Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [33]
“Oh, hell, Lee, I wish there was something I could do.”
The kettle screamed its shrill crescendo, and Lee pulled it from the gas flame.
“Look, it’s not your fault,” he said. “I hope I’m wrong—I really do.”
“Well, maybe we’ve got enough to go on with this one up in the Bronx.”
“We’ll see,” he said, pouring the steaming water into a blue and white tin mug. “A killer’s progression tells us important things about him. The second killing was already more organized than the first.” He didn’t say what else he was thinking: And more violent.
“We’ve been interviewing anyone who works at the church, but so far no one’s given us anything. If it isn’t the priest, do you think this guy could be a member of the congregation?”
“I don’t think so. If we had enough manpower, though, it might be worth tracking down people to interview.”
He added milk and sugar to his tea and checked back in on the couple in the street. The girl was still leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. There was no sign of the boyfriend.
“For the time being we’re trying to rule out some local sex offenders,” Chuck said. “Butts and I are interviewing some possible suspects this afternoon—want to sit in?”
“Sure. What time?”
“In about an hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
The interrogation room was tiny and stuffy. Chuck had brought in a man named Jerry Walker. Walker was on the maintenance staff at Fordham, and had a record of two arrests and one conviction—both for sexual offenses against young girls. As they waited for Detective Butts to arrive, Lee leafed through Walker’s file. He had been convicted eight years ago of statutory rape, and had served five years of his ten-year sentence, with time off for good behavior. He was paroled three years ago. So far he appeared to have kept his nose clean, though with these guys you never knew. How on earth he’d managed to get a job doing maintenance at a college, Lee couldn’t imagine.
The door was flung open, and Butts entered, sweating and out of breath.
“Sorry,” he said, sounding more irritated than apologetic. “Damn fire on the A train.” He loosened his tie and took a drink of water from the cooler in the corner.
Walker smiled and leaned back in his chair as though he was enjoying himself. He was a cocky, macho type Lee was familiar with. He always wondered if these guys were for real—their behavior was full of clichés layered on top of clichés.
But Jerry Walker did not include self-awareness in his arsenal of personality quirks. He sat across from them at the interrogation table, legs spread wide, the insolent set of his shoulders expressing his disdain for the whole process. A pack of Camels was tucked into the sleeve of his T-shirt—another cliché, Lee thought. He was dressed like a biker from the fifties: white T-shirt, blue jeans, heavy black boots, slicked-back hair.
His pumped-up arms were crossed, the tattoos on his biceps bulging—a curvy mermaid on the left arm, “I Love Jenny” in Gothic lettering on the right. Lee wondered who Jenny was, and if she knew that she had been memorialized in ink on the muscular flesh of Jerry Walker’s right arm.
Detective Butts finished his water and paced behind Walker, rubbing his stubby hands together, while Chuck sat on the corner of the table across from him. Lee recognized the technique. Invade his territory, crowd him, make him feel cornered, creating feelings of insecurity. But judging by the smirk on Walker’s face, it wasn’t working.
“So you guys actually think I might be the killer?” Walker said, his mouth curled into a contemptuous smile.
“You tell us,” Chuck answered, his voice failing to conceal his dislike of Walker. “We’ve been asked by the mayor to interview a few sex offenders living in the area. And that would include you.”
“Hey, that stuff’s all behind me,” Walker protested. “I got a new life now, a steady job, a girlfriend—the works. I’m even seeing a therapist,” he added, “not that it’s any of your business.”
“You’re right,” Chuck replied, “it’s not my business.