Needle Work: Battery Acid, Heroin, and Double Murder(10)
“Where in Flint is Collier staying?”
“Don’t know,” said Carol, exhaling smoke.
It was beginning to feel very warm inside the car.
“I don’t know the area real well. But I could take you there,” she added.
“How’d you know Nancy?” the detective asked.
“I met her through my dead husband, Jessie Giles.”
She looked down for a second and then looked back up.
“He was her cocaine dealer.”
“Carol, why don’t you tell me what happened here?” said Shanlian gently.
Carol thought for a moment and took a long puff on her cigarette.
“Okay. On Wednesday night, Nancy got home, I don’t know, around eleven. Nancy and Tim went down into the basement and were smoking crack. See, Tim was upset at Nancy.”
“About what?”
Shanlian thought he knew the answer.
“A burglary that happened while Tim and me were in California on vacation.”
“What happened then?”
“Nancy and Tim, they weren’t fighting,” Carol answered defensively, “but Tim accused her of stealing a VCR. Nancy got so upset that she called someone on the phone.”
“What time was that?”
“About one-thirty. It was the middle of the night.”
“Who’d she call?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what happened?”
“Some guy picked her up a little while after.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“No.”
“What was Nancy wearing?”
“Her burgundy work shirt, black jeans and black tennis shoes. You know, what I couldn’t figure out is why she didn’t take her coat with her. It was a cold night.”
“Who was in the house with you on Wednesday before she left?”
“The only ones here were Nancy, Tim and my two kids, Jesse and Jesseca.”
“Carol, did you murder Nancy Billiter?”
“No. No, I didn’t,” she answered emphatically.
Even if she did do it, he didn’t expect her to admit it. But he had to ask. He’d actually had one case where someone had answered yes. You just never knew what people would do.
“Did Collier murder Nancy Billiter?”
“I don’t know.”
Now, that was an interesting answer, he thought.
“Carol, would you pass a lie detector test if you were asked the question ‘Do you have knowledge of the murder of Nancy Billiter?’”
Carol hesitated.
“No,” she said finally.
“Would you come to the West Bloomfield Township Police Department to finish this interview?”
Carol hesitated.
“It’s just right down the block.”
That did it. Carol agreed. They stepped outside to the marked squad car.
“Officer, would you take us over to your headquarters, please?”
“Right away, Detective,” said the cop behind the wheel, who started the car up and made a U-turn.
He drove down the block. There was a big illuminated sign that said WEST BLOOMFIELD ADMINISTRATION COMPLEX. He turned into the driveway that led up to a big official-looking building sprawl of gray buildings in the middle of what looked like an industrial park but was actually the township’s administrative center.
They parked in front of a one-story building that had a sign in silver block letters on top of the front door: WEST BLOOMFIELD TOWNSHIP POLICE DEPARTMENT.
“Thank you,” Giles said politely to Shanlian, who held the door open for her. Her high heels clicking against the tiled floor in the lobby, Carol Giles stepped inside.
Four
The community’s affluence had given West Bloomfield’s police a state-of-the-art building, which Shanlian noticed was incredibly neat. Nothing was out of place, not a file cabinet nor a paper clip. Everything was in soft shades of white and gray, blue and green, from the cubicles the detectives occupied to the neat offices of the watch commanders. Even the interrogation room he was escorted to was neat, with a gray metal desk and a few comfortable office chairs. Soft, overhead fluorescence provided the lighting.
Carol Giles took the seat closest to the door. Sometimes, cops liked to place the suspect on the far side of the table, near the wall. That was a subtle psychological ploy, intended to make the suspect feel closed in. But Shanlian, who sat opposite her, sensed that Giles would be more talkative if she felt she could leave at any time.
Someone offered to get them drinks. Carol wanted a coffee, but Shanlian never touched the stuff. He preferred the pure caffeinated, sugary jolt of Mountain Dew.
After Carol received her coffee and an ashtray—Shanlian figuring that like many smokers she would do it under stress—the detective got down to business.
“Look, Mrs. Giles, I want to remind you that you’re not a suspect and you’re not under arrest,” Shanlian began.
“I understand,” Carol replied, sipping at her coffee.
The point of the warning was to make it clear that she could walk away anytime she wanted, that she was not under duress. The reason Shanlian didn’t read her her rights, even though she was already a suspect in his mind, was that had he done so, she probably would have clammed up. He was trying to engender her trust. If he could get that, she’d open up and tell him what happened. Then he’d read her her rights; she’d write down her statement; he’d clear the case quickly; and everybody would go home happy. But he had a long way to go.