Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake #2)(57)
“He choked Gwen half to death,” Sam says. “That’s why I used the pipe.”
Mike looks up at me, and his face goes still for a moment. Then he nods. “Okay,” he says. “Cuffs it is. Closest emergency room, and then the nearest field office. Nobody say anything until we’re on the record. Gentlemen, you go get everything that he touches in there. Computers, printers, desk, every goddamn thing. I want it all. If the manager fusses, call me.”
I send a frantic look at Sam and manage a rough whisper. “But Rivard wanted us to—”
“I know,” he says. “I gave Suffolk Rivard’s message. He opened it and ran for it. Nothing else we can do.”
“Have you got the envelope? What did the message say?”
Sam produces it from his pocket. It’s been torn open.
There’s nothing inside.
Claiming federal agent privilege skips the ER waiting list and gets us immediate attention from a doctor who pronounces me okay, except for the pain, swollen vocal cords, abrasions, and a neck that will look like I’d survived a hanging for the next couple of weeks. He thinks I’m lucky to be alive. I do, too.
X-rays and a head CT scan reveal that Suffolk has a mild concussion, thanks to either his original fall to the ground or Sam whacking him soundly on the head, but either way he’s released, as am I, and half an hour later we’re in a plain interrogation room at the FBI’s Wichita field office. The old days of reinforced one-way glass are gone. These days it’s cheaper to mount multiple cameras in the room that capture every angle of the conversation.
I don’t get a seat at the table. Me, Sam, and our escorted-visitor badges get to park ourselves in the monitoring room with an FBI staffer who lets us watch as Lustig sits down with Carl Suffolk. There’s a good half an hour of chitchat, lulling Suffolk into a sense of security, before Lustig looks up at the camera and says, “Would you please run that video we talked about for Mr. Suffolk now?”
The tech in the monitoring room, who’s only glanced up long enough to see our prominent visitor badges, presses some buttons, and a flat-screen TV in the interrogation room begins to show something I can’t make out, but I can see it running on a separate screen here in the studio. I’ve never seen what’s being shown, but it’s obvious on the face of it that it’s . . . horrific. And familiar.
It’s video taken in Melvin’s garage, before the wall was broken. Before his secrets were out. I recognize everything, down to the oval braided rug on the floor.
There’s a woman standing on the rug with her hands bound and a metal noose around her neck, and for a frozen second, I thank God that this time it isn’t Sam’s sister. I think it would break him if it was.
Lustig pauses the video on a close-up of the young woman’s face. She’s a pretty blonde, with big, pleading, terrified eyes. I recognize her. It’s my husband’s fourth victim, Anita Jo Marcher.
“Every once in a while, our teams stumble over some really dark shit,” Lustig is saying to Suffolk. “We all know about the child porn—and yes, Mr. Suffolk, we’ve got your phones, tablets, and computers, work and home. Everything with your digital fingerprints on it is about to get autopsied. That ship has sailed all around the world. Clear?”
Suffolk doesn’t say anything, but he nods. He’s back to looking pallid, lost, and completely helpless. I’d feel pity for him if I hadn’t seen the demon under his skin. If I didn’t still feel the scraping burn of his fingers around my neck.
“So tell me where this particular video came from,” Lustig says. “Doesn’t seem your usual perverted taste.”
“I don’t know,” Suffolk mumbles. But I recognize the way his chin goes down, the way his eyes take on a hard, dark shine.
“Sure you don’t. By the way, your work computers were clean, but funny thing, we found this video on a thumb drive in your desk at work. You watch it on the computer sometimes when you’re on the night shift all by yourself? You just like to keep it on hand for dull moments there, Carl?”
Suffolk’s chin is working up and down now, like behind those closed lips he’s practicing a biting motion, again and again. He doesn’t blink. And he doesn’t answer.
“Maybe you haven’t thought this through, but either you’re going to jail today for federal charges of possession and distribution of child pornography, or you start playing let’s-make-a-deal like your damn life depends on it. That time would be right now, my man. This minute. Who provided this video?”
Suffolk suddenly looks away. Up toward the camera. “Is she watching?”
“Who?”
“Her.”
Lustig doesn’t say anything. Suffolk stares at the camera, and it feels like I’m right in the room, feet away from him.
“You fucking bitch,” he says. “He should have killed you, too. I hope he does now. I hope he films every bit of it because if he does, I’ll pay to watch that shit. You hear me? I’ll pay to watch!” His voice rises to a scream at the end. I have no idea why he hates me so much, but I feel it like acid burning my skin.
Mike Lustig doesn’t move. Doesn’t even so much as raise an eyebrow. His body language continues to be loose, open, relaxed. I don’t know how he does it. Once the screaming stops, the silence stretches for a long moment before Lustig says, “You let me know when you’re done with your tantrum. I can wait. ’Cause guess what? No matter who else is involved, nobody’s sitting here but you. Nobody’s going to be doing hard federal time but you, unless you start answering some questions. So tell me. Where’d you get this video?”