Raffi Yessayan - 2 in the Hat

Connie took a swig of his beer. “What are we doing up here anyway? Let’s go down on the field.”

“The moonlight is brighter up here. And there’s no place to sit down there.”

“I saw some benches down by the locker room entrance. C’mon,” Connie said.

Alves was surprised that the ground was hard, but not frozen. It must have warmed during the day. By morning, the blades of grass would be frozen crystals, snapping under your feet when you walked. But right now it was a perfect football surface. Walking out to the middle of the field felt right.

“Remember how much fun it was to be in high school,” Alves said. “Coming out here and playing games in front of a big crowd. The cheerleaders, the band, the whole atmosphere. How many times did I stand on this field, anxious to return a kick, each time, certain that I would run it all the way for a touchdown? At that moment, nothing else mattered in the world. Everyone in the stands was watching the ball, waiting for the kick. Then, as the ball rotated through the air, end over end, everyone watched to see what I was going to do with it. I was a pretty good ballplayer, so I always gave them a show. I wasn’t the biggest guy on the field, but I had great feet. There was always some big goon or a speedster who thought he was going to come down and drill me as I caught the ball, but I always made them miss. The first guy never got me.”

“If you’d played a few years later, I would have been one of those goons,” Connie said, lunging at Alves.

Alves juked to the left and then back and Connie grasped at air.

“I’m still too quick for you, even as an old man,” Alves said.

The two men laughed and started to walk back toward the bleachers.

Alves looked up into the sky. “Connie, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, pal.”

“How did you know Rich Zardino was the killer?”

“I tried to think like the killer. It’s something I learned from you and Mooney and from FBI profilers. If you think like the killer, you can catch the killer.”

“But how did that lead you to Zardino? I can see if you came up with some characteristics that made him a possible suspect. But that’s not what happened.”

“I looked past the obvious. Everyone was looking at known sex offenders who had done time. But I got to thinking, what if this guy had never been caught for a sex crime. What if he had just been out of state? What if he had done time for something else? What if he had done time for a crime he hadn’t committed? Bingo. This guy’s flying under everyone’s radar because he’s some kind of martyr, a victim of organized crime and corrupt cops. What a great story. No one else took the time to dig any deeper.”

“So that’s what got you thinking it was him. But how did you know it was him?”

“Like I said, I made myself think like the killer. I became the killer.” Connie grabbed the back of Alves’s neck with both hands.

Alves was startled. He shrugged Connie off and turned to face him.

Connie laughed. “Not literally, but I tried to put myself in his head, to determine the who, what, where, when, why and how of it. How was he selecting his victims? That was the biggest question that needed to be answered. Then the mayor had his annual Peace Conference. I saw a news clip. Zardino and Luther talking about their involvement with the criminal system. I tried to learn more about Zardino and Luther after that. I found out that Zardino was doing his lecture at all the area colleges. That’s when it started to fall into place. I started putting the pieces of the puzzle into Zardino’s life and they all fit.”

“Okay, Connie. That explains the Prom Night killings. But I got a question.” Alves knew that once he started this line of questioning, he’d have to push until he had all the answers. “I spoke with Sonya Jordan and Andi Norton. I need to ask you about Mitch Beaulieu.”

“What about?”

“Nothing big. Just a couple of things I want to clear up.”

“Angel, let’s go sit down. It’s windy out here.” Connie led him toward the row of benches against the concrete wall at the base of the stands. They walked out of the moonlight and into the shadow of the stadium. “I’m going to tell you the whole truth about Mitch, but you realize I’ll have to kill you afterward, right?” Connie laughed.

Alves let out an awkward chuckle, then felt Connie’s hands on his neck again. Connie slipped his left arm around Alves’s arm and pulled it back. Alves struggled to get loose. Connie reached under his chin with his other hand and pulled his head back to the right. The Chin and Chicken. Alves could feel Connie tighten his grip and start to crank with both hands. He tried to elbow Connie with his right arm, but he couldn’t put any force behind it. Connie lifted him in the air.

Alves was immobilized.

Alves tried to move and a pain shot up from his shoulder into his neck. His head was throbbing. The cold metal bench he was lying on didn’t help. He opened his eyes and a gun was pointed at his head: his own Glock. Alves sat up. He tried to speak, but his throat hurt. Connie handed him a beer and told him to drink it. His drinking gloves were sticking out of Connie’s pocket. Connie was wearing latex gloves.

It hurt to swallow. When he finished the beer, Connie gave him another.

“Jesus, Connie, give me a break. I can’t chug beer like I used to.”

“Just drink the beer, detective,” Connie said coldly.

Alves took a swallow and set the bottle down on the bench. He’d better savor the beer. The beers were his hourglass. When they were gone, so was he.

“Detective, I didn’t tell you to enjoy the beer. I told you to drink it. Pretend you are eighteen and trying to win a drinking contest at a frat party.”

Alves took another swallow. The mac and cheese rose in his throat. He finished the bottle and Connie made him drink two more. Alves was feeling the effects of the beer. He usually only drank one or two to get a good buzz. After five beers he was drunk.

When the last beer was gone, Connie took a step away from him. “So you want to know about Mitch Beaulieu?”

Alves didn’t want to know the truth. Not now. Not like this. He needed to be sober. He wanted it to be in an interrogation room with Mooney. He wanted it to be on tape. Video, if possible. He knew that if Connie told him everything now, then he would not live to tell it to anyone else. “I think I already know everything,” Alves said.

“You don’t know shit,” Connie said.

“I know you killed innocent people for no reason.”

“That’s how you see it? Not me. I always kill for a reason. I kill out of necessity. I kill for the good of all men.”

A wave of nausea swept over Alves. He tried to shake it off.

“Who have you killed?”

“Don’t pull that shit on me. You know who I killed. That’s why we’re out here tonight, isn’t it? You thought you could get me to slip up and say something I shouldn’t. Maybe get a confession. Guess what, pal? You hit the jackpot.”

“Who have you killed, Connie?”

“Oh, I get it. You want that full confession you came looking for. I know you’re not wearing a wire and you’re never going to leave this place, so I’ll give you that.”

“That’s good of you,” Alves said.

Just that morning he’d made pancakes for Marcy and the twins. When he was getting ready to leave for work, Marcy had told him to wait a second, then she’d kissed him, told him to be careful, to “drive nice,” like she always used to. Alves needed to find a way out of this. He needed to lure Connie close enough to catch him with a sucker punch, get his gun back.

“Don’t be a wiseass or I’ll just kill you right now. Then you would have died for nothing, without any of the answers you came looking for.” Connie paused. “Detective, I know you’re upset about Robyn Stokes. I never would have killed her if I had known she was your friend.”