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“‘This isn’t me?’ Any idea what he meant by that?”
“Well… I imagine he retains some faint recollection of who he was, along with a vague realization of what he’s become.”
“And then?”
Singh seemed embarrassed. “He became suddenly violent. He said he was going to kill them both and… rip out their guts. He had to be further sedated.”
Hayward glanced at him a moment longer. Then, thoughtfully, she turned back toward Lipper, still rolling his head, his glassy eyes a million miles away.
Chapter 33
He got into a fight with Carlos Lacarra,” Imhof told Special Agent Coffey as they strode down the long, echoing corridors of Herkmoor. “Lacarra’s friends weighed in, and by the time the guards broke it up, a certain amount of damage had been done.”
Coffey listened to the public recitation of events with Rabiner at his side. Two prison guards walking behind completed the entourage. They rounded a corner and continued down another long corridor.
“What kind of damage?”
“Lacarra’s dead,” said the warden. “Broken neck. Don’t know what happened, exactly-not yet. None of the prisoners are talking.”
Coffey nodded.
“Your prisoner got pretty banged up-mild concussion, contusions, bruised kidney, a couple of cracked ribs, and a shallow puncture wound.”
“Puncture wound?”
“Seems somebody shanked him. That was the only weapon recovered at the scene of the fight. All in all, he’s lucky to be alive.” Imhof coughed delicately and added, “He certainly didn’t look like a fighter.”
“And my man is back in his cell, as per my orders?”
“Yes. The doctor wasn’t happy.”
They cleared a security gate, and Imhof keyed an elevator for them. “At any rate,” he said, “I expect he’ll be a lot more amenable to questioning now.”
“You didn’t sedate him, did you?” Coffey asked as the elevator chimed open.
“We don’t habitually dispense sedatives here at Herkmoor-potential for abuse and all that.”
“Good. We don’t want to waste our time with a nodding vegetable.”
The elevator rose to the third floor, opening onto a pair of steel doors. Imhof swiped a card and punched in a code and they slid back, revealing a cinder-block corridor, painted stark white, with white doors on either side. Each door had a tiny square window and a foot slot.
“Herkmoor Solitary,” Imhof said. “He’s in cell 44. Normally, I’d escort him to a visiting room, but in this case he’s not exactly mobile.”
“I’d rather speak to him in his cell, anyway. With the guards on hand… in case he should become aggressive.”
“Not much chance of that.” Imhof leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, Agent Coffey, but I would imagine that any suggestion that he might be put back in yard 4 for exercise would get him talking a mile a minute.”
Coffey nodded.
They approached the cell door and one of the guards gave it several whacks with his riot stick. “Make yourself pretty, you got a visitor!”
Whang, whang! went the nightstick against the door. The guard removed his weapon and stood aside while the other unlocked the door and glanced in. “All clear,” he said.
The first guard holstered his weapon and stepped inside.
“How much time do you need?” Imhof asked.
“An hour should do it. I’ll have the guard call you when we’re done.”
Coffey waited until Imhof was gone, then he stepped into the small immaculate cell, followed by Rabiner. The second guard closed the door from the outside and locked it, preparing to stand watch.
The prisoner lay on the narrow bed, propped up on a thin pillow, dressed in a fresh jumpsuit so orange it almost glowed. Coffey was shocked by his appearance-head bandaged, one eye swollen shut and the other dark, the entire face a palette of black, blue, and green. Behind the puffy slit in the prisoner’s good eye, Coffey could see the glitter of silver.
“Agent Coffey?” the guard asked. “Do you want a chair?”
“No, I’ll stand.” He turned to Rabiner. “Ready?”
Rabiner had removed a microcassette recorder. “Yes, sir.”
Coffey folded his arms and looked down at the battered and bandaged prisoner. He gri
No answer, but then, Coffey expected none.
“Let’s get down to business.” He took out a sheet of paper with his notations. “Roll the tape. This is Special Agent Spencer Coffey, in prison cell number C3-44 at Herkmoor Federal Correctional and Holding Facility, interviewing the prisoner identified as A. X. L. Pendergast. The date is March 20.”
A silence.
“Can you talk?”
To Coffey’s surprise, the man said, “Yes.” His voice was barely a whisper and a little thick on account of his puffy lips.
Coffey smiled. This was a promising begi
“Likewise.”
It seemed the softening up had worked even better than he had anticipated.
“All right, then. I’m going to return to my previous line of questioning. This time I expect a response. As I’ve already explained, the evidence puts you in Decker’s house at the time of the killing. It provides means, motive, and opportunity, and a direct link between you and the murder weapon.”
The prisoner said nothing, so Coffey continued.
“Point one: the forensic team recovered half a dozen long black fibers at the crime scene, which we found came from a highly unusual cashmere/merino blended Italian fabric made in the 1950s. An analysis of the suits in your wardrobe indicate that all of them were made from the same fabric, even the very same bolt of cloth.
“Point two: at the scene of the crime, we found three hairs, one with root. A PCR analysis proved it matched your DNA to a probability of error of one in sixteen billion.
“Point three: a witness, a neighbor of Decker’s, observed a pale-complected individual in a black suit entering Decker’s house ninety minutes before the murder. In no less than three photo lineups, he positively and categorically identified you as that person. As a member of the U.S. House of Representatives, he is about as unimpeachable a witness as you could find.”
If the prisoner sneered momentarily, it happened so fast that Coffey wasn’t sure he had seen it at all. He took a moment to read the man’s face, but it was impossible to discern any kind of emotion in a face so swollen and bandage-covered. All he could really see of the man was the silver glitter behind the slitted eye. It made him uneasy.
“You’re an FBI agent. You know the ropes.” He shook the piece of paper at Pendergast. “You’re going to be convicted. If you want to avoid the needle, you’d better start cooperating, and cooperating now.”
He stood there, breathing hard, staring at the bandaged prisoner.
The prisoner gazed back. After a moment, he spoke.
“I congratulate you,” he said. His slurred voice sounded submissive, even obsequious.
“May I make a suggestion, Pendergast? Confess and throw yourself at the mercy of the court. It’s your only option-and you know it. Confess, and save us the shame of seeing one of our own dragged through a public trial. Confess, and we’ll get you transferred out of yard 4.”
Another brief silence.
“Would you consider a plea bargain?” Pendergast asked.
Coffey gri
Pendergast seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he stirred on the cot. “Very well,” he said.