As the interview swung up a notch, the tension in the room grew tighter. Rooney began to ask him about each of the victims.
‘What? Why?’ Art began to screech, his voice getting higher and higher in his agitation. ‘Why are you asking me about these women? This is insanity. You think I had anything to do with those murders? This is crazy. I’ve admitted I knew Holly, okay, I knew Didi—’
Rooney probed into Art’s business, his background, his previous criminal record. Only then did he detect the fear. Art now demanded legal representation: he would not answer any more questions. Rooney knew that most of what he had admitted might not hold up in court, especially as he had still not been checked out for drugs. He was so wired up when they brought him in, he could have confessed to any number of crimes. But Rooney was pushing, he was excited, he felt that old rush of adrenalin. Art Mathews was like a scared rabbit almost caught in a trap and Rooney was eager to snap the door shut on him. So much was riding on his gaining results, on grabbing them right under the FBI’s noses.
When Art eventually quietened, Rooney took it as a sign of guilt. It was obvious to all in the interrogation room that he had only become uncooperative when the murders were mentioned. While they waited for the lawyer to arrive, Art continued to declare his innocence. He kept rubbing his shining bald head, looking from one man to the next. ‘Just because I knew Didi and Holly doesn’t mean I’d kill them. This is some kind of frame-up. Did somebody rip you off about me? Is that what this is all about? Did some piece of shit put me in it?’
He demanded to know what time Didi had been killed, as he had been with friends the entire evening, but when told and asked where he was between nine and ten thirty he suddenly refused to say where he was or who he was with until he had a lawyer present. A doctor examined him and gave him the all-clear but suggested they give him plenty to drink as he was sweating so much from nerves.
His lawyer arrived and he was allowed a private discussion. Once that had been completed, he was faced yet again with all the questions that had been asked earlier. One of the reasons he had refused to state where he was on the night Didi died was also that he had been filming a session. Having already served time for selling pornographic videos and working with under-age kids, he was scared that he’d be charged with a similar offence. He was also becoming increasingly alarmed that details of his blackmail activities might leak out. The more he was questioned the more nervous he became. When the lists of the dead women started unfolding he became hysterical, screaming that they were setting him up, and some of the murders had happened so long ago he couldn’t remember where he had been living. He might even have been serving a sentence. Meanwhile, his new studio was being ransacked, and more pornography discovered.
He was taken down to the cells. It was almost three in the morning and both Rooney and Bean were still working. Rooney’s head ached but he was back on form, though he was sure now that Art was not their killer. He had found out that when two of the earlier murders had been committed, Art had been in jail.
When he returned to his office, Bean was waiting. ‘They still haven’t brought your informant in, this Lorraine Page.’
‘I think we’ve been wasting our time, Bean. That little bastard should be locked up but not for murder. He’s just into his porno and probably the blackmail rackets again.’
Bean threw up his hands in despair. ‘Does that mean Lorraine Page is into all that as well?’
Rooney sighed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe you should get this information ready for the suits. Lay it out on the Chief’s desk, let him see we’ve worked our butts off tonight.’
Bean took Mathews’s prison record to the FBI agents’ office and Rooney glanced at his watch. In all fairness it was too late to call Lorraine but he reckoned he wouldn’t get any sleep. He’d give it a couple more hours and call her after he’d shaved and washed.
He was running his small battery-operated shaver over his fat chin when Bean peered into the washroom. Rooney gave him a worn-out smile and clicked off the shaver. ‘I don’t suppose we just got lucky and Art Mathews admitted killing eight women and Norman Hastings?’ he asked sarcastically.
Bean ran the cold water into the basin. ‘No. Prime suspect is sobbing his heart out down there in the cells. Meanwhile his lawyer doesn’t want us to press criminal charges if he admits to what he was doing on the night of the last murder. He has already remembered where he was when Holly was murdered and this you’re not gonna believe.’
‘Try me,’ Rooney said heavily.
‘Art Mathews was working in that gallery right next to your Indian curry place. He worked there until late, all night, and Lorraine Page is one of his alibis.’
Rooney stared at his reflection. Bean dried his hands on the roller towel. ‘Any money the FBI’ll release him on bail, he’ll get locked up for a few years for his porno trade. Been a long night for nothing. Pity we don’t have something — there’s press outside. Somebody tipped them off we got a suspect.’
Rooney hitched up his pants. ‘Yeah, maybe the same person who tipped us off about Art Mathews. I’m going to call that two-faced bitch now.’
Bean followed Rooney down the corridor. ‘You know they got Andrew Fellows coming in to talk to the FBI later this morning? Maybe you should hang around — canteen’ll be open soon.’
Rooney had been about to call Lorraine even though it was only five thirty. He changed his mind. He didn’t give a shit if he woke her up or not. He was gonna go one better and do it personally. As he drove out of the station yard, he watched two new patrol cars pulling in with the FBI men all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed even if they had been hauled out of their beds at this ungodly hour. He drove away, his anger mounting. Art Mathews had been another of Lorraine’s theories. She had been partly right: he had known Holly and Didi, but he had no connection with Steven Janklow. There was no record on him in Vice. Rooney might even force her to give him back his dough. Maybe he’d have her hauled in, spill it about her being the witness they’d been searching for. He’d like to grab her by her scrawny throat and strangle her. He was through, period. The more he drove, the angrier he became. As he headed towards Lorraine’s apartment, he was ready to explode. He really needed to sound off at somebody so it might as well be her! The two-faced, lying whore.
Rosie shot out of bed when the doorbell rang. She grabbed a robe and scuttled to the door. Lorraine was sitting up on the sofa yawning. ‘What time is it?’
‘Six o’clock in the morning! Who the hell is ringing the bell at this time?’
Rosie opened the door and stepped back. Rooney was leaning against the doorframe. He looked past Rosie to Lorraine. ‘I’m gonna arrest you.’
Lorraine drew a cardigan around her nightdress. ‘Arrest me? Why, for chrissakes?’
He sauntered in. ‘Art Mathews, sweetheart. You were with him the night the...’ He couldn’t remember Holly’s name. ‘You were with him the night she was murdered, you’re his fucking alibi. You!’
Lorraine filled a tumbler with water and drank it straight down. ‘Is that why you sent cops here? Did you do that to me?’
Rooney tossed his hat aside. ‘Be the FBI wanting you next, sweetheart, time’s up.’
She faced him in a fury. ‘Did you tell them about me? Bill, did you tell them I was attacked?’
‘You know I didn’t but I sure as hell intend to because you are full of bullshit and you’ve lied to me right along the way. When I tried to help you out, all you did was lie.’
Lorraine glared at him. ‘They still holding Mathews?’