Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“If you Mirandize him, he won’t say a word,” Zoe said. “We can’t let him know that he’s under suspicion. Not at first. And you aren’t required to Mirandize him yet if he wasn’t arrested.”

Jensen shook his head stubbornly. “He was taken through the police station into the interrogation room and left with the door closed for a long time. A skilled lawyer would argue that he felt as if he was being held.”

“He came in his own van.” Foster raised his voice. “He can leave whenever he wants! If he says anything, that falls under spontaneous confession.”

“Does he know he can leave? No, he doesn’t. Don’t make a big deal out of it. Just tell him it’s something that you have to do before you start talking to him. Let Detective Lyons say it, make it sound like a bureaucratic hassle.”

“Tell you what.” Lyons laid a hand on Foster’s shoulder, almost as if she held him back from punching the lieutenant. “We don’t Mirandize him until we’re deep into the interview, and then we’ll make the call. We won’t make any outright accusation before Mirandizing him, okay?”

Jensen seem to hesitate for a moment, then muttered, “That’s acceptable.”

Zoe looked through the one-way mirror at Sheppard. “We have to do this carefully. If he’s our guy, he’ll be ready for any obvious questions. We need to catch him off guard.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Sheppard. We had some things we needed to verify first.” Foster’s voice buzzed from the speaker in the control panel. The sound system gave it a slight echo, which Tatum found distracting. He watched as Foster and Lyons sat in front of Alfred Sheppard. Lyons had a laptop bag slung on her shoulder. Both had thick folders in their hands. Foster’s folder was the actual crime case file, thickened with some extra pages. Lyons’s folder was a fake.

“It’s okay. I’m sure you’re very busy,” Sheppard said. His voice was a bit gravelly, making Tatum think of a man who smoked.

“We really appreciate you doing this, Mr. Sheppard,” Lyons said. “As you may have heard on the news, the investigation has a few concrete leads, and a testimony from you can really help us narrow our suspect pool.”

Zoe leaned forward to the mic. “Don’t mention the news. We want him to feel like anything you tell him is classified. He doesn’t want to know what’s already in the news.”

Lyons blinked once in something that might have been affirmation. Or maybe just a regular blink. Then she began outlining some of the case’s details. She didn’t say anything that wasn’t publicly known, but she did a good job of making it seem as if she was disclosing it for the first time.

“She’s good,” Tatum said.

“Can you please tell us about the night you saw Maribel Howe?” Foster put his folder on the table with a slight thump and pulled a small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket.

“Uh, sure. It was . . . a few weeks ago, on the twenty-sixth of July. I went out with some friends. One of them just had a birthday. And I saw the woman—”

“Maribel Howe.” Foster removed a large color photo from the folder and placed it on the table. It was an image of Maribel Howe in a park, a river in the background. She was smiling at the camera, the wind playing with a strand of her hair. It was a beautiful picture and one of the sweetest images in her Instagram account.

“Uh, yeah, her. I saw her with a guy. He was about six feet tall, black hair, had a beard. I noticed them because they were arguing about something, and she looked kinda upset. I wanted to intervene, but my friend convinced me not to.”

“This is really very helpful, Mr. Sheppard,” Lyons said. “We’re trying to make a list of possible suspects, and currently we’re focusing on a few in particular. Your description definitely matches one of our prime suspects, and it might be invaluable in building a case.”

This was an utter fabrication, but its impact was instantly visible as the man relaxed and smiled at the detective. “I’m really glad I can help.”

“So tell us in your own words what you saw,” Foster said.

“Well, they were sitting in a booth, but this guy was acting a bit aggressive. I couldn’t hear what he said, but the woman . . . Maribel seemed upset.”

“Upset how exactly?”

“I don’t know. She seemed unhappy.”

“Was there any other indication they were having an argument? Aside from the way the guy talked?”

“No. Like I said, I couldn’t hear them. And they left soon after.”

“Try to nudge him a bit,” Zoe spoke into the mic. “See if you can get him to change his story.”

“Was he violent in any way?” Foster asked.

“No. I mean, I would have intervened if he hit her.”

“But he made no physical intimidating gestures?”

“Uh . . . no, I don’t think he did.”

“Maybe he crowded her? Invaded her personal space?” Lyons suggested, sounding hopeful.

Sheppard seemed to pause for a second. “Now that you say so, yeah, he was kinda leaning forward in a sort of threatening way. That’s part of the reason I wanted to intervene.”

“Was she simply upset? Or did she cry?” Lyons asked.

“I don’t know. I think she might have been crying when they left.”

“It definitely looks like he’s catering to what they want to hear,” Tatum said.

“Yeah,” Zoe agreed. “He won’t say anything someone else would later contradict, but he’s willing to change his story to fit the mold.”

Lyons told Sheppard again how useful everything he said was. As she spoke, she dropped the occasional tidbit about the case that they’d agreed beforehand to share with him. The man’s attention was rapt.

“I’d say with your help we have a good chance to catch the Digging Killer,” Lyons said.

“Good. I’m really glad,” Sheppard said.

“He didn’t flinch at the nickname,” Tatum said.

“Maybe he got used to it,” Jensen suggested.

“Maybe,” Zoe muttered. She watched the man intently as Foster spread the photos on the table. “This guy isn’t fazed by seeing pictures from the crime scene.”

“What does that mean?” Jensen asked.

“It means he’s desensitized, but these days there’s a lot of violence online. Anyone who’s interested in violence can get it in vast quantities. Of course, it’s one thing to see a random gory picture and another thing entirely to look at a picture of a decomposed body of someone you saw alive.”

“Is he the killer?”

“He’s someone who’s fascinated by this case, but that doesn’t make him the killer.”

They talked some more. Foster dropped the Digging Killer nickname a few times more.

“Clothing now,” Zoe said.

Jensen nodded, grabbing the evidence bags from the table. He left the room, and a second later, the interview room door opened, and he strode inside.

“Detective Foster.” His voice was ridiculously mechanical, like a man who’d practiced his lines for hours. “The clothing.”

“A five-year-old could see through that act,” Tatum muttered, frustrated.

“It doesn’t matter,” Zoe said. “Look at Sheppard—he didn’t even notice.”

She was right. Sheppard stared at the translucent bags intently. Inside them were the clothes Maribel Howe had been wearing when they’d found her.

“Do these clothes look familiar?” Foster asked, spreading the bags on the interrogation room table. “Did she wear any of them when you saw her?”

“The . . . the shoes, I think.”

Jensen hovered, uncertain. Foster gave him a meaningful glance, and the lieutenant blinked and left the room.

The interview room table was now a well-orchestrated scatter of photographs and evidence, and the effect seemed to be getting to Sheppard. His right knee bounced even more nervously than before. Foster and Lyons took him through his testimony again, asking further questions about Maribel Howe. Had there been any other friends with her? The night she’d disappeared, she’d been with some friends—had he seen any of them in the pub?