She ignored him and spoke into the digital recorder. “The date is February 18, 2009. Time: 1553 hours. I’m interviewing Neville Worchester Lewis. Mr. Lewis, I would like to confirm that you are here under your own accord, that you have not been pressured or coerced in any way, and that you have chosen not to have legal counsel present. Are all of these statements true?”
“They’re true. I’ve been read my rights, and I know that anything I say can and will be used, blah, blah, blah… all that crap. Let’s get started already.”
Lien-hua leaned back in her chair. “She’s going to be all right, Neville. We got to her in time. You failed.”
He feigned confusion. “I failed? Oh. I see. Well, I’m not sure I know what you mean by that, Special Agent Jiang. My lawyers told me this morning that seven women were killed. How tragic. Have they all been found, then? The bodies, I mean?” He paused, waited, but she refused to reply. “Agent Jiang, a baseball player who bats. 350 is an all-star. If I really did connect seven out of eight times at bat, I’d have a batting average of. 875; not to mention the hits I might have gotten in the minors. I wouldn’t be a failure, I’d be one of the league’s greatest stars.”
I wanted to smack this guy, take him down right now. “We need to find out how he knows her name,” I said, speaking my thoughts aloud. “See if he has any connections to the Bureau.”
“Sorry,” said Dunn. “I’m just here to observe.”
Frustration.
Building, building.
I watched through the glass. Lien-hua didn’t seem at all fazed by Creighton Melice’s batting average comments. She just jotted something on her legal pad, flipped it over so that he couldn’t see what she’d written, and then stood up.
The image of Cassandra in the tank rose in Lien-hua’s mind, but she wrapped the shroud of her professionalism around it, folded her arms, and leaned against the wall. “Neville, tell me what you know about Cassandra Lillo.”
Silence.
“Where did you first meet her?”
Silence.
“Would you like to give up your accomplice now, or wait until we catch him and let him blame everything on you?”
Silence again.
“Are you Shade, Neville? Or is Shade someone else?”
He smiled. “Now that I’ll answer.”
She waited.
Every syllable became a slow drumbeat: “I don’t know who Shade is.”
Lien-hua approached the table and looked directly into his chilling eyes. “Oh, I think you do.”
I watched Lien-hua walk to the table, press “pause” on the digital recorder, and then lean close to him and say, “Let me explain something to you, Neville. Just so we’re clear here. I know this game better than you do and you will not win. You’re not in control anymore. I am. And I am a woman.”
Oh, nice line, Lien-hua.
That’s what I’m talking about.
I noticed Melice’s left cheek twitch. He can’t stand the thought of a woman having control over him. Sweet.
She lowered her finger and pressed “record” again.
78
Lien-hua watched Creighton Melice force a smile onto his face, but a sneer lurked beneath his words. “Well played, Agent Jiang. Well played. Did they teach you that at the Academy? Classic Power Plays and Intimidation Techniques? Let me guess-do whatever it takes to keep the suspect talking: threaten him, play to his ego, pacify, feign interest, become whatever he desires most in order to gain his trust-a friend, a confidant, an admirer, a mother figure, a seductress… how am I doing?”
She let the glimmer of a smile pass across her face. “We must have taken the same course.”
Move, countermove.
A short silence from Melice. Yes, she’d struck something there.
Maybe he has taken classes in criminal science. Maybe he was in law enforcement. I made a note to check on that.
She flipped her notepad faceup, wrote something down. I couldn’t see what she was writing, and neither could she, since she kept her eyes trained on Melice the whole time.
I noticed him stare past her to the crime scene photos Dunn had hung on the wall. I don’t like those kinds of gimmicks. The idea is to make the suspect think the authorities have mountains of evidence against him. The problem is, sometimes when innocent people see the array of evidence they get so unnerved that they start confessing to things they never did. Fear often makes people do and say things they later regret. Melice seemed to read my mind through the glass. “Are those pictures supposed to make me nervous, Agent Jiang? Get me to confess? Sorry to say, but I’m not interested in confessing any of my sins today. I’m not Catholic…” He let a sly smile play across his lips. “And you don’t look like a priest.”
“Do you normally confess your sins, Neville?”
“Only to God.”
“So, you believe in God?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe in sin?”
A pause. “Do you know what the Lord said to Cain, Agent Jiang?”
“What did the Lord say?”
“The Lord told him that sin was crouching at his door. That it desired to have him, but that he had to master it.”
“And did he?”
“No. It mastered him. The firstborn of our race murdered the second. Quite a legacy.”
Without missing a beat: “Is that what happened to you, Neville?
Did sin master you? Is that why you killed the women?” He refused to reply. She waited, waited, and finally said, “Neville, why didn’t you want a lawyer here today?”
“Maybe there’s something I want to tell you that I don’t want my lawyers to know.”
“I’m listening.”
“Come closer.”
She didn’t even hesitate. She walked to him, set both of her hands on the table, and leaned over so that her ear was beside his lips.
Dunn stood and walked to the two-way mirror. “What’s she doing?”
“She’s getting him to talk,” I said. “It’s what we sent her in there to do.” Lien-hua could smell Melice’s sour breath.
“Drowning,” he said, his voice coarse and low, “would be a terrible way to go, don’t you think, Agent Jiang?”
Her thoughts spun sideways.
The image of Cassandra in the tank.
The fabric of that crimson evening gown wafting around her like curious red smoke, embracing her with a strange mixture of beauty and death.
An elegant, designer shroud.
Cassandra choking on water. Gasping for breath.
And then it wasn’t Cassandra’s face anymore, but her own. Staring up pale and lifeless through the water. A dead reflection of herself.
Lien-hua shook the thought loose. Shook it loose. “Is that why you do it, Neville?” she whispered. “Because you think drowning would be a terrible way to go?”
They were whispering to each other. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I figured I’d ask Lien-hua about it later. They spoke for a couple moments, and then Melice smirked and Lien-hua stepped back.
“I have an idea,” he said. “You’re interested in the way a killer thinks. Why don’t we play a little game? You ask me questions about the murders, and I’ll tell you what I think might have been going on in the killer’s mind. All hypothetical, of course; we’ll call it my best guess.”
I’d seen this before. It’s not uncommon for killers to give their confession in the third person, recounting the events as if they were observers of, rather than participants in, the crime. Verbally distancing themselves from the crime seems to make it easier for them to confess.
Then Melice stared directly into the two-way mirror. “How does that sound, everyone? Sound like fun?” He knew we were watching and he seemed to relish the attention. This guy would not be easily rattled.
“All right, Neville,” she said. “Tell me what it’s like. I’ve talked to dozens of killers. Let’s see if you can do as well as they did, if you can articulate the experience eloquently enough for me to feel what a killer would feel.”