Lisa Scottoline - Dead Ringer

“Stop! You can’t go back there,” he barked, covering the receiver, but Bennie caught sight of Detective Needleman coming out of interrogation room C.

“I’m a friend of Detective Needleman,” she said, and met him as he was closing the dark blue door behind him. The suspect had to be in the interrogation room, handcuffed to a chair, just as she had been. “Long time, no see, Bob. I hear you got a suspect in St. Amien. He in there?”

“We didn’t release that information yet.” Needleman frowned. To his right stood a cabinet with skinny drawers labeled BODY CHARTS, SUBPOENA BLANKS, and INJURY FORMS. He was wearing his suit, and tie, and a grayish five o’clock shadow. “How’d you hear that?”

“I was with the family when you told them.” Bennie put a hand on the knob of the interrogation room. “Can’t I see him?”

“It’s not a zoo.”

“It’s not?” Bennie sidestepped him, yanked on the knob, and stole a glimpse of the suspect before Detective Needleman closed the door.

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” she said, but she’d gotten her mental picture. A young white man slumped in the chair, smoking a cigarette. Dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, with tall combat boots, and his hair had been shaved into a fade that hinted at a militaristic bent. “So who was that fine citizen?”

“Did you put the brother up to calling me?” Needleman pressed her away from the door, his eyes flinty behind his glasses. Two detectives bustled past, putting on their jackets with a backward glance.

“No, I didn’t. He called on his own. I gave you good press, but I guess he had a few questions. He’s upset.”

“Whatever. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Why not? I haven’t interfered with the police all day. All I did was visit the family, which you knew I was going to do. You even said it was okay.”

“Like it matters what I say.”

“On the contrary, I crave your approval.” Bennie smiled. She was trying to lighten the mood, and failing. “Of course, I had to come down when I heard. I wanted to see the suspect. Find out what you have on him. Who is he? What’s the story?”

“What do you want to know?”

Bennie groaned. “Needleman, can you give me a break? I’m not the enemy, I’m just a lady who cares about this case. Is that so terrible? It’s gonna be in the papers anyway.”

“Okay, fine.” Needleman pursed his lips. “The story is, his name is Ronald Johnson. Twenty-six years old. Unemployed. Record of three ag assaults in the nineties.”

“What weapon did he use for the aggravated assaults?”

“Knife, all three times. A onetime member of a militia group, white supremacists, out in western PA. The FBI got a file on him. Fits the serial-killer profile to a T.”

“Sounds like it.” Bennie was trying to be supportive.

“We placed him under for the Chiamel murder. That’s Claude Chiamel, the Belgian banker. He’s suspected of the St. Amien murder, too, but we don’t have enough for that yet. It’s just a matter of time, which is what I told the brother. Georges.” Needleman cocked his head. “How the hell you pronounce that anyway?”

“Just like Curious George. So Johnson is under arrest for the Chiamel murder, but not the St. Amien. He’s only a suspect in St. Amien.”

“Correct. The suspect.”

“What’s the evidence to support the murder charge in Chiamel?”

Needleman shook his head. “I’m not giving that up, Rosato.”

“Don’t be that way, Detective. I just taught you French.”

“Sorry, I told you the same thing I tell the press. You’re not the defense and you’re not the family. End of story.”

Bennie gritted her teeth. “I was with the victim’s son, Julien, when you spoke with his brother. Julien wanted to come down here with me, but I told him to stay home. I didn’t want to put the kid through it. You really want me to bring him? I could call him right now.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You’re right, and maybe I don’t need to. Does Mr. Johnson have a lawyer?”

“He’s waiting on a public defender.”

“What a coincidence! I’m a defense lawyer. Perhaps I should offer my professional services, twenty years’ experience in murder cases. Then I’d be defense counsel, entitled to everything. Should I do that?”

Needleman scoffed. “You want to defend the knucklehead who killed your client?”

“I don’t know that he killed my client. In fact, I highly doubt it. He may have killed the Belgian, but I’m not buying into your tourist-killer theory yet.”

Needleman leaned over. “You are such a pain in the ass.”

“Come on, let’s be friends.” Bennie forced a smile. “So tell me what you have on Ronald Johnson to support the charge in Chiamel.”

“Ample physical evidence.”

“Is that all you’re going to tell me?”

“That’s it.”

Bennie bit her tongue because she had officially quit cursing again. “Fibers, blood, prints? Is it bigger than a breadbox?”

“Ample physical evidence.”

“Do you have ample physical evidence in St. Amien?”

“The tests aren’t back. When the tests come back, I believe we’ll have ample physical evidence against Johnson.”

“If the results go the way you expect. But right now, you have no ample physical evidence linking Johnson to St. Amien.”

“Technically.”

“Technically matters. It’s the difference between the right guy and the wrong guy.”

“He’s the doer, Rosato.” Needleman’s mouth set in a firm little line that Bennie was beginning to think he should patent.

“When will the tests come back?”

“Some of them, day or so.”

Bennie nodded. So that meant they had fibers and maybe a print or two. Stuff they could test here, in the Roundhouse. DNA, as in blood, had to be sent to Maryland for testing, which took weeks. “What’s Mr. Johnson have to say?”

“Nothing. He’s not talking until his lawyer gets here. But I’ll tell you what you’re gonna see on the TV news, only because one of the witnesses went live at five. Johnson bragged to a couple guys in a bar on Juniper that he was on a one-man campaign to ‘clean up America.’ Admitted out loud that he killed Chiamel, and St. Amien, too. Said he was gonna get himself an A-rab next. And he wasn’t even drinking. Three witnesses heard it, and they’re all willing to testify.”

“So you got a tip.”

“Yes.”

Bennie considered it. “Did Johnson give you an alibi on Chiamel or St. Amien before he clammed up?”

“No, he wanted a lawyer from the jump.”

Bennie was trying to keep an open mind. “You really think he’s the doer in both murders?”

“Yes.”

“The MO is the same?”

“Identical.”

“Why don’t you fill me in? Convince me.” Bennie glanced around the room. “Come on, everybody’s too busy to care if we actually get along. Maybe we can help each other. We both want the same thing. You tell me stuff, and I tell you stuff.”

Needleman stepped closer. “Okay, I’ll bite. Here’s the MO. Victim is taken from behind, at the mouth of an alley. Same time of night, same type of vic. Older man, well dressed, foreign, speaks with an accent. Stabbed in the back with a common knife, dragged into an alley, turned over and knifed until subdued. Ten to twelve stab wounds, indicative of rage. Robbed and left for dead.”

Poor Robert. Bennie was so glad she’d talked Julien out of coming. It was tough even for her to hear. Detectives were usually present at autopsies and heard the findings. Needleman was essentially telling her what was in the autopsy report.

“Also, Johnson lives a few blocks from both scenes, in Center City. Twice divorced. Lives with mom, she works at night. You know the profile, the skinhead type. Impulsive, angry, underachiever. Badly socialized, a loner. Can’t hold a job or a marriage. Blames his problems on everybody else. A victim.”