The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [28]
J.T. dropped his cigarette on the patio and ground it out with his heel. He saluted her mockingly and she still couldn’t think of a response.
“Get some sleep. Oh-six-hundred, at the pool. And keep clear of Marion, Angie. She doesn’t like you, and Marion knows how to eat a person alive, then pick her teeth with the bones. We’re damn proud of her.”
He left her alone on the patio, listening to the water lap against the pool while somewhere in the distance a coyote bayed at the moon without ever getting a response.
SEVEN
THIS IS JIM Beckett interview number one, conducted by Special Agent Pierce Quincy with assistance from Lieutenant Lance Difford of the Massachusetts Crime Prevention and Control Unit. Location is Massachusetts Correction Institute Cedar Junction at Walpole. Date is November 11, 1995. Jim Beckett has been incarcerated approximately three months. With his approval, this interview is being audiotaped and filmed. Do you have any questions?”
BECKETT: Quincy? As in the coroner on TV?
QUINCY: Medical examiner.
BECKETT: Did you watch the show as a child? Was it your favorite show?
QUINCY: I saw it a few times.
BECKETT: What did your father do?
QUINCY: He’s a plumber.
BECKETT: Not nearly as exciting as a coroner. I see your point.
DIFFORD: Cut the crap, Beckett. We’re not here to watch you head-shrink the FBI. Quincy’s only read about you, but I know you, Beckett. Don’t forget that.
BECKETT: Lieutenant Difford, charming as always. The part I enjoyed most about being a police officer was reporting to dumb fucks like you. The big bad police lieutenant whose experience and street savvy will keep everyone safe at night, when all along it’s your own man who’s going out there, pulling over sweet blondes, and dicing them up. How’s your insomnia, Lieutenant?
DIFFORD: Fuck you—
QUINCY: All right, let’s get down to business. Lieutenant Difford’s right, I’ve never personally met you, Jim, but I know all about you. I also saw all the files you pulled from our Investigative Support Unit, so I know you’re familiar with serial killer profiling techniques. As we’ve discussed, this interview is strictly voluntary. You don’t get anything in return, except a break in what must be a very monotonous routine here at Walpole. Would you like a cigarette or anything?
BECKETT: I don’t smoke. My body is my temple.
DIFFORD: Jesus Christ—
BECKETT: I want to see my profile.
QUINCY: We’re not into swaps, Jim.
BECKETT: Afraid I’ll be able to refute it, see all the flaws? Or are you afraid I’ll be able to someday use it to my advantage?
QUINCY: You have an IQ of 145. I don’t underestimate that, Jim.
BECKETT: Laughter. You’re not half bad, Special Agent Quincy. I may just come to like you.
DIFFORD: Shit, are you two gonna exchange love letters or can we get on with it?
BECKETT: Wait a minute. I get it. You two are playing good cop/bad cop. The smooth, sophisticated FBI agent and the blue collar, illiterate street cop. Have I mentioned yet that the FBI and local law enforcement agencies haven’t had an original thought since 1975?
DIFFORD: Maybe, Beckett, we’re just being ourselves.
QUINCY: Jim, I’d like to start by having you describe yourself in your own words. If you were profiling yourself, what would you say?
BECKETT: I don’t think so, Quincy. You’re the professional here. You go first. I’ll tell you if you’re getting warm.
Pause.
QUINCY: All right. The FBI entered the case with the discovery of the third body outside of Clinton, Mass. Later it was determined that this was the sixth victim, but at the time there were only two other crime scenes for comparison. The victim was a twenty-three-year-old mother and cocktail waitress returning from work. Her car was found pulled over on the side of a secluded back road, the windows rolled up and the doors locked. Inside, the glove compartment was open, her keys were in the ignition, and her purse was sitting in the passenger seat. Her clothes, covered with debris from the nearby woods, were found neatly folded and stacked in the trunk. There were