by Blake Pierce
Adele shot a look at John. “He killed someone?”
“That’s what the prosecution tried to say.”
“So why isn’t he in jail?”
John shook his head. “I guess they couldn’t get a conviction. He was arrested, hence the mug shot, but they let them go. Found not guilty.”
Adele felt her heart hammer. She picked up the pace, drawing close to Agent Pascal levels of speed.
Santiago Segura fit the description. Dark hair, dark eyes, average height, riding a bicycle on the pilgrimage route. He had also once been arrested for murder. Cleared or not, that gave him a far deeper connection to the case.
Briefly, Adele considered what she’d read about the plenary indulgence. Absolution for anything. For all the crimes and sins one might have committed. She had wondered at the time what sort of sin would prompt someone to travel so far. Murder would fit the list, wouldn’t it?
Was Mr. Segura feeling guilty about the murder of his brother-in-law? Was that why he was traveling the pilgrimage?
If he was killing along the way, out of a sense of sick pleasure or compulsion, the absolution would clear him from that as well.
Adele gritted her teeth, hands gripping the steering wheel as she followed the GPS as it chirped instructions. She screeched down a side street, weaving through the two lanes of traffic.
It all fit. In a creepy, twisted sort of way. Why these victims, though?
“Think it’s our guy?” John muttered.
Adele said, “I plan to ask him in person. Hang tight, it’s just up ahead.”
***
John hated sitting passenger side. For one, Adele drove like his grandma. For another, it gave him nothing to do but think. He hated thinking. Thinking was distracting from doing. Now, though, as Adele made a beeline toward the parking lot of the roadside inn, the flashing neon sign pointing the way, he could feel his thoughts trying to catch up with his emotions.
He shot a glance at Adele out of the corner of his eye, and then looked back at the road.
Clearly she hadn’t understood. He wasn’t always good at phrasing things. He knew what he meant, but when he spoke, sometimes the words just got jumbled. Other times his own stupid temper got in the way.
Was Adele right to be mad?
Why was it any of her business that he had a kid? It wasn’t like he saw the kid. He wasn’t even allowed to for the first few years. And now that his ex was down on her luck, she wanted financial support. He knew what she was trying to do. By getting him time with his child, she would be able to go to a judge to make a case for child support.
He could see it coming from a mile away.
He glanced at Adele again, back out the window. It had been fun seeing the way she had spoken with her father back at the apartment. He was a rough man, a tough one. But Adele clearly loved him.
Things hadn’t been smooth between them, either.
Maybe he was taking it out on the wrong person. But what if his kid didn’t want to see him?
John twisted uncomfortably in his seat, staring as Adele hit her turn signal, merged, and began to pull into the driveway outside the inn.
He felt poised, ready to move, but at the same time, he realized he’d uncovered something he didn’t want to know. The discomfort he was feeling was only in part from sitting in a car with Adele. Another part of him wondered if this last thought was true. What if she didn’t want to see him? What if his daughter would show up a couple of times, think he was some weird loser, and leave? It wasn’t like he was father of the year. He hadn’t even been in her life for a decade. Why would she want to see him now?
He regretted neglecting her. He hadn’t ever really wanted kids. He hadn’t thought it would be safe for him to have them. If anything, he would just ruin them. Didn’t Bernadette see that? Besides, he’d only really seen her for a week. A one-night stand had turned into a week of lovemaking. It had been fun. And then the kid had come. Why was it that everyone thought he had to suddenly care for the kid just because he’d slept with someone? He slept with a lot of people. If all of them popped out kids that didn’t mean he’d suddenly become a father figure.
His insides wormed again.
He cursed beneath his breath, staring through the window as Adele pulled sharply into a parking spot and flung open the door.
He was already mid-motion, pushing open his own door. This was why he hated thinking. It only left him feeling guilty. No, he didn’t have an answer for any of it. He was no one’s father. He wasn’t good at that sort of thing. He would just ruin the girl. And, more likely, and perhaps a bit more honestly, he was terrified she would want nothing to do with him after meeting him. Maybe it was best for everyone involved he just stayed away.
He flung open the door, hurrying alongside Adele as they moved hastily up the steps.
Agent Pascal was already waiting for them in the lobby with two police officers at her side. A frazzled-looking man was standing behind the counter, pointing up the stairs and jabbering something quickly.
He lowered his hand and then pointed toward the far end of the hall, up the stairs and then down again.
Pascal said, “He’s got a room upstairs, but he is currently in the dining hall, alone,” she said, hurriedly.
The flash of lights behind him through the open door illuminated the slick tiled ground.
John growled as he took the lead, hastening around the stairs in the indicated direction of the chow hall.
Adele followed close behind, doing her best to keep up. But John put on an extra burst of speed. He didn’t need anyone to hold him back.
He reached the swinging double doors to the dining hall, waited a second, and then kicked open the door, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Hands up, DGSI!”
A man was sitting in the back of the small space, near some curtains which had been thrown open to allow the sun into the room. He took a long sip of soup, lowered his spoon, and then slowly, with baleful eyes, looked up. He had brown hair instead of a buzzed head now. He had the same beak-shaped nose from his mug shot. Mr. Segura glanced from one of them to the next, and then with a bored expression returned his attention to the soup. He took another sip.
Adele and John, with Pascal behind them, moved then, weapons raised. “Hands up, get away from the table,” John shouted.
The man sighed, taking another sip of soup. Then he stood up, holding a steak knife in one hand. He twirled the knife, once, twice, and called out, “What is this about?” he said in French.
“Get down!” John shouted.
The man looked around at them, blinking. It was almost as if he couldn’t sense fear. He didn’t jerk back, didn’t panic. He looked bored more than anything. The guns didn’t earn anything more than a passing glance and a snort. Mr. Segura lowered his spoon and lifted the knife to pick at his teeth.
John and Adele circled the table. Pascal stayed where she was, blocking the doors.
“Mr. Segura,” Adele said, firmly. “You need to put the knife down. Hands up.”
He picked at his teeth again, frowned, dug a bit deeper. A faint stream of blood poured from his gums down his white teeth. But then he gave a click of satisfaction and removed the knife, a small brown strand of meat caught on the end.
“The steak was like rubber,” the man said, shaking his head. He made a tutting sound and then placed the knife back on the table. He raised his hands, and, in the air of a man practiced with law enforcement, he went to his knees, hands still on his head, then down to his belly.
Seconds later, John and Adele were both on him. John went for the cuffs, and Adele began rapidly checking his pockets.
“Mr. Segura, stay down,” John cautioned. “Don’t move.”
“I will not,” the man replied in French, through a mouthful of carpet. “I really must commend you. That was only two seconds to cuff me. The last guy who did it took five. I keep track for fun.”
John growled, beginning to lift the man as Adele pulled another knife out of the fell
ow’s pocket, placing it on the table.
“Mr. Segura, you’re coming in for questioning,” John snapped.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Adele didn’t know what to make of this new suspect. He seemed emotionless. Completely devoid of any fear or concern for his own well-being. When they had cuffed him, he hadn’t protested. When John had pushed him into the back of the sedan, he hadn’t protested. Now, as John roughly dragged his handcuffed arms forward, looping them through the slots in the interrogation room table, he went along compliantly, making no move to defend himself or resist.
Adele watched the strange fellow. His head wasn’t buzzed as it had been in his mug shot. He looked older now. Maybe in his forties, or even fifties. A thin speckle of gray beneath the brown suggested the true color of his hair. He had a silver mustache, which didn’t match the rest of his hair. Mr. Segura watched the two of them as John pushed away and then settled in the chair across the interrogation room table.
Agent Pascal was still talking with the local area sergeant in the hall outside, maintaining access to the room for now. Clearly, by the sound of raised voices through the door, this portion of Spain didn’t much like CNI commandeering one of their rooms.
But Adele would leave the politics to the locals. She had a case to solve.
“Why did you have a knife on you?” Adele said, firmly.
Santiago spoke French easily enough. It sounded like it might have been his first language. Though it was difficult to tell. He hesitated, but then said, “Which knife? One of them I was using to pick steak out of my teeth.”
“The other one,” Adele replied. “Seven inches. That’s not a knife for utility. It is for hurting things.”
“Or protecting,” the man said, nonchalantly. “But in my case, you’re right. The knife is meant for hurting things.”
Adele and John shared a look. She cleared her throat, hesitant. “So you admit it?”
He smiled faintly. It wasn’t a pandering, teasing sort of expression. It wasn’t mocking, or even deranged. It simply seemed like an authentic, genuinely sad smile. He shrugged once. “I was going to hurt myself. I considered for a while if I ought not. But it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”
John shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the metal legs scraping against the floor. Adele leaned back, frowning beneath the bright lights above. “You’re going to hurt yourself?”
“Indeed.”
“Do you hurt yourself often?”
“No. Not intentionally. I was going to kill myself.” He said it like he was commenting on the weather. Again, his emotions seemed completely disassociated from his words. He looked around the room and glanced at the clock, as if wondering how long this would take.
“Are you all right?” Adele said, carefully. “Do you know where you are?”
The man glanced back at her and smiled again. “Yes, I’m sorry, Detective. I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“Maybe you can help me understand.”
The man nodded. “Certainly. I’d love to try at least. How can I help you?”
“I have a few questions, but maybe we can start with the killing yourself part.” Adele tried to keep her tone neutral, but it was a difficult thing to do. Something was clearly off about this man—he spoke like in a dream, as if nothing mattered, without a single ounce of self-preservation.
The man wagged his head dutifully. He sat straight-backed, making no motion with his wrists, as if worried he might scuff the chains binding him. “It’s nothing,” he said, hesitantly. “Absolution. I was walking the pilgrimage, you know. The French Way.”
“You speak French.”
“I am half French.”
“I see.”
“Do you believe in absolution, Agent?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think someone can be absolved of the sins in their past?”
“Are you talking about the man you killed?”
He hesitated and began to shake his head, but then stopped. “I wasn’t found guilty of that.”
“And yet your conscience seems to weigh heavy.” Adele shrugged. “People with clean consciences don’t tend to feel guilty enough to kill themselves.”
“Who said it was guilt?” he said.
“I can’t be sure. Maybe you can help me understand. Why did you want to kill yourself?”
“Not did. Do. I probably still will. I thought about it for a long time,” he said, continuing in a conversational tone, entirely devoid of emotion. Respectful, polite, but cold. “I walked the pilgrimage for a bit; I felt like perhaps it might cleanse my soul. Maybe make me feel better. But it doesn’t seem right, does it?”
Adele hesitated. She didn’t say anything, allowing him to continue. Was he confessing?
“It doesn’t seem right that one could get off without punishment. Some things even punishment won’t fix. Like a dead person.”
“Your brother-in-law?” Adele prompted.
“Yes. He was.”
“No one else?”
“Should there be?”
“You tell me.” Adele crossed her arms, her suit wrinkling as she stared at the man—a strange mass of contradictions, of oddities.
“I don’t know,” he said, hesitantly, with a long sigh. His silver mustache and brown hair seemed a mismatch, similar to the words he spoke and the emotions he displayed.
“Have you killed anyone else?” Adele said, bluntly.
The man looked at her. Instead of seeming shocked, or annoyed, or angry, he simply said, “I don’t think so.”
“Most people know if they’ve killed anyone.”
He shook his head. “I don’t really know anything anymore. If it isn’t sinners who deserve absolution, then no one does. People who deserve forgiveness have to call it something else. It’s not forgiveness if it is deserved. But it’s not justice if it’s overlooked. If you can just get away with anything you do, what’s to stop you from killing or raping or stealing?”
“You’ve done these things?” Adele said.
The man continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “What’s the point? Why try so hard if you can say a little prayer, go on a long walk, and get away with it? It doesn’t make sense, does it?”
Adele shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not my area of expertise.”
The man sighed, passing a hand through his hair, forced to duck his head so he could reach it with the handcuff.
When he looked up again, he just looked tired. “I don’t have the answers, Agent. I don’t know what you’re looking for. If you tell me, maybe I can be of help.”
“We’re looking into murders,” Adele said. She was surprised at how straightforward she replied to the question. Then again, he was being nothing but straightforward in return.
The man nodded. “I see. And I might have done them, is that it?”
“Did you?”
“Kill someone? When?”
Three times in the last four days,” Adele said, quietly. “On the same pilgrimage path that you’re taking now.”
He nodded and said, “I see. For what it’s worth, no, I haven’t killed anyone. Not in a long time.” He gave another long sigh, Adele glimpsed, beneath the facade of calm, a roiling sea of emotion behind the man’s eyes. She glimpsed pain—a pain she was familiar with. The pain of regret. Of anger and sadness. And also she glimpsed the self-loathing that would prompt a man to buy a knife to use on himself.
Adele sighed, getting slowly to her feet. She said, “I’ll be back.” John glanced at her, frowning, and she gave a faint gesture for him to follow.
The two of them rose and exited the interrogation room, moving out into the hall. As the door began to close, Adele glimpsed Santiago one last time. He just sat there, stony-faced, staring across the table as if they hadn’t even been there. He was lost in his own little world.
The door clicked shut, and John murmured, “That guy gives me the creeps.”
Adele blinked, holding her eyes closed for
a moment longer before opening them again. “I think he’s sad. I believe him. I think the knife was for himself.”
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t use it on anyone else.”
“Are they running it?”
John nodded. “Pascal is getting them to. We should know if the murder weapon matches.”
“I don’t think it will,” Adele said, quietly.
“He was in the area of the murders. He’s traveling alone and can’t account for his whereabouts on those nights.”
“One of the benefits of being alone.”
“Why don’t you think it’s him?”
Adele considered this question for a moment. Maybe she was empathizing too much. She knew the pain of regret, of losing a family member. She knew how it ate at her whether or not she’d been directly to blame. But also… she’d glimpsed something in the beleaguered suspect. She murmured, “He didn’t spend a second in there trying to defend himself. He wasn’t angry at us. He just seemed defeated. Why would a man on the verge of suicide, filled with that much guilt, want to go hunt others?”
“He’s killed before,” John said.
Adele rubbed at her eyes, feeling the lack of sleep slowly catching up with her. “He was charged, but not convicted,” she said. “It was deemed an accident.”
“Doesn’t mean it was. This guy was on the pilgrimage. He said so himself. He matches the description. He has a sketchy past.”
“We can send his picture to the landlady—see if she recognizes him.”
John frowned at this, scratching his chin. “You don’t think she will?”
“No. I don’t. And if it’s not him, where does that leave us?”
“But what if it is?”
“The knife doesn’t even match the murder weapon, John. The coroners all said the same thing. The murder weapon wasn’t a knife. Their throats were cut, but with something else.”
“So what do you think we should do? Clearly you want to get moving again, yes?”
“We can wait for Pascal to show the photo. If the landlady IDs him, problem solved.”
