Interrogation

  INTERROGATION

  a Mitchell Adams novel

  Scott L. Miller

  Blank Slate Press

  Saint Louis, MO 63110

  Publisher’s Note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Scott L. Miller All rights reserved.

  www.scottlmillerbooks.com

  For information, contact

  Blank Slate Press at 3963 Flora Place, Saint Louis, MO 63110.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Set in

  Cover Design by Kristina Blank Makansi

  ISBN:

  To Beta, as always.

  INTERROGATION

  Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process He does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough Into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.

  - Friedrich Nietzsche

  Imagine what it must feel like to be treated like a piece of meat. To be afraid all the time and have no one to turn to, to be betrayed by the people closest to you. To misinterpret everyday events as plots hatched by an unseen enemy that’s everywhere, waiting, just waiting for you to drop your guard and take a false step.

  Imagine what it must be like to exist in an environment so toxic and unpredictable that each hour could be your last. To interact with people who wear masks of many faces, none the same from hour to hour, never knowing the right thing to say or do or who, if anyone, you can trust, not even the one you grew up alongside.

  Imagine never having a moment to relax, to just sit and be. To be wound so tight you’re always sick, or crying, or angry, and you dare not speak a word of this for fear of reprisal.

  Now imagine you’re only five years old and you think this is the way of the world because you have no other reference point.

  Can you imagine this?

  If you said yes, you’re a liar. Only someone who survived that world could. If you’re one of the few who have, how did it change you? Did you turn your rage inward? Did you become a monster?

  I know someone who grew up this way. My life changed forever because of it.

  chapter one

  an amateur job

  When the phone on my nightstand rang before dawn, I feared the worst—a client with a therapeutic crisis or a health problem with one of my parents who were enjoying their dream vacation—a safari in Africa—and hoped for the best, that it’d be a kid asking if my refrigerator was running or if I had Prince Albert in a can.

  Instead, it was Kris, and when she told me what had happened, I was out of bed, dressed and out the door before I even had a chance to process what she said.

  When I arrived at her apartment, she sat in a green plastic lawn chair on the first floor landing, a blanket wrapped around her slumped shoulders. Her disheveled hair clung to her face. She had the same distant, withdrawn look in her eyes I’d seen in hundreds of abuse and trauma survivors. A crumpled piece of paper sat lodged between her legs while a uniformed officer sat opposite, taking her statement. She kept pressure on her elevated right foot, which was wrapped in a blood-soaked white bath towel and propped on a third chair. She’d calmed since her frantic call to me but looked to be in mild shock. A second officer and a technician trundled down the stairs as the interviewing officer finished taking her statement and handed Kris his card. As they left, I hugged her, looking at her foot.

  “You didn’t say you were hurt.”

  “I’m fine. I didn’t even know I was bleeding until it was over.”

  “What happened?”

  “Just before dawn I heard a tapping noise, like metal on metal, but I drifted back to sleep. Then something slammed hard into my front door, followed by boom loud as a shotgun. I ran to the door and watched it crack down the center, someone kept slamming his weight against it. I could hear his breathing, he was that close.”

  “What about the safety bar?”

  She nodded and continued, “It was in place against the door knob, but each time he slammed into the door it bounced on the ceramic tile and nearly fell. I braced it with my foot while I dialed 911. When the door splintered, I yelled that the police were on their way. Even screamed I had a gun, though I don’t.” She began to shake. “He kept ramming the door. I ran into the kitchen, turned on all the lights, and grabbed my biggest knife. I ran back and gasped—the door stood open several inches. I saw a dark blur of movement outside, and thought I was about to die. He rammed the door one more time and I heard the whine of twisting metal—the hinge screws pulling out of the jamb. The door was ready to collapse inward. I raised the knife.”

  She squeezed the crumpled paper tighter with her free hand, her knuckles white. “Then it got quiet. All I heard was my own shallow breathing. Two minutes went by that way. I closed the shattered door as best I could, repositioned the safety bar. I tried to look out the peephole but it was black. There are blind spots on the front landing even when you can see through the peephole, so I wasn’t going out there without the cops or you. I checked the back patio door, even though it’s on the second floor. Its safety rod was in the track. Then I called you.”

  “How’d you get hurt? Let me see your foot.”

  She slid the crumpled wad of paper into a front pocket of her jeans and said, “The boom was the Waterford bowl. It was on the table, but probably too far back against the wall. When he slammed into the door, it fell off the table and shattered into thousands of shards on the foyer. I stepped on some as I ran through the apartment, but I didn’t notice until he was gone.”

  The gash in her foot began to ooze blood again when she eased pressure on the towel.

  “You’re going to need stitches. Let’s go to the ER,” I said.

  She nodded again. “Walk upstairs and take a look first, Mitch.” Her tone suggested I brace myself.

  The sun crested the horizon and birds chirped happily outside by the time I got up to her second floor apartment. The cracked front door bowed inward down the center. It looked like two pieces of splintered wood held together by a coat of paint. Somehow it hung on the strength of one tiny, twisted brass screw. The jamb showed multiple marks and gouges from a jimmy. Fingerprint residue left by the techs on the jamb revealed scores of prints and smudges. The wannabe intruder had used a magic marker to blacken the peephole so she couldn’t see out. Inside, bits of broken bowl sparkled like red and white diamonds in the advancing sunlight. Her blood stained every floor of the small apartment. The carpet needed deep cleaning. A butcher knife lay on the landing. The mangled safety bar was bent and missing one of its rubber end caps.

  She must have been scared out of her mind.

  Back downstairs, she tightened the towel. “The cops said it was an amateur job. Most likely a random kid looking to boost jewelry, electronics, or cash for drugs. They said there’s been a rash of break-ins nearby. The neighbors were sleeping; nobody saw or heard anything unusual. If the intruder had used a bazooka, sweet old Mrs. Wilson next door wouldn’t have heard it. They lifted prints but they’ll be mine, yours, or other second-floor residents and visitors—I think I saw surgical gloves on his hands.”

  “The cops going to do anything else?”

  She wrapped her foot in an Ace bandage I’d brought down. “Patrol the area more often. Some extra drive-bys each shift for greater neighborhood presence. That won’t last long. They contacted my landlord. He’s on his way to install a new door and better deadbolt. They recommended he rethink the intercom system—like you did the other day, if you ring all the doorbells someone eventually buzzes you through the outer security door without asking who’s there, or
you can follow someone else on through, no questions asked. They also suggested I put my lights on timers and get a guard dog.” She laughed sardonically. “Pets aren’t allowed in the building.”

  She winced when she tightened the wrap past her tolerance level. Her body stiffened. “He didn’t stop when I yelled that I had a gun. He hit the door again and again. He wanted to get to me. I can’t prove it, but I know it. I had this creepy feeling that he was laughing at me, laughing at my fear. I think he was operating on some internal clock and felt his window of opportunity close as more time passed, so he left. He wanted me, not my TV, Mitch.”

  A sudden chill sliced through me. Based on what I’d seen, I couldn’t argue the point. “Come stay with me.”

  A tired smile appeared. “Thought you’d never ask. Help me get upstairs to pack a bag.”

  I was surprised she’d try the steps. I helped her to her feet and pulled her to me, wanting to feel her body against mine, confirmation she was really okay. “You’re a tough cookie in the face of a crisis,” I whispered into her hair.

  She pulled back and looked up at me. “Remember I grew up in the Bronx. I survived gangs in the subway and rats the size of dogs in the alleys. I volunteered after 9-11. This won’t stop me. I won’t back down from a fight.” I noticed her touch the front pocket of her jeans and thought of Dr. Warren Green, major player at the Gateway University med school, Kris’s boss, and the first-class asshole who’d harassed her at his party last night.

  “I’ll go upstairs; tell me what to pack.”

  She flashed a broader smile this time. “Honey, I love you, but men have no idea what women need with them, or where everything is. It’ll go much quicker with me.”

  She wrapped her arms around my neck, and I carried her upstairs. On the drive to my townhouse, after getting stitched up, I asked about the crumpled piece of paper, but she’d fallen asleep so I let her be. I never saw it again.

  chapter two

  the party

  Earlier that Saturday, before the break-in, Dr. Warren Green had ruined what had otherwise been a perfect day. In the morning, we’d hiked seven miles of twisting trails along the Meramec bluffs that wind through Castlewood State Park. At the top, we soaked up the sun and ate a light picnic lunch sitting on a colossal limestone ledge that overlooks the river valley. Hawks hunted, gliding in slow wide circles high in the cloudless sky. The distant rat-a-tat tat of a pileated woodpecker echoed across the valley. A cooling breeze combed the tops of the maple and ash trees. Kris was beautiful. I was happier than I’d ever been. All was right with the world.

  Kristin Gray was a full-time executive secretary and part-time student working on her master’s degree in social work. She was the most sensual woman I’d ever known. Intelligent, stubborn, and independent, she divorced her husband a year and a half ago, and we’d been together for the last six months—my personal best. I felt like we’d known each other forever, and when I thought of the other women I’d dated—women my male friends couldn’t believe I’d left behind—I wondered what I’d ever seen in them. A former Miss Missouri, an Italian resident at Barnes with a trust fund equal to the GDP of a small nation, executives, a couple of actresses, dancers, even a couple of local socialites. None of them could compare with Kristin Gray.

  I was smitten. I was in love.

  We followed the hike with two sets of tennis and a shower until it was time to get ready for the party Green had invited Kris and her co-workers, and apparently half of St. Louis, to attend. We drove to his estate in Huntleigh Hills where we planned to make an appearance, schmooze, and then enjoy a late dinner on The Hill.

  “We’ll see how the other half lives tonight,” Kris had joked as the size of the homes quadrupled along Lindbergh Avenue.

  “Looks more like the top one percent of the other half,” I said as we turned onto a shady, meandering road. We joined a slow procession of cars winding past an entrance manned by electronically controlled iron gates.

  The crunching of the perfectly round stones in the driveway under my tires sounded like the breaking bones of tiny animals. A Japanese garden of raked rock rivers and large mugo pines paralleled the curving pathway and culminated at a huge two-story fountain in the circular drive, where valets in tuxedos stood at the ready. I handed over the keys and we walked toward the covered entryway. Past the slate roof of the three-story stone and stucco estate, I could see the corner of a lighted tennis court and an Olympic-sized pool. Beyond the pool stood separate living quarters, a freestanding sauna the size of a two-car garage, and a cedar shake gazebo. A temporary burgundy canopy erected near the gazebo provided additional relief for the guests from the evening heat. Prolific rose and grape arbors, maintenance buildings, and a stable complete with steeplechase occupied sections of the rolling expanse of lawn. Men in suits and dark sunglasses patrolled the grounds, denying public access past the living quarters.

  Kris tugged at my sleeve and pointed to our right. “Look at the cars.”

  Busy valets worked feverishly, parking Tauruses, station wagons, Camrys, and Kias in a remote grassy area while BMWs, Mercedes, Jags, and Corvettes received preferential parking near the fountain at the front entrance. Parking by class.

  I glanced back at my cherry-red Solstice, the top still down. “I wonder where they’ll park ours.”

  She ignored me. “Local sports stars and other celebrities will be here,” she said as she hooked a bare arm into mine. She wore a full-length black dress slit up the right side, her semi-low cut top adorned by a string of white pearls. Local celebrities be damned, Kris will be the most beautiful woman in the room.

  I glanced over my shoulder again and saw the valet park my car next to a black Porsche turbo on the opposite side of the fountain. “Yes.” I pumped my fist. “They know class when they see it.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “It’s a guy thing.”

  “Don’t I know,” she said and patted my arm with a smile. We walked to the arched entrance as a stretch limo pulled up behind us. “I’m asking for a raise.”

  “Did he marry money? The salary of a hospital medical director with ties to a Midwestern Catholic college run by Jesuits didn’t buy all this.”

  The Hummer limo discharged a St. Louis Rams lineman wide as a battleship, wearing a deep purple tux, with a foxy young woman draped on each of his ham hock arms.

  “No idea,” Kris said as we were ushered into the main reception room, two stories tall, where guests stood or sat chatting in small groups and munching hors d’oeuvres. Hundreds filled the great room with clinks of crystal, silverware, and china while a string quartet played Vivaldi next to a grand piano polished a deep glossy obsidian.

  A statuesque woman in a full-length, red silk kimono, her jet-black hair woven in a tight chignon, welcomed us and introduced herself as Elizabeth Green. I caught a trace of jasmine perfume behind a tan lobe studded with a diamond the size of an M&M. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you, Kristin.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  An older couple entered behind us and called out to Elizabeth. The smiling mustachioed man reminded me of the portly Community Chest character in the Monopoly board game while his younger wife looked every bit the matron bedecked in jewels. I guess he doesn’t like waiting in lines.

  She returned their smiles and turned back to us. “University benefactors. If you will excuse me, I have to play hostess. Please mingle and help yourself to food and drink.”

  Kris looked at me somberly after we walked into the main room. “Ah, such trials. The life of a hostess is never done.”

  She introduced me to her work friends and we drank some decent Asti and chatted for an hour or so without a Warren sighting. We decided to take a tour of the mansion before leaving for our dinner reservation. The main room with its massive stone fireplace, large Turkish rugs, Italian marble floor, cathedral ceiling, and stained glass windows reflected generations of wealth—or, at least, the appearance of it. Expansive spiral sta
ircases on each side of the great room led, I assumed, to living quarters and additional rooms upstairs, but red velvet ropes cordoned them off to foot traffic.

  We walked across the flagstone path to the greenhouse. Two stories tall, it contained assorted fan palms, water lilies, orchids, Australian Tree Ferns, large Chinese taro and banana trees. Impressive—they had their own miniature version of the Missouri Botanical Gardens without the entrance fee or the bother of all those other people possibly getting in their way.

  Our next stop was the den, which housed an impressive library of leather-bound first editions of the classics, mahogany furniture, gold leaf crown molding, and a wet bar complete with a walk-in humidor and wine cellar. “Do you know I’ve counted seven fireplaces so far on this floor alone,” Kris said with a mixture of awe and disgust. “The one in the main room is bigger than my kitchen.”

  “Two people live here,” I said. “This is overkill, even for the uber-rich. What I need right now is so basic—”

  “What do you need right now, handsome?” She came closer, smiling.

  “You know exactly….” I bent down to kiss her and then excused myself when I saw a bathroom off the billiard room.

  “Tease,” she pushed me. “I’ll be somewhere down this hallway,” she said, pointing off to the left. In a haughty voice, she added, “If I get lost, dispatch a St. Bernard with brandy.”

  I bowed. “As you wish, Miss Daisy.”

  When I found her some time later, she was standing, arms folded, opposite a tall man in a quiet alcove. From her posture, I knew she was pissed. The space between them thick with tension; she was seething.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  A servant entered with a canapé tray and eyed the dapper-looking man. He, too, sensed the mood in the room and said, “Excuse me, sir,” before executing a quick about-face retreat. The pianist in the main room began a light and happy piece that wafted our way even as a heavy silence hung in the air like trapped sewer gas.