In Harm's Way Part 40

Walt wouldn't have offered any visitor a personal explanation; any one of his deputies or the desk sergeant could convey the procedures and practices well enough. But the woman sitting alone in a row of chairs, separated by a table holding People People magazine and copies of magazine and copies of Western Sheriffs' a.s.sociation Western Sheriffs' a.s.sociation, was not just any visitor.

"Since when don't you video an interview?" Fiona said angrily.

"We are videoing the interview," Walt said calmly. "It wouldn't be approp-"

"Oh, bull."

"-for you to be in the room."

"It's one in the morning."

"It is."

"You should do this tomorrow."

"Let's not get into this, okay? I'm doing what I have to do. Kira is here voluntarily."

"So what? You think it's a conspiracy?" she choked out. "Really, Walt!"

"Of all people, you've been around this enough to know the way it works."

"You try not to judge," she said.

"That's right."

"That's a pile of c.r.a.p."

"It's voluntary. Exploratory. You think I'm incapable of keeping an open mind?"

"I'm like her guardian or something. I need to be in there with her."

"She's not a minor."

"You notified her parents?"

"That's up to her. I don't believe she has."

"An attorney?"

This was a sticking point. A matter of investigative leverage. "She has not requested a lawyer, and there's no reason she should. She has not been charged with anything. This is exploratory."

"Walt," she chided.

"I'm sorry you came all the way down here. I don't mean to shut you out. Please know that." He remained on his feet, avoiding the chairs. He did not want to get into this with her.

"You can't conduct this interview without an attorney present. She doesn't know any better. Why won't you look at me? Look at me please." He turned. "Oh, Jesus," she said. "You'd actually do something like this?"

"Like what? It's voluntary. It's necessary."

She stood and lowered her voice, taking his forearm in hand and squeezing. "You think you're helping me somehow? Is that it? I can see it in your eyes."

How was that possible? How could she nail his thoughts so perfectly? He wanted back behind the restricted door and into his world, but her grip only tightened.

"Listen to me," she said in a tone he would have rather not heard. "If you put this on her, I will be forced to . . . I will not let her be charged with this."

"She hasn't been charged, Fiona. But this-the way you're acting, isn't helping anything. Let me do my job. I know what I'm doing I know what I'm doing." He let that sit there a second.

"But maybe you've forgotten who you're doing it to."

"We have evidence-hard evidence-that has to be accounted for. For all your good intentions-and I believe in them-there's a process. A procedure. We're just at the start of that. She answers these questions honestly, she walks out of here for now. If an attorney gets into it, it will prejudice the interview. That's when I get backed into a corner and things get tricky. Let's not get there. Let's avoid that."

"You're setting her up."

"I am absolutely not setting her up!" He'd raised his voice. It reverberated against the high ceiling. The receptionist on the other side of the window kept her head down.

He lowered his voice to a hush. "Listen to me. I care for that girl, and I care about you. At some point you have to trust me. I happen to know what I'm doing."

"She's innocent."

"Good. Then there is nothing to worry about."

She started for the doors, turning to look back at him once and put an exclamation point onto her disgust. Then she reconsidered. "No," she said. "I'm not going. I'm not giving you that. I'll be right here. Waiting. I'm not going anywhere."

"Suit yourself," Walt said, heading back through the door that cloistered him.

He mumbled to himself as he strode down the hall toward the first interview room, where he would find Deputy Linda Chalmers behind the video camera. Truth was, there was nothing to operating the camera; he asked Fiona to do the recording as a way to slip her extra income and get a chance to see her. She had begun to seep into his work and his decision making in ways like this, and he saw it for what it was-trouble-while still feeling no desire to change it. He opened the door and looked at the young woman on the other side of the table, frightened, unsure. Deputy Blompier sat in the chair to the left, by the wall. Walt took the only other chair facing Kira.

"You okay?" he began. Something transformed in him the moment he took his chair. A voice in his head said "game on." Establish a rapport. Mimic language. Control emotions. Manipulate Establish a rapport. Mimic language. Control emotions. Manipulate.

The empty chair to her left, the chair intended for an attorney, called out to him. Was he supposed to charge her and fill that chair for her, to give up the slight advantage he held by her not being represented? Did that help anyone?

Kira held a fixed stare of bewilderment and fear. He reminded himself beguilement took on many faces, came in all sizes and ages. Whether or not she might attempt to play him, he couldn't tell. Her dazed expression seemed real enough. But one learned in the narrow confines of these interview rooms to put away interpretation, to ignore the suspect's beauty or the tattoos or the lack of language skills and to drill down. So he took a second to make himself comfortable in the chair, his decision made. He took a deep, calming breath and exhaled, placed his forearms onto the table, a man determined, his body language as practiced, as important, as each word, each inflection. He lived for such moments.

He glanced over his shoulder. Chalmers gave him a nod: tape was running.

"Do you want a gla.s.s of water or a c.o.ke or anything?"

"I'm okay, thank you."

"You understand why you're here?"

She nodded. "To talk."

"That's right. Do you have any questions?"

"I don't get it. Why me? What'd I do?"

"Why do you think you're here?"

"That guy getting killed and all."

"You're referring to Martel Gale."

"I guess."

Walt opened a file folder and slid a photograph in front of her. He'd had two choices: an NFL photo, or the crime scene-half the guy's face eaten off. It wasn't out of the question that in certain interviews he would have chosen the crime scene photo, but not here. Not her.

"Have you ever seen this man before?"

She nodded.

"It's important you answer aloud," Walt said.

"Yes," she said.

"Please describe the circ.u.mstances of the last time you saw him."

"The only time I saw him, you mean."

"The only time, then."

"You were there," she said. "It was the night of the Advocates dinner."

Walt caught his breath but maintained his composure.

"I'd seen . . . She'd showed me . . . Never mind. I knew who he was, that's all."

Walt hesitated, facing a fork in the road. He knew who she was referring to. Some cases go cold Some cases go cold. He felt obliged to pursue the ident.i.ty of "she," but understood not to. He was painfully aware of the camera aimed at the back of his head.

"You knew who he was," he said, making it a statement.

"The football guy."

"You follow pro football, do you?"

"Not exactly."

"But you recognized a linebacker who's been out of the league for several years. Can you explain that?"

"I knew who he was. I don't remember how." As her eyes lowered to the desk, and her shoulders caved forward, he thought even a first-year graduate student could identify the lie from her body language.

"Seeing him . . . Was that when you stopped for a second in your talk, your address, your speech? You're right: I was there, and I remember your . . . interrupting yourself."

"Might have been."

"Seeing this man caused that kind of reaction? Why is that?" Why couldn't he bring himself to just ask her the ident.i.ty of the woman she'd referred to? Why did he insist on dancing around the edges?

"Roy Coats," she said, naming the man who had brutally a.s.saulted her a few years before. Walt winced at the mention of the man, his memory still holding on to the grainy webcam images of the violent s.e.xual abuse this young woman had endured. His brain lacked the delete b.u.t.ton he sometimes wished it had. "I don't get exactly why. I don't expect you to get it. But when that guy opened the doors back there and looked inside, it wasn't him I saw, it was Roy Coats. That happens to me pretty much all the time. In Atkinson's, out on the street. Can be anywhere. I just see him. He's looking at me that way he looked at me. Like he knew what he was going to do to me, and me having no clue. Like that. Like people look when they know a secret you don't. And it makes me physically sick. Like I'm going to puke. I want to scream. I want to scratch his eyes out. Castrate him. Kill him." She looked up from what had looked like a trance.

Walt felt a jolt. Neither of them had wanted her to say that word.

"Not that I ever would," she added quickly. "I didn't mean it that way. Look: that was the only time I ever saw the guy. I'm telling the truth. That one time in the Limelight Room. I hadn't seen him again until just now when you put his picture down here." She reached out and touched the photograph. "That came out all wrong."

Yes, it did, Walt thought. "Roy Coats," Walt clarified. "You wanted to kill Roy Coats."

"Exactly. But he's dead. Look, I know that. Okay? I know he's dead. But what your mind knows and the rest of you feels are two different things. And that particular time, I saw Roy Coats and all that stuff came back."

"And that's the only time you saw Martel Gale?"

"Yes."

Walt pulled the photo back and returned it to the folder. The job turned sordid too often. At times like this he wondered: why him? Why law enforcement? Why expose yourself to this stuff? "Where do you live?"

"I'm staying, house-sitting at the moment, up at the Engletons' place."

"The residence of Leslie and Michael Engleton."

"Yes."

"In the main house or the guest cottage?"

"Fiona lives in the guest cottage. I'm house-sitting the main house."

"Fiona Kenshaw. Our crime scene photographer."

"Yes."

"For how long have you been residing at the Engleton residence?"

"They're on this trip. You know, for like the whole summer. I've been there . . . I don't know . . . two months? Another month or so to go."

"You and I have seen each other there," Walt said.

"Yes."

"You came after me with a baseball bat in your hand."

"Yeah. Sorry about that. There's that guy in the woods around there. That guy you're looking for. It was dark. I didn't know it was you. You looking in the window and all. I thought you were a peeping Tom or something."

Walt felt himself flush, an uncontrollable reaction.

"Tell me about the baseball bat."

"I don't know. It's Michael's, I guess. He has a bunch of them in the sports thing out in the garage. Fiona and I . . . we both put one by the door. You know. In case that guy came around."

In fact, Walt did not know, had not heard. He didn't recall seeing a bat by the door to Fiona's cottage. Had there been one? Had it been moved? Had it been left in the rental car? Dangerous territory. He steered slightly away.

"What purpose did the bat serve?"