Beyond the Mask Page 9

  “What’s that?”

  “If this Adams isn’t the killer, you don’t want to sit around trying to build a case against him, do you? That’s going to take time and effort. It’s going to take you right off the real case. Maybe that’s what the killer wants.”

  Frank pounded his fist into the arm of the recliner. “Okay, fine. We can go and talk to him. I’ll give you five minutes.”

  II.

  Half an hour later they were standing outside the County jail. Frank cursed himself again for being talked into this. Bentley’s head was down. His eyes had been focused on the phone the entire drive there. Frank had glanced over to the passenger seat a few times with disdain. Now his focus was still on the phone, even though they were here and he had professed his desire to be here.

  “You know, I think I understand why people don’t use these phones for talking so much anymore. This thing is great. I’ve got fifteen followers on Twitter.”

  “That’s great,” Frank said. His voice was flat.

  “Of course, most people follow celebrities. I think I’ll call them Twitterasi. That’s good right? Like twitter and paparazzi. Because they-” Bentley looked up from the phone. When his eyes met Frank’s the good cheer fell away.

  “Sorry, Frank. All of this is so new to me still.”

  “I know,” Frank said. “And it’s okay, but we’re here now and I want to get this over with as soon as possible.”

  “Sure,” Bentley said. “Let’s go talk to him.”

  They walked through the double doors and into the receiving area. The hallway was wide open, no places to hide, it was part of the design.

  There were three cubicles. Each one encased in bullet proof glass and each one with a number written on the brick towards the bottom. 1, 2, and 3. The numbers were black, but they reminded Frank of the red ones used on the index cards.

  No one was at the desk at one, but two and three had corrections officers. The man sitting at the computer behind the glass of cubicle two raised his hand and waved them over.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” the man said. “The warden told me to expect you. The prisoner is being moved now.”

  “Thank you,” Frank said.

  The officer glanced at Bentley. “We’re going to have to search you guys though.” He sounded almost apologetic. Frank knew why. He had never been searched upon entering the County jail, but then again, he had never brought in a visitor before.

  “That’s fine,” Frank said.

  The officer pushed a button and the door next to his cubicle opened. Frank and Bentley walked through the door and underneath a metal detector. Neither one of them set it off; Frank had left his gun in the car. He couldn’t bring it in here in any case. They walked into another large open space. Frank could see the doors that lay at the end of the hall. They led out to the yard.

  “I’m going to need you against the wall,” the officer said.

  Two others had appeared from somewhere, Frank hadn’t seen where, and they hung back, but they were looking on and there were guns on their hips. Frank recognized their posture, they were in the ready to pull and fire position. That was good, better safe than sorry.

  Bentley and Frank leaned against the wall with their hands pressed flat. Frank could feel the night cool radiating from the wall. This was a position he’d never expected to be in. He wondered if Adams had had the same thought when Rick brought him in.

  The officer searched Bentley first, he was their actual concern after all, and Frank heard the rumbling of clothes as they moved their hands around the kid’s body.

  After a minute, he felt hands pressing down and around him. Across the shoulders, down the sides, up and down the legs to the crotch. Their search of him was more cursory, maybe just to pacify Bentley and not make him feel singled out.

  “Okay,” the officer said. “Follow me.”

  They reached the steel door with a key pad. It looked a lot like the one for the lab at the station. Frank knew that the door was reinforced steel, just like the lab door and it had the small, square window, also made of bullet proof glass.

  The officer grabbed a key card that was hooked to his belt and swiped it. Then he bent over, careful to keep his body between him and his visitors, and punched in some numbers. The door buzzed and he pushed it open.

  The yard was patchy with dirt and grass. It would have been hard to see in the dark if not for the giant arc sodiums that kept the place illuminated twenty-four hours a day. A high fence, ringed with barbed wire, surrounded the entire complex. They were walking towards a squat, brown building. The actual jail.

  “You guys take this security seriously,” Bentley said. He had put away his phone and was looking around at the lights, the fence, the building.

  “Shouldn’t we?” The officer asked.

  “By all means,” Bentley said. “It makes a person feel safe to know that you’re so diligent.”

  The officer grunted, but did not smile. Frank thought he would probably make a good deputy.

  They reached the door to the building and the officer swiped his card again and entered in another code. The door buzzed and they walked in.

  There was a short, fat man with a red face and a web work of veins on his nose standing there to greet them.

  “Sheriff,” Hatchet said. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

  “Sorry to bother you for a second time tonight,” Frank said.

  “It’s no bother,” Hatchet said. “I don’t mind getting calls at home.”

  Hatchet’s phony smile widened and Frank imagined grabbing the prick’s tie and stuffing it down his throat.

  Instead, he returned the smile. “Is everything ready?”

  Hatchet extended his hand and Frank and Bentley followed him. The officer trailed a little bit behind. Frank glanced back at him once and saw his hand in the ready position. Maybe he would inquire with the man about his future. Could be that he’d want to join the sheriff’s office. Pouching a good cop from that prick Hatchet would be very satisfying.

  “Your man is in the visiting center.” Hatchet turned his head. His smile was gone and he looked like exactly what he was, a sad, lonely asshole. Apparently, he felt that with his back turned on them he could drop his mask of civility. “Of course, he’s the only one in there right now. It’s a bit after visiting hours.”

  “I appreciate it,” Frank said. “This is an important investigation.”

  “Of course it is,” Hatchet said. He swiped his own card at a door and punched in his own code. He wasn’t as discrete about covering his fingers from view as his officer had been.

  Hatchet opened the door and held it for Frank and Bentley. There were two guards stationed at the only other door in the room. They held high-powered scatter rifles. They looked at bit like the Queen’s guard in front of Buckingham palace. No bearskin hats, but they had that same at-attention stance and blank look on their faces.

  There were several tables in the room, arranged in rows of diagonals. Frank supposed this was to increase the sightlines of the guards at the door.

  Adams was sitting at one of the middle tables. There were two chairs on the opposite side of him and Frank and Bentley sat in them.

  Frank looked back towards the door. Hatchet offered him a frilly little wave that was all fingers and then closed the door.

  “Hello, sir,” Adams said. “When they started to move me I was hoping it was because you’d come to your senses and were letting me get the hell out of here.”

  “Someone wants to talk to you,” Frank said.

  Adams turned his attention to Bentley. “Do I need my lawyer for this?”

  “No,” Bentley replied. “I’m not a part of the Sheriff’s office and I’m not really a part of this investigation.”

  “So what are you?” Adams asked.

  Bentley shrugged. “I suppose you could call me a concerned citizen. You see, I’m very worried about these murders, but I’m also worried about people being falsely imprisoned.”

  A
dams face lit up a bit. “You believe me?”

  Bentley gestured towards Adams. “That will depend on you. I want to talk to you for a minute. See if we can get this whole thing straightened out.”

  “Sure,” Adams said. He was leaning forward now, all his attention focused on Bentley. “What do you want to know?”

  “How do you feel about time?” Bentley asked.

  Adams’s brow wrinkled and he just looked at Bentley for a few beats. “What…what do you mean?”

  “I mean, time,” Bentley said. He sounded bemused. “What does time mean to you?”

  “It’s…” Adams paused, looked up towards the ceiling. “Um…it’s, you know. It’s how we mark things. Like how long things take.”

  “Sure,” Bentley said. “How do you like being here?”

  “I hate it,” Adams said.

  “What’s the worst part about it?”

  “I miss my wife and kids. I can’t even imagine what she’s thinking right now. I’m sure she’s worried sick.”

  “How does this make you feel?” Bentley asked.

  He put his left arm flat on the table, palm up, and with the thumb nail of his right hand dug into the skin of his forearm. Blood sprang up instantly and dribbled from the wound he’d made onto the table.

  “What the fuck,” Adams said and jerked back in his chair.

  Frank, who had been content to watch and listen while they were having their interview, sprang forward and grabbed Bentley’s arm. Bentley turned to him and the smile that Frank saw was one that he recognized.

  “What are you doing?” Frank asked.

  “What’s going on?” One of the guards called. Frank looked up and saw that he had advanced on them with a silence that was eerie. He was right beside the table with his rifle ready.

  “Don’t worry,” Bentley said as he pulled his arm back. “I did it to myself. Just trying to prove a point.”

  The door they’d walked in opened and Hatchet appeared. “It’s time to go,” he said. Neither Frank nor Bentley argued. They both rose from the table and walked to the door. Adams kept his eyes on Bentley the entire time, as if the kid had mesmerized him.

  Hatchet led them out of the room and back into the yard before anyone spoke. Bentley cradled his arm against his chest, but there didn’t seem to be too much blood on the shirt.

  When they were out in the yard, Hatchet finally spoke. “What the hell kind of freak did you bring into my prison?”

  “He’s a friend,” Frank said. “Someone with an expertise into the minds of killers.”

  “I don’t want to see him here again,” Hatchet said.

  “That makes two of us,” Bentley replied. “You go ahead and run your sad little kingdom in private. You can delude yourself into thinking you’re the lord of all creation, but you’re just a sad little man who likes to make other people feel inferior. You can passive-aggressively try to make the Sheriff feel bad for getting you out of your precious bed when he’s trying to solve a series of murders, but that shit doesn’t fly with me.”

  Hatchet’s mouth dropped open. His already red face deepened further. “You piece of shit.”

  “Actually, judging by the blood forest on your nose, you probably weren’t sleeping. Passed out is what I think you drunks call it.”

  Hatchet made to grab Bentley, but Frank stepped between the two of them. “Easy, Hatchet. You don’t want to do something you’d regret.”

  Hatchet looked from Frank to Bentley and then back again. He pointed at Bentley with a trembling hand. “You get him the fuck out of here and I don’t want to see him ever again.”

  He paused and straightened his sport coat. “And next time you want to interview a prisoner you can make a formal request and wait to hear from me.”

  “Sure,” Frank said.

  Hatchet stormed off, leaving the officer to lead them back out of the yard and to the front door.

  III.

  “What the hell was that?” Frank asked when they were back in the car and driving home.

  “Just me telling that prick everything you wanted to say to him. I hate self-important assholes like that.”

  “I figured that out,” Frank said. “But I was talking about cutting your arm.”

  “Did you see how he reacted to that? The same way that you and the guard reacted to it. He was horrified.”

  “So what?”

  “So that’s not the reaction of a sociopath and not the reaction of a killer. He’s not the guy, Frank.”

  “You can’t know that.” Frank kept his eyes on the road, but he could almost feel the smile from the passenger seat.

  “I know,” Bentley said. “He was worried about his wife, he had no idea what I was talking about when I asked him about time and he reacted like a normal person when I cut myself.”

  “He could be faking,” Frank said.

  “He’s not faking and he’s not lying. And I think you knew that already.”

  “What about the knife and the witness?”

  “You’ll have to talk to the witness,” Bentley said. “As for the knife, I’m not sure, but I think it was planted on him. I think this guy is trying to spin you in a circle.”

  Frank pulled into the driveway. He turned to Bentley. “You really believe that, don’t you? You don’t think he did it?”

  “I know he didn’t do it,” Bentley said. “And now, so do you. So kick him loose and let’s look for the real killer.”

  Frank shook his head. “I can’t let him out yet. Not based on our reasoning, but I can talk to the witness tomorrow.”

  “Why don’t we talk to him?” Bentley asked. “Don’t you think I’ve earned it?”

  “Okay,” Frank said. “You can come with me tomorrow, but just listening. Not talking.”

  “Just like the Go-go’s, my lips are sealed.”

  Somehow, Frank doubted that.

  Fourteen

  I.

  Instead of going into the station the next day, Frank and Bentley drove straight from the house to the offices of PG&E. Time was a factor, of course, but that wasn’t the chief reason that Frank wanted to avoid the station. Bentley being in tow was the biggest reason. There were questions; most of them would come from Rick, which he wasn’t going to want to answer.

  In lieu of going in, he called Gloria.

  “Is Rick in yet?” Frank asked.

  “Not yet,” Gloria said. “He said he had some things to check out before he came in this morning.”

  “Okay, well then connect me with Roman, please.”

  There was a click and then Roman and his accent were on the line.

  “The blood is a match to the family,” Roman said. “Traces of all of their blood is on it. This knife is murder weapon. It’s what you call a slam dunk.”

  “And it was in Adams bag,” Frank said. He cradled the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he took a turn. Bentley sat beside him and said nothing.

  “Yeah, it looks like…What? Are you kidding me?”

  “What’s going on?” Frank asked.

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. Frank was about ready to scream when Roman spoke again.

  “There’s been another murder,” Roman said. “Neighbor saw something and called it in. You gonna need to expand my team if this keeps up, Sheriff. Maybe hire weird Mike on full time.”

  Frank slammed on the breaks. “What’s the address?

  “2234 Cabrillo circle,” Roman said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Frank hung up the phone before Roman could say any more.

  “Another one,” Bentley said.

  Frank nodded.

  “I guess that puts your Lieutenant totally in the clear then.”

  Frank was disturbed by the lack of emotion in that statement, but he turned the car and drove on without saying anything.

  II.

  There were three cruisers outside the white colonial on Cabrillo circle. It must have been an expensive house. Yucca County wasn’t Los Angeles, but r
eal estate was expensive almost everywhere in California and the house had to be at least four bedrooms.

  Michaels stood near the front door with two deputies. There was a woman in a house dress with short cropped blonde hair standing between them.

  Frank didn’t need Michaels to tell him what the neighbor had seen. He had seen it as soon as they turned onto the street.

  The house really was beautiful. White siding, a red brick chimney on the roof. The windows looked new and the black shutters on either side of the two windows on the second floor gave it a minimalist kind of beauty. The picture window to the left of the door was dressed with very tasteful cream-colored curtains.

  The problem was the door itself. Presently, it was closed and that’s how Frank was afforded a view of the message scrawled across it.

  It was red, like the numbers on the index cards, only it was darker and it seemed to have run a bit while the message was written. Steaks dripped down from the letters giving them the appearance of a horror movie title.

  Frank supposed that wasn’t too far from the truth.

  WRONG GUY SHERIFF, the message read.

  “He’s getting bolder,” Bentley said. “I’m almost impressed.”

  Frank parked the car and got out. He didn’t bother telling the kid to wait; there was no need to pretend he wasn’t a part of this anymore. Frank had decided the more help he could get the better.

  “Sheriff,” Michaels said. He walked forward and left the woman with the two deputies.

  “Just horrible,” Frank heard her shriek. He agreed.

  “We’ve got another mess inside,” Michaels said.

  “How many?”

  “Two. Husband and wife. Wife’s in the kitchen, husband’s in the upstairs bathroom in the shower.”

  “Did he leave anything but that?” Frank asked. He pointed at the message on the door.

  Michaels looked back over his shoulder as if to indicate that the message was still real and still there.

  “Index card, another piece of glass. Another number.”