Thicker Than Blood - the Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy - Blake Crouch [252]
Goldston laid a bulging, cream folder on the table and opened it. It was full of crime scene photographs, forensic reports, and several documents I'd never seen before.
He looked back at the woman and her cameraman. "You ready, Laura?" Goldston asked.
"Yes, we can start now," she said.
Goldston lifted a tape recorder off the floor and set it on the table. "I’m recording this for my file, too. Is that all right with you, Andy?"
"It’s fine," I said.
He pushed the record button and holding up one finger, spoke into the air: "August 17th, 2003. Eight p.m. Montana State Prison. Deer Lodge, Montana. Subject: Andrew Thomas." He cleared his throat and withdrew a sheet of paper from the folder covered in indecipherable cursive. Goldston looked up from his notes and smiled. He didn’t fear me.
"I want to first thank you for doing this. I appreciate the opportunity to talk with you."
"Certainly," I said. I was nervous about the cameras and kept looking directly into them.
"When we spoke on the phone, I asked if anything was off limits, and you said there wasn’t. Is that still the way you feel?" he asked, and I nodded.
"This is the first interview you’ve agreed to do since your incarceration in 96'. You’ve remained silent, refusing to speak even at your own trial. Why have you waited until now?"
"I’ve been dealing with things. Privately."
"Are you responsible for the killings at the Blue Sky Motel?" he asked. There was no emotion in his voice. He was interested solely in obtaining information, not judging or condemning me. He put me at ease, and I could see why he was so well-respected.
"No."
"The Washington boxes?"
"No."
"Are you responsible for the bodies found at your cabin in the Wyoming desert or at your lake house north of Charlotte?"
"No."
In the thick silence, Goldston swallowed. "You consider yourself innocent?" he asked.
"I do."
Goldston reached into his briefcase and took out a small tape player. "I want to play something for you," he said, setting the tape player on the table. He pushed play and for several seconds the speakers crackled. Then, through the softer static, I heard his voice:
"Barry Johnson’s in the trunk of my car you prick… I don’t think you wanna take the credit for kidnapping that police officer… I killed him, too… … … You stay right there… Want the car keys? So you can get that smelly body out of my trunk. I waive my rights… Take them out slowly [Door Slams]… … … … Andy… What?… Now I’ve gotta let you in on something… Oh God… … … … [Door Slams] Where’s Officer Johnson’s car, Orson? Where is his car? Oh, you don’t want to talk to me now. Piece of shit… Where’d he go?… Where did who go?… My brother… What the fuck are you talking about?… Shit. Oh, shit… Where’s the car, Orson?… Oh God… Tough man doesn’t wanna talk now. Well, that’s okay, cause you’re fucked. Why are you crying, Orson? Huh?… That’s not my name. Where is he?… Who are you talking about?… The man I came in with. Where’d he go?… You’re out of your fuckin’ mind… Where’d he go?… Calm down… Where is my fucking brother?!!!"
Goldston stopped the tape. My hands shook, and I felt very cold. He could sense my discomfort, so he remained quiet for a moment, allowing me to regain my composure. I took deep breaths and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I looked around the room, at the guards, the cameras in front and behind me, at Laura Webber, and then back to Goldston.
"Andy, I’ve literally spent hours going over what I just played for you. I’ve probably listened to that tape a hundred times, and for the life of me I can’t figure out what happened