Good Girl, Bad Girl(37)
Farley reacts as though every question is loaded.
“Clancy.”
“What breed?”
“A kelpie.”
“Do you walk him every day?”
“She’s a bitch.”
“Where do you normally take her?”
“Lots of different places—along the river mainly. Sometimes I go to Rushcliffe Country Park.”
“How about Central Park?” asks Lenny.
“No.”
“That’s right—you prefer to nude sunbathe,” says Edgar.
Farley bristles. “That was a misunderstanding.”
“What about Silverdale Walk?” asks Lenny. “You told Constable Glover that you used that footpath every day.”
“Not every day.”
“What about on Monday night?”
There is another pause. Silence. I can see Farley’s mind working overtime because he doesn’t have the intellect or the speed of thought to maintain his lies or second-guess what the detectives know or don’t know. He has a below-average IQ and limited social skills, which fits with the clumsy attempt to hide Jodie’s body and his lack of forensic awareness and his history of underage sex and lower-grade sexual offenses.
Lenny and Edgar slowly ratchet up the pressure, unpacking Farley’s movements on Monday evening. There is nothing subtle about their approach. Everybody in the room knows what role they have to play—even Farley.
If he were a patient of mine, I would interview him differently. I’d begin by exploring his childhood, his schooling, and his family relationships. After taking his history, I would slowly explore his sexuality and fantasies. What does he look for in a woman? What turns him on? What does he picture when he masturbates? Is it their smell or the clothes they wear or the way they walk? Over numerous sessions, I would identify the progression that led his normal, consensual romantic fantasies to become corrupted by thoughts of violence, exploitation, and coercion. Perhaps he was abused as a child, or maybe his first attempts at having ordinary relationships were rebuffed. Girls ignored him or laughed at him or belittled his failings.
That’s when his fantasies were formed—richly detailed scenarios in which he won the girl and landed the job and got a nice car and cool friends. But the more his real-world attempts at intimacy failed, the more his fantasies changed. Instead of romantic love and sexual compatibility, he imagined punishing the women who shunned him, the bosses who sacked him, and the bullies who bullied him. In his imagination, he didn’t just get the girl, he made her pay. He made them all pay.
Fantasies of sexual revenge have to be fed. Pornography and violent films provided some of what he needed, but soon it wasn’t enough. He sought out real-world details—locations, victims, souvenirs . . . He began following women home or stealing underwear from their clotheslines or peeping through their windows. When he did approach women, they tended to be young and impressionable and easier to talk into having sex.
All of this behavior is part of a progression, yet raping and killing Jodie was way ahead of anything he’d done previously. Something must have triggered the escalation—a family tragedy, getting fired from a job, or some unexpected setback or humiliation.
If I were asking the questions, I would take my time, but the police don’t have that luxury. Unless they seek an extension from a judge, they have twenty-four hours to either charge Farley or let him go.
After two hours, the team takes a break. Lenny arrives in the observation room. She looks pleased with how it’s gone. Farley is still in the interview room, pacing the floor, muttering to himself.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“I think you’ll get a confession.”
She waits, expecting more.
“I think he’s highly suggestible.”
“We’re not putting words in his mouth.”
“Pushed hard enough he’ll say almost anything.”
Lenny frowns so deeply that her eyes disappear. She’s angry in a hip-jutting, pissed-off way.
“He’s not going to make up a murder.”
“I know, but you’ll get his DNA and fibers from his clothes. You don’t have to break him. Farley is isolated and confused. The adrenaline rush that led him to raping Jodie has disappeared and he’s realizing the magnitude of what he’s done . . . of what he is.”
“You think he’s a suicide risk?”
“Yes.”
“Saving us a lot of time and expense.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
19
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
“Christ! That’s all I need,” mutters Lenny, looking through the glass doors of the station.
A crowd has gathered on the footpath, spilling onto the road.
“They’ve been arriving for the past hour,” says a uniformed sergeant.
“That’s because this place leaks like a church roof,” grunts Lenny.
I recognize Felix Sheehan among the crowd. He’s with another young man and two teenage girls who look school age but are dressed to look older or colder depending what you consider functional or fashionable.
Two uniformed officers are guarding the main doors.