Steven James - Opening Moves

I found him seated at a metal table bolted to the floor, his hands and feet shackled. If his story was true, he’d been coerced to commit tonight’s crimes and theoretically might not pose a risk or need to be cuffed. But he had drugged and kidnapped a young man, resisted arrest, assaulted an officer of the law-in fact I wasn’t even sure how many laws he’d broken in the last two hours. We still hadn’t confirmed his story. Cuffed was good.

And what about that phone call? Somebody answered. Someone screamed.

“Okay, Mr. Hayes.” I took out a notepad and a miniature cassette recorder. “We were rushed earlier when I asked you to tell me what happened tonight. I need you to fill me-”

“Is Lionel okay?”

“Yes. He’s still at the hospital. They’re keeping him overnight.”

On the ride here, the officers with Vincent had grilled him on what kind of drugs he’d given Lionel, how much he’d used, when and how they’d been administered, how many drinks he’d seen Lionel have. “He’s okay for now,” I said, “but you gave him some pretty potent stuff.”

“And you got nothing on Colleen? Nothing?”

“We’re still looking for her.”

It struck me that he’d asked about Lionel first, rather than his wife.

Vincent was quiet. “Can I have some coffee?”

His request seemed a bit out of the blue, and was possibly a sign of interrogation avoidance, but on the other hand, it’s not uncommon for people to act unpredictably during times of intense stress.

Folks have been known to start cleaning their homes while the place is on fire, desperately trying to straighten things up or get the dishes in the dishwasher before leaving. Mothers who’ve lost their babies will sometimes hold the child to their breast and rock the corpse gently, even kiss its forehead as they would if the baby were still alive, though they would never think to snuggle with or kiss a corpse under any other circumstances.

Before life squeezes us to the limit, we can never be sure how we’re going to respond, so even though I found it odd that Vincent didn’t immediately ask any more questions about his wife, I gave him a pass.

“Alright.” Protocol called for me to offer him something to eat, which I did, and which he declined.

Outside the interrogation room I found a young female officer whom I didn’t recognize. Her name tag: GABRIELE HOLDREN. Slim build. Black hair. Bright eyes. I asked her if she could get some coffee for Mr. Hayes.

“Would you like some too, Detective?”

“No, I never touch the stuff.” Grind up burned beans and pour water over them? Drink that sludge? Not my idea of a good time.

While she went for the coffee, I returned to my chair across the table from Vincent Hayes, flipped open my notebook, and started the cassette recorder.

“Mr. Hayes, I need you to tell me exactly what happened tonight. Starting with the last time you spoke with Colleen.”

“I talked with her at about seven. I run a PR firm; we’re under the gun with a deadline and I told her I wasn’t going to be home until at least ten.” His voice was balanced. He didn’t sound like a guy who was worried about his wife’s life being on the line; he sounded more like a man who was discussing his market earnings with his accountant.

I noted that.

“She was at the house when you spoke with her?”

“Yes. Everything was fine; she understood about my getting home late. No big deal. We hung up. I went back to work, came home a little after ten, and, just like I told you earlier, she was gone.”

“Tell me about the blood.”

“In the kitchen, on the floor. Spots of it, not that much.”

The clinical, objective way Vincent was describing everything was starting to disturb me.

I had some ideas about where to take this conversation, but I needed to cover the proverbial bases first.

“Did you notice anything missing?”

“No.”

“What was your wife’s state of mind? Had you argued earlier? Anything like that?”

“No, she was fine. Like I said.”

“How is your marriage, Mr. Hayes?”

“Our marriage?”

“Were you having any problems? Any other romantic relationships either of you were engaged in outside of-”

“No!”

“Mr. Hayes, is there anyone who might wish to harm either you or Colleen?”

“No. No one.”

A knock at the door. I answered it and Holdren handed me the coffee for Hayes, then disappeared into the hallway again. I slid the burnt-bean-flavored water to him. His wrists were cuffed, so he lifted the foam cup with both hands as he drank.

“What did you do when you found the blood? Did you call 911?”

He shook his head. “Like I told you before, there was a note there by the phone. I called the number and a man answered. He told me to go to a bar, get the black guy.”

“And did he specify which bar?”

“New Territories. I was supposed to try there first. Find a guy, someone in his twenties, drug him, then drop him off naked and handcuffed in the alley at 924 North Twenty-fifth Street.”

“Did you recognize the voice of the man on the phone?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“And 911, why didn’t you call it then?”

“He said no cops.” Hayes’s tone made it clear he was getting more impatient. He set down his cup. “I explained all this before.”

It didn’t bother me that he was getting upset. The more you rattle someone, the more the truth comes out. When people get angry, they stop waffling and hiding things from you and start saying what’s really on their minds.

Okay, enough with the stock questions.

“Where did you get the pills?”

“What?”

“The pills you gave Lionel Shannon. Where did you get them?”

“He left them for me. The guy on the phone did.”

“Where?”

“Two pills. In a kitchen drawer, wrapped in tinfoil.”

I jotted this down, more for show than anything. My memory is pretty good, besides, I always verify everything later from the written transcript of the interviews. “Earlier you told the officers who were driving you here that you gave Lionel a drug called Propotol. How did you know the type of drug if the offender provided the pills for you?”

“He told me.”

“On the phone?”

“Yes.”

I watched him closely to gauge his reaction to my next question. “Mr. Hayes, do you own a pair of handcuffs?”

A pause. “Yeah. My wife and I, well…we’re into…Anyway, yeah, I used those. He told me to go to the bar and-”

I set down my pen. “Vincent, you live less than fifteen minutes from New Territories-probably closer to a ten-minute drive at that time of night-but we know from talking with the bartender that you didn’t arrive there until after eleven o’clock.”

“I guess so.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You just told me you got to your house a little after ten. If your wife’s life was in danger, why did you wait nearly forty-five minutes before driving to the bar?”

A switch seemed to go off inside him. Finally, there was passion in his voice again. “You have to believe me! I went as soon as I could!”

“Then what did you do in the meantime?”

“I took the backseats out of my minivan and then drove to the bar. I sat there for a while, trying to get up enough nerve to go in. To actually do it.”

It was possible, but it seemed like a stretch. My suspicions were teeter-tottering back and forth.

And why would Colleen’s kidnapper tell Vincent the name of the drug?

I couldn’t think of a good reason.

Vincent must have sensed my reluctance to buy at face value everything he was telling me. “Listen, he’s going to kill her, I know he is!” He tugged violently at his shackles, snapping the chains tight. “You have to get out there. You’re wasting time talking to me!”