Cody McFadyen - Shadow Man

"Four to five years. Not too bad." Alan motions with a hand behind his chair. It is a signal, and I respond to it by tapping on the window. Alan grimaces. "Sorry. Give me a second."

Street doesn't reply, and Alan gets up and leaves the room. A moment later, he is in the observation room with us.

"He may act cool," he says, "but he doesn't know squat about body language and interrogation. I'm going to roll right over him."

"Be careful," I say. "We want him to point us to Jack Jr. You don't know yet how loyal he'll be."

Alan looks at me, shakes his head. "It won't matter." He turns to Barry. "You got that file folder?"

"Right here." Barry hands him a file folder filled with various papers, all of them either unrelated to Street or blank. The name ROBERT STREET is clearly printed on the front of the folder.

The folder is just a prop. Alan is about to change the tone and pace of the interview. It will now become confrontational. In our society, file folders are equated with important information, and the fact that this one is filled with documents will imply to Street that we have a lot of evidence against him. Alan will go in and deliver what's called the "confrontational statement." It's a key point in this type of interrogation, and can be dramatic. Some suspects become so demoralized that they'll actually faint when they're given the confrontational statement. Alan watches Street for a few more moments and then heads toward the door. A moment later he reenters the interview room. He acts like he's reading through the folder. He closes it and holds it so that Street can see his name on it. Alan stands this time, he doesn't sit. He takes a wide stance, legs shoulder-width apart. Everything about him says he is dominant, in control. Confident. All of it is purposeful and calculated.

"Here's the thing, Mr. Street. We know you were involved in the murders of Annie King and Charlotte Ross. We have you pretty cold on this. Fingerprints found at Annie King's apartment have been matched to your prints. We're comparing DNA evidence from Charlotte Ross's apartment to some of your DNA right now, and I'll bet we get a match. We also have the MO you used prior to committing the crimes--the signed receipts you left as an 'exterminator.' We have some pretty good handwriting experts who should be able to tie those to you. We got you. What I want to know is--are you willing to talk to me about this?"

Street looks at Alan, who towers over him, exuding confidence and power, the picture of the alpha male. His eyes widen a bit, and I can see that his breathing has quickened. Then they narrow again, and he smiles. Shrugs.

"I would--if I had any idea what you were talking about."

Street smiles wider, the Cheshire cat. He thinks he still holds a trump card. That we don't know there are two of them. Alan is quiet. Staring at him. In an abrupt motion he turns to one side, picks up the interview table, and moves it against the far wall. He then puts his chair directly in front of Street. He sits down, close. Threatening.

"What are you doing?" Street asks. There is a hint of nervousness in his voice. Some sweat on his brow.

Alan looks surprised. "I just want to make sure I'm getting everything, Mr. Street."

He looks through the meaningless file folder again and frowns. Shakes his head. Acting, acting, acting. He puts the folder down on the floor next to his chair and moves the chair closer to Street, invading his personal space. I watch as he positions one knee just inside Street's knees, creating a subconscious threat to his manhood. The killer swallows. The sweat on his forehead is more noticeable now. He, however, is unaware of these physiological reactions. All he knows is that Alan has filled his world and that he is getting very uncomfortable.

"See, there's a loose end."

Street swallows again. "What?"

Alan nods. "A loose end." He leans even closer now. Pushes his knee in a bit farther. "You see, we know you haven't been acting alone."

Street's eyes open wide. His breathing accelerates. He belches, without being aware of it. "What?"

"You have an accomplice. We were able to figure it out from the video of Annie King's murder. A difference in height. And we know he's the real Jack Jr., not you."

Street looks like a fish on a hook, mouth opening and closing. His eyes are fixed on Alan. He belches again. His hands come down in a protective cupping of his crotch. All of this is reflexive; he remains unaware. Alan leans in closer.

"Do you know who he is, Robert?" Alan asks.

"No!" Eyes down and to the left. Lying.

"Well, Robert . . . I think you do, Robert. Robert, I think you know who he is and where we can find him. Robert, is that true?" Alan uses repetition of his name to create both an undercurrent of accusation and a feeling of there being nowhere to hide. It's like going "hey--YOU" again and again.

Street stares at Alan. He is covered in sweat.

"No."

"What I can't figure out? Why you'd be protecting him." Alan leans in farther. Rubs his chin in thought. "Maybe . . ." He snaps his fingers.

"You know, when two male serial killers are working together, a lot of times they're fucking each other. Well--the dominant one is doing the fucking. That the case here? That why you're protecting him? 'Cause you like catching while he's pitching?"

Street's eyes pop wide open. He's quivering in rage.

"I'm no fucking fag!"

Alan leans in, till they're almost nose to nose. Street is shivering. He belches again. "That's not what the little girl said. Bonnie? Remember her? She said that one of you was gobbling the other one's johnson like he was at a sausage-eating contest."

Street is apoplectic. "She's a lying little cunt! "

"Gotcha," Barry says.

Alan doesn't let up. "You sure? She said that one of you was sucking the proverbial golf ball through the garden hose. She gave a lot of detail. Details a girl her age wouldn't have."

"She's lying! She probably knows about cocksucking because her mother was a whore! We never touched each--"

He stops, realizes what's happened. What he's said.

"So you were there," Alan states.

Street's face goes red. Tears are running down his cheeks. I don't think he realizes this. "Fuck it! Yeah--I was there! I helped kill that cunt! So what? You'll never catch him. He'll get away, you'll see. He's too smart for you!"

"That's a confession from one of them," I say.

Barry nods. "He just bought himself a one-way ticket to the gas chamber."

Alan moves back, just a bit. He keeps his knee where it is, threatening. Street is unraveling before our eyes.

"You know, Robert, we have guys on their way to your apartment now. Robert, I'm betting there's something there that'll help us find out who he is, isn't there, Robert?"

Street's eyes go to the right. Remembering. Then: "No! Nothing!

Fuck you! Stop saying my fucking name over and over!"

"Did you see that?" Barry murmurs, excited.

I had seen it, and a thrill had gone through me when I did. When he'd said no, the eyes had gone down. Down and to the left. He's lying.

There is something in his apartment he doesn't want us to find.

W E ARE STANDINGin Street's apartment. Barry and I had watched as Alan continued to break Street down, inch by subtle inch. He was unable to get him to give up Jack Jr.'s identity, but he had given up everything else. How Jack had contacted him, how they picked their victims, other facts. He'd signed a confession and was a sweat-soaked, broken, blubbering mess by the time Alan left the interview room. Alan had destroyed him.

The dragon approved.

My cell phone rings. "Barrett."

"It's Gene, Smoky. I thought you'd want to know that Street's DNA is a match to the DNA found on Charlotte Ross's fingernail."