Back at his desk, Mason glanced over at the expert, who was still frowning over the details of the dead girl, sighed to himself, and started filling out the death investigation reports for a homeless man who’d either walked off an apartment building or else been pushed. An hour later, Scarrey appeared at his shoulder, clearing his throat as an apology.
“Find what you need?” Mason asked.
“No, no. Only what I expected. I was hoping we might stop by the crime scene? Possibly Sobinski’s apartment?”
“Okay. But you understand that the crime scene’s not going to be like it was. After the forensics guys are done, we release it. Let people start using the place again. They usually get the cleanup guys in pretty fast.”
“What a world it would be otherwise,” Scarrey said, and then, seeing Mason’s blank look, “I was just thinking what it would be like if we froze a room every time someone died in it. We’d run out of places to eat and sleep. Store food. We’d have to find some way to clean the space. Start time moving again. But then, I suppose we do that when the forensics team leaves, don’t we? Try to take a room or alleyway or whatever out of the world while they go about their work, and when they make their mark, put it back in.”
“Sure,” Mason said. “I guess.”
“The power of ritual,” Scarrey said, pleased by the thought. “Well. Would you like to drive, or shall I?”
THE WAREHOUSE WHERE SARAH OSTERMAN HAD DIED WAS ONE OF HUNDREDS like it squatting in the rough triangle where the river and the railroad intersected. The morning sun pressed the shadows out of the concrete and steel. The only pedestrians were the homeless, and the traffic was all big-rig trucks and clunkers. Mason liked the district for its authenticity. That was about all it had to offer.
In the passenger seat, Scarrey hummed to himself and leaned out, peering at the addresses they passed. His thick, stubby fingers tapped on the seat beside him, almost but not quite keeping time with the humming. On the one hand, Mason could turn on the radio, try to drown the guy out. On the other, if he did, the guy might try to sing along.
They parked in front of the manager’s office. A block of tall buildings with rolling garage doors and loading docks stretched off to the south. Three big rigs stood parked at the docks, but nothing was moving in or out of the warehouses. The manager, a painfully thin woman with a nasal cannula running down to her portable oxygen supply, gave him the access code and universal key. As Mason walked down the loading docks, Scarrey trotted beside him.
“The company that was renting the warehouse legitimately,” Scarrey said. “Have they reported anything odd about the space since?”
“Nope. Nothing going bump in the night. At least nothing they’ve told me about.”
“Hm.”
“Expecting something?”
“Well, you’d expect people to be nervous at least, wouldn’t you?” Scarrey said. “Something terrible like that happens, and people draw back or they lean forward. It’s very rare that they can remain unaffected. Of course, it would have to be something significant to deserve official mention.”
“Sounds like you don’t think our boy was really trying to call up the devil.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that,” Scarrey said.
Mason stopped at the door. M-15 in black on flaking yellow paint. He keyed the passcode into the button pad beside the door, put in the manager’s key, and, with a loud clank, the warehouse door began to rise. Scarrey ducked under it, hurrying inside. Mason waited until he could walk in standing straight.
The place looked innocuous. Simple. Innocent. The boxes and shelving that Sobinski had moved aside were back where they belonged. The air smelled like car exhaust and WD-40, not incense and blood. The chalked words and diagrams had been washed off the floor and walls. Mason pulled back his shoulders, stretching until something in his spine cracked. Scarrey was walking around the place like a tourist in Times Square, blinking and craning his neck. He walked once around the whole place, fingertips trailing on the wall, touching the boxes of cheap DVD players and third-rate audio equipment, his eyes squinting up into the blue-white fluorescents.
“Did you see her?”
“I did,” Mason said.
“What did it feel like?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, that’s the problem with reports, isn’t it? They never tell you the really important parts. I know she was here,” Scarrey said, standing as near to the right place as the shelving would let him and raising his arms as if the chains and hooks had been in his own flesh. “And I’m thinking suspended from that rafter and the pipe over there, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s the kind of thing reports tell you. They never say what it felt like. When you saw her, did it make you happy?”
“She was a kid,” Mason said. “She was tortured and killed by a sick asshole, and we were too late to help her. What do you think?”
“I don’t know, but it’s important. Did seeing her body here make you happy?”
“No.”
“Sexually aroused?”
“Yeah,” Mason deadpanned. “Absolutely. Boner you could drive nails with.”
“Don’t do that,” Scarrey said. His voice was low now, and very serious. “Don’t joke about this. I can’t tell what you’re joking to cover. Did the body arouse you sexually?”
“Fuck no, it didn’t,” Mason said.
“Good. Good good good.”
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“Did what happened here make you happy?”
“Lots of things have happened here,” Scarrey said. “Some of them were terrible. Meaning what happened with that girl. Some of them were quite pleasant.”
“Like?”
“Like me finding what I expected to find.”
“Which is?”
Scarrey grinned and spread his arms, gesturing at the walls, the boxes, the light.
“A warehouse,” he said.
“Yeah,” Mason said. “Well, glad we got that solved. What’s next?”
“Lunch, I’d expect. Would you like some lunch? I’ll pay.”
IT WASN’T THE SORT OF RESTAURANT MASON USUALLY WENT FOR. GIVEN his options, he usually went for a good local Mexic
an place or else a steakhouse. If it looked like the kind of place where he might have to wait for a table, he’d discount it out of hand. When they walked through the glassand-chrome doors, Mason expected the woman at the maitre d’ station to ask if they’d like a reservation for next month, but instead, she’d shown them back to a little cream-colored alcove with an art deco halogen lamp suspended from wires above the table. So maybe Scarrey knew something.
“What’s good here?” Mason asked, looking over the menu. Fourteendollar BL T. Forty-dollar lamb shank.
“I usually get the salad with feta on the side,” Scarrey said.
“Right,” Mason said.
“There’s a coffee-crusted steak that’s good too. You could try that.”
Mason tried to figure out if the guy was joking, and almost decided he wasn’t. And if he was, it would serve him right for making the offer.
“All right. I’ll give it a shot.”
Scarrey waved the waiter over, and they ordered. Their drinks arrived before they’d finished. Scarrey got a European lager. Mason stuck to iced tea, and for iced tea, it wasn’t bad.
“So,” Mason said. “You believe all this stuff. Beleth, King of Hell. Demonic conspiracies. Like that?”
“Absolutely, I do,” Scarrey said. “I’ve seen it. I take it you don’t believe it?”
“I’ve seen a lot of things,” Mason said. “I’m just the cop, though. You want judgment, you want a judge.”
“I’m not sure being on the bench necessarily gives someone a deeper spiritual insight.”
“Amen,” Mason said, and Scarrey caught the joke immediately that time. The maitre d’ looked over at the sound of his laughter, smiled, and turned away.
“I didn’t always believe it,” Scarrey said. “But I hoped. I always hoped.”
“Hoped? That there was a global satanic conspiracy controlling the government and the police so it can sacrifice babies and worship the devil?”
“Well, not when you put it that way. But I hoped that there was a world more magical than my physical, obvious, mundane life. I was like that when I was young. Always looking for something miraculous. A visitation from God. Or a UFO abduction. I wanted to be a vampire all through middle school. Used to stand by my window every night and invite any vampires who happened to be around to come in. They can’t come in unless you invite them, you know. I was a bit ahead of the times on that. I wasn’t picky, though. I just wanted something to turn the world on its head.”
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