Брайан Фриман - Alter Ego

“Life in prison? Are you kidding me?”

“That’s the penalty for first-degree murder,” Stride told him.

Casperson looked genuinely shocked. His gaze zigzagged between them, and for the first time his face showed fear. “ Murder? What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know anything about murder.”

Jungle Jack was the opposite of Dean Casperson. He refused to say a word. He sat in the interview room, cuffed, and stared back at Maggie with a permanent smirk tattooed on his mouth. His dark eyes were hooded with contempt. He didn’t ask for a lawyer, and he listened to Maggie lay out the evidence against him without any reaction at all. The only words out of his mouth were to ask for a cigarette, and when Maggie said no, he shrugged and went back to his stony silence.

“I know you and Lieutenant Stride talked about this man,” Maggie told him, laying a photograph of John Doe’s body in front of him. “He’s dead, so he won’t be testifying any time soon. But this man is — was — a killer. Anyone who helped him commit premeditated murder is a killer, too. That means being a guest at the state correctional facility in Oak Park Heights for as long as you’re alive. By the way, Oak Park Heights is where we house the guys who don’t know the meaning of ‘Minnesota nice.’ I’ve seen it. Trust me, Jack, you’re going to spend a lot of years behind bars. You don’t want to spend them there.”

Jack used his thumb to dig dirt from under his manicured fingernails and didn’t even bother looking up.

“We know that our friend John Doe — say, do you know his actual name, Jack? That would really help us out.”

This time, Jack looked up and gave her a smile.

“No?” Maggie went on. “Well, suit yourself. We know John Doe murdered a young woman named Peach Piper here in Minnesota and a woman in Florida named Haley Adams. The gun found in his car was used to murder both women. End of story; that’s the easy part. By the way, do you know what else we found in John Doe’s car? This cowboy hat.”

She laid a photo of a black cowboy hat in front of Jack, who glanced at it with only the slightest puzzlement.

“Nice hat, isn’t it?” Maggie said. “The feather is cool, too. What is that, a red-tailed hawk? I think I’d look pretty good in a cowboy hat like that. I may have to get one. Anyway, I’ll come back to the hat. The thing is, we know John Doe killed Peach Piper, and we’re pretty sure he killed Rochelle Wahl, too. Rochelle was a fifteen-year-old girl. We’re still gathering evidence to link him to that murder, but we already know he left a party at Dean Casperson’s house with Rochelle, and she was found dead a few hours later. Remember that? It was the party where we have a picture of you arriving with Rochelle. That’s a pretty interesting coincidence for anybody sitting on a jury.”

She hadn’t broken through Jack’s silence yet, because he didn’t see any threat. She hadn’t shown him anything that he didn’t already know. But he was curious. She could see the wheels turning, wondering what the police had and why they’d felt confident enough to charge him with murder this time.

“We know John Doe had an accomplice,” she went on, “and we know that accomplice is you.”

Jack waited. His shoulders gave the smallest shrug.

“I get it; you think I’m blowing smoke,” Maggie said. She turned around and waved at the interrogation window. “Cab, what do you think? Am I blowing smoke in here?”

Cab’s voice crackled through the intercom. “No, you’re not.”

Maggie smiled at Jack. “No, I’m really not. See, we found John Doe’s phone in his car, along with the gun and the cowboy hat. The phone records show that he was in communication with somebody in town. Namely, you. And yeah, as soon as you heard John Doe was dead, I’m sure you ditched the phone. That’s okay. We got the call records on the burner phone anyway. You remember the mistake you made, right, Jack?”

Jack stared back at her, but this time, he sucked his lower lip nervously between his teeth. Maggie grinned.

“Yeah, that’s right, the pizza,” she said. “Look, I don’t blame you. When I’m jonesing for a Sammy’s, nothing else will do. But using the burner phone to call for delivery? Not smart. Of course, you called the wrong location, didn’t you? They told you they wouldn’t deliver up to Hermantown. So you hung up and looked at the phone in your hand, and you thought — shit. Lucky break that you didn’t actually place an order, huh?”

She put a copy of the sheet with the apartment phone records on the interview table in front of Jack.

“Except then you used the phone in your apartment to call the Sammy’s restaurant in Hermantown. Two minutes later. That doesn’t look good, Jack. You think anyone is going to believe that’s a coincidence?”

She took out another sheet of paper from her folder and put it facedown on the table. She could see Jack look at it; she could see him wondering what it was. The anticipation was always the worst part. That was what ate into a suspect’s confidence. The not knowing.

“I got the phone records from the apartment owner,” Maggie said. “He’s a nosy guy, that Stig. Likes to keep an eye on things. We have a statement from him, Jack. He saw Peach Piper hanging out near your apartment. In fact, he called to tell you that some girl was spying on you, and you went out and confronted her. Then you walked her toward the back of the complex. John Doe was staying in one of the cottages back there. So we figure the two of you took Peach into the woods and John Doe shot her. Did you watch him do it, Jack? Have you seen people killed before? It’s not pretty. I hope you didn’t throw up or anything. Because we’ll be searching the woods tomorrow. We’re going to find the crime scene.”

She still hadn’t turned over the sheet of paper in front of Jack.

“The fact is, the game’s over,” she went on. “First-degree murder, Jack. Life in prison. You don’t have anybody to blame but yourself, you know. It’s that ego of yours. The girl who delivered your pizza asked if you were part of the movie crew, and you couldn’t stop yourself, could you? You had to say yes. You had to let her take a selfie with you. Except the thing is, she clicked a few shots before you closed the apartment door, Jack.”

Maggie reached out and turned over the paper on the table. It was an enlarged photograph taken from Ginny Hoeppner’s phone. Maggie took a red Sharpie and drew a circle on the picture.

“This is inside the apartment, Jack. See where I drew the circle? Look closely. It’s easy to make out if you squint.”

Jack did. Then he sighed and closed his eyes.

“Yeah. It’s a black cowboy hat with a red-tailed hawk’s feather. It’s John Doe’s hat. And I might not even have noticed it without the hat, but the fact is, that’s not even your apartment. The furniture isn’t right. You had the pizza delivered to John Doe’s apartment. That’s why you’re here, Jack. That’s why you’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison. If you want, you can wait and talk to the lawyer that Dean Casperson gets for you. But if Dean’s paying for it, who do you think that lawyer is really going to represent? Little tip: it’s not you. My advice is, you cut a deal right now and tell us about Casperson’s involvement in the murder of Peach Piper, the murder of Rochelle Wahl, the murder of Haley Adams, and the murders of anyone else you scumbags have been involved with in the last twenty years.”

Jack stared at the ceiling. He exhaled slowly, and the stale aroma of cigarette smoke breathed from his mouth. He took another look at the photographs spread out across the table. Finally, he spoke.