KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

The good-cop-bad-cop boys left. I stayed by the monitor.

Adamski raised stony eyes when the detectives entered the interrogation room. As before, his hands remained clasped on the table.

When Ryan activated the sound system, the tinny sound of scraping chairs came through a speaker.

This time, Ryan skipped the niceties. “This interview will be recorded. For your protection and ours.”

Adamski’s face remained neutral. Though he was trying hard for tough, the guy looked nervous.

“Do you prefer this interview be conducted in French or English?”

Ryan waited a full five seconds.

“With no preference expressed, questioning will proceed in English. Ryan, Andrew, lieutenant-detective, Sûreté du Québec, and Claudel, Luc, sergeant-detective, Service de police de la Ville de Montréal, in interview with Red O’Keefe, aka Bud Keith, Alex Carling, Samuel Caffrey. Shall we add Lucky Labatt? Or shall we let that priceless gem go?”

“Look, I told you last time. I don’t know nothing about no old lady got buried in the woods.”

Ryan took Adamski over the same ground as last time, with questions framed to suggest the police had nothing new.

The performances were five-star all around. Adamski stonewalled. Ryan, feigning increasing frustration, grew more and more aggressive. Claudel interjected with the voice of reason.

After forty minutes, Ryan appeared to have reached his snapping point. Opening a file, he skipped a snapshot across the table. Though they were a bit fuzzy on the screen, I could see that the subjects were Christelle and Anne-Isabelle Villejoin, smiling before a Christmas tree, each arm-cradling a cat.

Adamski glanced at the photo, his expression never moving off cocky.

Ryan slapped down another. Christelle’s skeleton lying in its grave.

“Jesus.” Adamski jerked his eyes away.

Ryan shot from his chair, circled the table, and forced Adamski’s head around with two hands.

“Look at her. Look at her, goddamn you!”

“Hey, hey, Lieutenant.” Claudel placed a restraining hand on Ryan’s shoulder.

Ryan released Adamski, spun the file, and snapped a third photo onto the table. Rose Jurmain, looking much older than her fifty-nine years.

“How about this one?” Adamski’s lower lid twitched as he stared at the image.

“Or were you Bud Keith when you did her?”

“What the fuck?”

“Big career move? Stalk an old woman, kill her, pocket a few bucks. Better than credit card scamming. That stuff ’s for kids. But here’s what I don’t get.” Ryan shoved his face into Adamski’s, forcing him to arc backward over the chair. “What kind of dickless piece of shit does old women? Tell me. You sleep at night knowing you beat someone’s grannie to death?”

“I didn’t have nothing to do-”

“I’m going to nail you, you sick sonovabitch.” Ryan’s voice carried the menace of a sharpened blade.

Again, Claudel intervened. “Maybe we could all use a break.”

Without a word, Ryan straightened, smacked the audio switch, and strode from the room.

Seconds later he joined me. I smiled. He responded in kind.

“Now what?”

“Now Claudel mentions Adamski’s stint as Bud Keith at L’Auberge des Neiges. Maybe drops the name of the hunting camp in La Tuque, gets Adamski worried we’re wise to the Sam Adamski alias, thus to Marilyn Keiser.”

“Masterful.”

“Oh, and Claudel just might reference the fact that Rose Jurmain was an American, drop a few phrases like extradition and death penalty . Hint that maybe it would go better for him to stand trial here.”

“Jurmain died in Quebec,” I said. “Her body was found here. The U.S. could never extradite her killer.”

“We know that, but this dickhead may not.”

On the screen we watched Claudel say something to Adamski, pat his arm, exit. Minutes later he returned with a Pepsi.

Ryan waited a half hour, then reentered the interview room carrying two cardboard boxes. Each had an evidence label, one SQ, the other FBI. Both were empty.

Placing his props on the floor in Adamski’s sight line, Ryan activated the audio system and sat down.

“Lieutenant-detective Ryan rejoining interrogation.” Ryan turned to Claudel. “Have you read the suspect his rights?”

“What the hell?” Adamski’s head whipped to Claudel.

“It’s a formality.” Claudel, sounding uncharacteristically kind.

I studied Adamski as Claudel did the right-to-remain-silent bit. His left temple vein was pumping a gusher.

“Do you understand your rights, Mr. O’Keefe?” Ryan asked when Claudel had finished. “Or should we go with Adamski? Guess that one slipped the list.”

Adamski almost winced at the name.

“Do you understand the statement Detective Claudel just read to you?”

Adamski only glared. Stunned at hearing the incriminating alias? Already spinning explanations?

“I’m free all night, Adamski. But someone wastes my time, I get real cranky.”

“Who’s this Adamski putz? Why you calling me that?”

“Your rights?”

“I ain’t an idiot.” With venom.

“Mr. Adamski has indicated that he understands his rights and obligations.”

Ryan served up silence.

Though agitated, Adamski didn’t fall into the trap.

“We’re going to move on,” Ryan said. “This interview now concerns the murder of one Keiser, Marilyn, and any and all related events and/or crimes.”

Ryan asked Claudel to state the SPVM case number for the record. He did.

Ryan opened one of his files. “You were married to a woman named Marilyn Keiser from 1998 to 2000, is that correct?”

Adamski hesitated, weighing his options. “Things didn’t work out. So what?”

“Marilyn Keiser was murdered three months ago.”

“That’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Her body was found one week ago, in a cabin at Memphrémagog. She’d been doused with kerosene and set on fire.”

“Maybe she pissed off Memphrie.” Adamski snorted nervously. “You know? The monster from the lake?”

“You think this is funny?”

“I think this is a crock of shit.”

“You built that cabin. Other than yourself and the victim, no one knew it existed.” Ryan didn’t mention Lu the janitor.

“Ain’t that a coincidence.”

“Mrs. Keiser kept money in that cabin. Having been married to her, you’d be aware of that practice.”

“Marilyn was a wackjob. Everyone knew it.”

“Your prints are all over that cabin.” Ryan laid a hand on one of his empty cartons.

Adamski’s eyes flicked to the box, away. “So? The place used to be-”

“You bought that kerosene. We’re going to find the clerk who sold it to you.”

“You’re crazy.” Now the bravado sounded forced.

“You killed your ex-wife, doused her, torched her, and walked away.” Ryan was hammering hard.

“No-”

“You killed Marilyn Keiser. You killed Rose Jurmain. You killed Christelle and Anne-Isabelle Villejoin.”

“No.” Adamski’s fingers were jammed together hard to stop the shaking. The maneuver wasn’t working.

Ryan tossed down an autopsy photo of Keiser. Added a shot of Anne-Isabelle on her kitchen floor.

Again, Adamski looked away.

“Look at them. Anne-Isabelle Villejoin was eighty-six. Christelle was eighty-three. Your ex-wife was seventy-two.”

Circling the table as before, Ryan yanked Adamski by the hair to force his eyes toward the pictures.

“Tell me this, you gutless sack of shit. Did it turn your stomach to murder these helpless old women? Did you smack them from behind to avoid seeing the terror in their eyes? Did they tremble? Did you? Like you’re trembling now?”