Presumed Guilty: (A Jefferson Winter novella) (6 page)

Yoko had stayed behind in Winter’s dorm room after the arrest. It was just her and the cop who’d been left guarding the door until the crime-scene investigators showed up. Everybody else had been anxious to get back to Upper Marlboro. The kid was where the real action was, so everyone was sticking as close to him as possible.

She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and little puffs of powder exploded from them. Then she picked up the book he had been reading. It had the uninspiring cover of an academic textbook, and a title that was as impenetrable as it was bland. Yoko had heard of string theory, but didn’t have a clue what it was. She opened the book at the page he had marked. It might as well have been written in Korean for all the sense it made.

Next, she went over to the CD player and picked up the empty case lying on top. Mozart’s Requiem. Yoko turned the music back on. She’d always hated classical music, and this piece did nothing to change her opinion. Over-the-top strings, and a choir that sounded like every member had a pole jammed up their ass.

It was over complicated for the sake of being over complicated, and much too pretentious for her taste. She preferred something with a decent backbeat and loud guitars.

Not that she’d ever admit that around Quantico. She was aware of the names whispered behind her back, and was happy to play along. The pigeonhole she’d been slotted into did not include an obsessional love of late-sixties and early-seventies rock.

She turned off the music and glanced around the room. If she could make sense of this space, then maybe she could start to unravel the puzzle that was Jefferson Winter. Because one thing was for sure: this kid was a puzzle.

For starters, what sort of nineteen-year-old student did two masters degrees, read advanced physics books for fun, and listened to composers who’d been dead for centuries?

At first glance, the room was a typical first-year dorm room. Tiny, with a small window that was covered by drapes so thin you might as well not bother. There was space for the bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a small bookcase, and that was about it.

That’s where the similarities ended. The room was spotless, no clutter anywhere. Even the desk was scrupulously tidy, and the air freshener on the bookcase was still new enough to fill the room with the soft smell of flowers and fruit.

Where was the stale smell you usually associated with teenage boys? The one that came from leaving plates of food and dirty laundry lying around for an indeterminate amount of time? And what sort of teenage boy actually made his bed?

Music posters covered the walls. Bands and musicians Yoko could relate to. Hendrix dressed like a cosmic warrior, wielding his Fender Strat as though the future of mankind depended on it. Keith Richards flying high, the very definition of elegantly wasted. Lennon expounding peace and love during his New York years. The Doors got a nod in this hall of fame, as did Nirvana and The Police.

There were two racks filled with CDs, one classical, the other rock, pop and blues. The spines were the right way up, and all the discs were strictly alphabetised. The bookshelf was alphabetised, too, the split between fiction and non-fiction roughly fifty-fifty.

Most of the non-fiction books looked as impenetrable as the string-theory book, although there was a whole section of criminal-psychology and true-crime books with titles and authors that Yoko recognised. His taste in fiction was surprisingly mainstream. Stephen King, John Grisham, Jeffery Deaver, Thomas Harris.

The odd-book-out was an old, worn collection of L. Frank Baum’s Oz books. The cover was scuffed and battered with a faded picture, and the yellowed pages were well thumbed. Yoko opened the book carefully and read what had been written on the title page.

Yoko did the math. Winter would have been two and a half when he received this gift. She could imagine him as a child, tucked up in bed, his mother reading him the adventures of Dorothy and the Scarecrow and Jack Pumpkinhead.

Then again, there was every likelihood that he’d read it to himself. Judging by the textbooks, he’d probably been one of those precocious two-and-a-half-year-old child prodigies, the sort of kid who was reading at two and building cold-fusion reactors by the age of five. The sort of freakish kid that film-makers loved doing documentaries on.

There was a music keyboard on the stand below the window. Black and high-tech and furnished with enough buttons to make Yoko think it should be on the bridge of an intergalactic spaceship.

She switched it on, hit a couple of keys at random. The sound that came out was a piano. She was no expert, but it sounded good quality. Yoko turned off the keyboard and opened the wardrobe.

There had to be two dozen T-shirts, all neatly arranged on hangars. Three identical hooded tops and three identical pairs of Levis. There was a sheepskin-lined suede jacket for the winter, and a leather jacket for the milder weather. A spare pair of Converse sneakers sat on the shelf.

More pieces to add to the puzzle. Who the hell hung T-shirts in a wardrobe? More to the point, what sort of nineteen-year-old did something like that?

Yoko ran a hand over the T-shirts, the pictures on the fronts flashing like playing cards. More dead rock stars and bands. All the bands and singers from the posters on the walls were represented, and a few more besides. She took a closer look at the way the T-shirts were arranged and shook her head in disbelief. Jesus, even the T-shirts were alphabetised.

There were a couple of drawers beneath the wardrobe. The top one contained underwear. Six identical pairs of black boxer shorts, all neatly folded. Six pairs of identical black socks, all neatly balled. Understandable for a middle-aged anal-retentive accountant, weird for a college kid. But nowhere near as weird as those damn T-shirts.

The one thing she hadn’t seen was any sign of was the victims’ hearts. The crime-scene investigators might have better luck, but she wasn’t holding her breath. She was sticking to the theory that Winter had a secret place somewhere.

She stopped at the door on her way out and looked back one last time. She’d found out a lot about the kid, but rather than answers she just had more questions.

‘Who the hell are you, Mr Winter?’ she whispered to herself.

As she walked away, the question in her head morphed subtly.

What
the hell are you?

What the hell are you?

Almost six and a half hours had passed since the arrest, and Yoko was no closer to answering that question. He was a psychopath. And he was a murderer. And he was one very screwed-up individual.

And he was a nineteen-year-old kid.

On their own, the labels were inadequate. Put them all together and the picture they made was still inadequate. Winter defied description. He was a whole new type of monster. Yoko watched him through the glass, desperate to unravel the puzzle. Desperate to know what made him tick.

With any luck, she’d get the opportunity to interview him once he’d been sentenced. There was plenty to be learned from the kid. Over the years, the Behavioral Analysis Unit had interviewed hundreds of serial criminals. By understanding these monsters, they hoped to stop, or at least seriously curtail, the activities of the monsters of the future. Jefferson Winter would be a valuable addition to this hall of infamy.

‘So, that’s it, then,’ said Dumas.

‘That’s it. You’ve got your confession. You’ve got confirmation this is your guy. All you’ve got to do now is keep gathering the evidence. Keep building the case.’

‘At least we know what he did with the hearts.’

‘I guess so.’

‘What?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘No it’s definitely something.’ His voice was hard. ‘You know, this is what my wife does and it drives me nuts. She makes this face then tells me it’s nothing, even though we both know that’s bullshit. She acts like it’s no big deal and she just wants me to drop the subject. Which, of course, is bullshit, too. So, what’s eating you?’

Yoko hesitated. It crossed her mind to say nothing. Winter was their killer, and that was the end of it.

But.

‘Hasn’t it crossed your mind that this has been too easy? Yesterday we were chasing our tails. Today we’ve got Valentino in custody, he’s confessed to the crime, and we all get to go home and have an early night.’

‘That’s how it happens sometimes. We’ve both been doing this long enough to know that.’

‘I guess you’re right.’

‘No guessing involved. Sometimes you get that one lucky break, and everything just slots into place as easy as you like.’

Yoko didn’t reply. She was still watching Winter through the glass. He was just sitting there staring into space, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his life was effectively over.

‘Relax, Agent Tanaka. Winter’s our killer. I mean, he’s even got the genes for it.’

‘Nature versus nurture.’

Dumas nodded. ‘Some people are just born bad. They come out of the womb mean.’

‘Scorpions and frogs.’

‘Excuse me?’

She turned away from the glass and faced the detective. ‘It was something Jefferson said earlier. He told me that frogs should be wary of helping scorpions to cross rivers. He was referring to an old fable. You must know the story.’

Dumas shook his head.

‘Are you sitting comfortably?’

‘All I need is some hot milk.’

Yoko almost smiled. ‘One day a scorpion asks a frog to help him across a river. The frog is understandably sceptical and wants to know what’s to stop the scorpion stinging him halfway across. The scorpion tells him that would be crazy since they’d both end up dead. The frog agrees to help and halfway across the scorpion stings him. As they’re sinking into the water the frog asks him why he did it, and the scorpion says that he couldn’t help himself, it was just his nature.’

‘So Winter killed those girls because it was in his genes. Like I said, some people come out of the womb mean.’

‘I don’t think it’s that simple. Jefferson thinks he’s the scorpion, however, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s the frog.’

‘Scorpion or frog, it makes no difference. All that matters is that he’s the killer, and he’s going to pay for what he’s done.’

Dumas’s smile indicated that the conversation was over.

‘Look,’ he continued, ‘I’ve got a ton of paperwork to deal with, but I just want to thank you for everything you’ve done. I really do appreciate it. That was a good call, by the way. Spotting him in the crowd like that.’

The detective paused a second, thinking. He stroked his chin, scrunched his lips together with his thumb and forefinger.

‘You say we caught him too easily, but we didn’t. You’ve got sharp eyes and a sharper brain, Agent Tanaka. If you hadn’t called it like you had, then we’d probably be meeting here again next full moon. As it is, I’m hoping I don’t see you again for a very long time. And I mean that with the utmost respect.’

‘And hopefully I won’t be seeing you, either. With the greatest of respect, of course.’

Dumas laughed and held out his hand and they shook.

‘Good work, Agent,’ he said again, and then he was gone, the door banging shut behind him.

Yoko lit another cigarette and looked through the glass at Winter. He hadn’t moved a muscle since she last looked. She couldn’t understand how he could be so calm.

Didn’t he understand what was going on here? Of course he did. His IQ was off the chart. He’d know exactly what was going down. So, was he in denial?

At that moment, Winter looked up and stared deep into the mirror. Once again, Yoko was struck by the impossible notion that he could see her. She stared through the glass, stared deep into those green eyes. She had half-convinced herself that by doing this she could read his thoughts.

Nature rather than nurture.

Like father, like son.

That’s what everyone was thinking because it made for a nice tidy explanation, and everyone liked to keep things nice and tidy. That’s why films and books were so popular. You had an alternate reality where the senseless finally made sense, and all those loose ends were neatly tied up.

But the real world didn’t work like that. The real world was messy and chaotic, and although the pieces occasionally fit together in a way that made a weird kind of sense, most of the time it was just a baffling mess.

That’s why Yoko veered towards nurture rather than nature. Saying that someone came out the womb mean was too easy. Evil wasn’t a gene, it was the result of years of conditioning.

The door of the interview room suddenly burst open and Dumas came charging in. The noise it made when it bounced off the stop and slammed shut sounded like an explosion through the speaker. The detective’s face was bright red, like he’d been running hard.

‘You little bastard,’ he yelled, and then he launched himself at Winter.

In two strides he reached the table. Another couple of strides and he was around the other side. He dragged Winter from the chair and pinned him up against the nearest wall. That was all Yoko saw before she was up on her feet and hurrying out the door.

Her first thought was,
What has the kid gone and done this time?

Her second thought was,
What could possibly be worse than murdering four girls, raping their corpses, and then eating their hearts?

Yoko ran into the interview room and came sliding to a stop behind Charlie Dumas. The detective had Winter pinned to the wall by his throat, and he looked like he’d happily keep squeezing until he killed him.

Winter’s green eyes were starting to bug out. His face had already turned from pink to red and was heading towards purple. The kid was pushed so far up the wall, the tips of his toes were scraping against the floor, and his legs were flapping back and forth as though the bones had been removed.

‘Let him go,’ she shouted.

Dumas gave no indication that he’d heard. He just kept squeezing, Winter’s eyes getting bigger and more bug-like with every passing second.

Yoko considered pulling her gun, but what was she going to do: shoot a cop? Even if Dumas succeeded in throttling the kid, which seemed to be his intention, Yoko knew where everyone’s sympathies would lie. A cop who killed a serial killer, or a killer who cut the hearts from his victims? It was a no-brainer.

If she shot Dumas she might as well wave her career goodbye. Even a leg shot wouldn’t do her prospects any good.

There was no way she was going to throw her career away for this kid, but she couldn’t just stand around doing nothing. She didn’t care about Dumas’s career, or the kid, but she had to do something.

‘Charlie Dumas. I am arresting you for the attempted murder of Jefferson Winter.’

Dumas didn’t stop.

‘Charlie Dumas,’ she repeated, louder and with more authority. ‘I am arresting you for the attempted murder of Jefferson Winter. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.’

That was as far as she got. Dumas let go and Winter crumpled to the floor. The kid was gasping for breath and rubbing his neck like that might help him get more air into his lungs.

Dumas swung around to face her, eyes blazing. Yoko had no doubt that she was looking at someone who was both able and prepared to kill. Someone with means, motive and opportunity.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he yelled at her. ‘You’re arresting me?
Me
? I don’t think so,
Agent
.’

Yoko stared him down, then pointed to one of the plastic chairs. ‘Please sit.’ Her voice was calm, quiet, polite. An order rather than a request.

Dumas stared for a few seconds longer, then he sighed and shook his head and it was like all the fight just left him. The legs of the chair scraped across the linoleum with a high-pitched squeak. The plastic seat creaked to accommodate his weight.

Yoko went over to Winter and helped him up. The kid weighed next to nothing. She could feel his ribs through his T-shirt. His dorm room might be atypical for a student, but it appeared that his diet was pretty standard.

She helped him across to the table, pulled out a chair, guided him into it. His neck was an angry red colour. There would probably be bruising.

Dumas was on one side of the table, Winter on the other. No-man’s-land was defined by a stretch of scratched wood. Yoko stood between them at the halfway point, like a referee.

‘Now,’ she said in the same calm voice she’d used earlier. ‘Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?’

Another sigh from Dumas, another shake of his head. His mouth was a tight line and his eyes were fixed on Winter. ‘He didn’t kill those girls. He’s been screwing with us from the word go.’

‘Hey,’ said Winter. ‘It’s not like I asked to come here. There I was reading my book, listening to some music, minding my own business. Next thing I know I’m in cuffs, having my rights read. You assumed I did it, and you were wrong, and now you’re looking for someone to take it out on.’ He turned to Yoko. ‘Doesn’t that seem a little unfair to you, Agent Tanaka?’

‘You’re going down for this,’ said Dumas. ‘I guarantee it. We’ll start with wasting police time, and work from there.’

The kid shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. That whole wrongful arrest thing really doesn’t work in your favour. Last time I looked our legal system was based on the presumption that everyone is innocent until proven guilty. Not you, though, you presumed I was guilty, and here we are. If there’s anyone in this room who should be charged with wasting police time, it’s you, Detective Dumbass. You’re obviously incompetent, otherwise it wouldn’t have taken so long to work out that you had the wrong guy.’

Yoko saw Dumas’s hands clench and unclench. Any second now, the detective was going to blow. She could also see that Winter was enjoying this.

‘How’s your daughter?’ Winter continued. ‘She’s got to be, what? Twenty-one, twenty-two? Blonde hair and blue eyes? It’s got to kill you, knowing the real murderer is still out there and she could be next.’

Dumas went to stand up. His whole face had tightened to the point where his eyes were just slits.

‘Sit back down, Detective.’ Yoko turned to Winter. ‘And you, shut up. I don’t want another word. Next time you speak is when I tell you to speak. Nod if you understand.’

Winter grinned, then nodded. Yoko’s heart was beating double time and she felt sick. She caught a glimpse of herself in the one-way mirror and there was some comfort in the fact that she appeared as composed as ever.

Inside she was a mess, but outwardly nothing showed. They were at that point in the game where her opponent had made a move she hadn’t anticipated, and all her well-thought-out plans and strategies were crumbling to dust.

She lit a cigarette with the battered brass Zippo. ‘Okay, let’s start again. Detective Dumas, why are you so sure that Jefferson didn’t kill those girls?’

‘Because every Friday night he plays piano at La Dolce Vita, an Italian restaurant in College Park. The owner’s checked his records and he was working on the night of Friday 30 April.’

‘The night the first victim was murdered.’

‘Exactly. There’s no way he could have done it. The coroner put the time of death at around six-thirty and he started at six.’

‘He’s right,’ said Winter. ‘I didn’t do it.’

‘So why say you did?’

‘Isn’t that obvious.’

‘No, Jefferson, it’s not obvious. If it was, I wouldn’t have asked.’

Winter smiled. ‘Because I’m going to help you catch this asshole.’