Notes on an Execution(75)

“A nosy neighbor, just a few hours postmortem. The condo’s front door was hanging open. Neighbor saw a white pickup truck lingering on the street, CCTV turned up the license plate. By the time we tracked Ansel Packer down, he’d wiped the car seats clean and driven halfway across the state.”

“You couldn’t hold him?”

“The murder weapon is long gone. He could have ditched it anywhere. We tried fingerprinting, but he wiped down the doorknobs, everything. We threatened him pretty good. I don’t think he’ll leave the state. We’ve got his motel room under constant surveillance just in case.”

“Rollins, I’m coming down tomorrow. Packer is a suspect in an old case of mine, and I just found new evidence.”

Rollins let out a long, whistling breath. “Let me talk to my commander. I’ll see what we can do.”

“Send me your file,” Saffy said. “I want a confession.”

*

Detective Rollins was waiting at baggage claim—an elegant woman with curly hair, no makeup, and a ripened fatigue lurking in the round of her shoulders. As they sped down the scorching Texas highway, sirens blaring, Rollins filled Saffy in. Ansel Packer wouldn’t talk; he’d shut down completely. Her commander was skeptical but desperate. Saffy could have an hour with him.

Saffy studied the plains as they flicked by, parched and withering. A memory had arrived that morning, a relief in its innocence: Miss Gemma’s house, those oatmeal raisin cookies. Saffy recalled that day with painful lucidity—how the sugar had crumbled, white and aging in Kristen’s palm. How Ansel had believed those cookies could somehow equalize him, make up for the harm he’d done. Saffy thought about the cookies as Rollins toured her through the Houston Police Department, as she shook the commander’s hand. She thought about those cookies as she promised, once more, that New York would not interfere with their investigation, that Texas could have him, that she only wanted a confession for the girls, and their families. She thought about those cookies as she stepped into the blank, gloomy room.

The cookies were proof, breathing in the void of Saffy’s memory: Ansel Packer was capable of feeling sorry. They were a testament to how the brain could skew itself. The many intricate ways that people could be wrong.

*

The interrogation room was gray and anonymous. Ansel sat at the table, his arms hanging limp. Saffy could smell his breath from the door, stagnant and sour—he’d been sitting in this room for over three hours, and the detectives had been carefully wearing him down. A cold metal chair, lopsided in the legs, plus a low buzzing sound, set to an irritating frequency. A series of endless and degrading questions. Good cop, then bad cop, then good cop again. According to Rollins, Ansel had only asked for water. He had used the bathroom once. He was not interested in talking. Saffy had expected Ansel to argue his own innocence, to rage at the unfairness; apparently, he’d done exactly this at first, insisting he did not need a lawyer. But he was tired now, bleary and spent. She had expected to feel hurt, or rage, or hate, upon seeing him. But there was only a lagging sort of pity.

Saffy adjusted the chair, straightened her jacket. She clasped her hands atop the cool metal, a sign of patience, a subtle comfort. Ansel’s expression was barren, utterly empty. She was not surprised: he didn’t recognize her.

“So,” Saffy said. “Let’s talk about Jenny.”

Saffy wished he would fight, or sneer, or laugh at her. She wanted Ansel to flip the game, to argue his own brilliance. Prove it, Saffy dared. A challenge. Prove to me that you are worth all this. His silence was dumb and disappointing. She thought about those TV shows, addictive and misleading—in scenes like these, glossy lawyers hovered over handsome men. Evil geniuses, masterminds who planned horror for the sake of it, angular faces that hid some unmatched cleverness beneath the veneer of their devilry. It was almost pathetic, this distance from reality: Ansel was no evil genius. He did not even seem particularly smart. From across the table, the brilliant psychopath she’d hounded all these years looked to Saffy like an unremarkable man, aging and apathetic, bloated and dull. Some men, Saffy knew, killed from a place of anger. Others killed from humiliation, or hatred, or depraved sexual need. Ansel was not rare or mystifying. He was the least nuanced of them all, a murky combination of all the above. A small and boring man who killed because he felt like it.

“Who are you, anyway?” Ansel asked.

“New York State Police,” Saffy said.

She flashed her badge, let his gaze flicker.

“Why are you here?”

“Why do you think?”

“I can leave whenever I want,” he said.

“Yes,” Saffy said. “But I brought something I think you’ll want to see.”

She lifted her briefcase into her lap, placed a coy hand on the latch.

“You’re playing games with me,” Ansel said.

“I didn’t come all this way to play games,” Saffy said. “Why don’t you tell me about Jenny? She seemed like a good wife.”

Ansel looked down at his hands, an approximation of apology. He was still in control—the anger had burrowed deep. He would make Saffy dig.

“She was a great wife,” he said.

“Until she left you.”

“It was a mutual separation,” he said. “She found a new job in Texas. I told her to take it.”