Byron Starr - Doppelgänger

“Now is fine with me,” Greg said. He wanted to get this over as soon as possible.

“Go get him.”

The lights in the cell stayed on during the day, but James had managed to position himself with his head facing the wall and fall asleep, despite the hard bed and its thin mattress. It had been a long time since James had been able to sleep undisturbed for any length of time. The loud clack of the heavy metal lock opening his cell woke him from a deep, dreamless, sleep. His mind still muddled in a half-awake daze, James didn’t roll over to see who was at his door.

James had begun drifting back to sleep when he heard, “James, Bill wants to talk to us.”

He ignored the voice, and drew his sheet tighter around him.

“James.” Someone shook his shoulder, and he finally woke up. James raised his head; his eyes were still bleary, but he could make out Greg.

“Damn, you were sleeping like a rock,” Greg said as he sat on the corner of the tiny bed.

“Glad you noticed,” James replied as he sat up, stretched, and yawned.

“I had my little talk with Bill.”

“How’d it go?” James asked, rubbing and blinking his eyes.

“Well, like you said, he pretty much chewed me up and spit me out,” Greg said with mock cheerfulness. “It gets better. Apparently you were right on both counts; now he wants to meet with both of us so he can chew us both up and spit us both out.”

“Oh, great,” James said, as he stood up.

Greg stood up with him and they walked out of the cell and down the row of cells. They passed through the security door separating the cells from the rest of the building. Just past the door, they turned left into the room where James had been booked, fingerprinted, and photographed. The room was furnished much like Bill’s office except instead of a cluttered desk there was a small, neat, folding table with a notebook, a telephone, and a tape recorder on it. The pictures on the walls were different also. Instead of pictures of smiling 4H boys and girls with their prizewinning livestock and various gruff-looking Texas Rangers, there were bulletin boards filled with notices and one enlarged copy of the FBI’s most wanted list. Bill sat across the table, making no effort to hide the scowl on his face.

As they came through the door Greg closed the blinds which opened into the hall. He motioned for James to be seated in the lone chair across from Bill, then he went around and took a seat on Bill’s side of the table. As soon as Greg pulled his chair up to the table, Bill pressed Record on the tape-recorder.

Without smiling, Bill extended his hand to James and introduced himself, “Sheriff William Oates.”

James shook his hand, also without smiling.

“I believe you know Deputy Greg O’Brien,” Bill said, nodding his head in Greg’s direction.

James nodded.

Bill leaned forward in his chair, his forearms resting along the edge of the table, his fingers interwoven. His cold blue eyes bored into James’, keeping direct eye contact as he asked each question. James suddenly felt very small, like a field mouse under the gaze of a hungry red-tailed hawk.

“Please state your full name.”

“James Thomas Taylor,” James answered

“Are you aware that you have the right to demand a lawyer at any time during this interrogation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And are you in here of your own free will?”

“Yes, sir.”

Greg had warned James that Bill was a little informal with his interrogations, but so far everything seemed formal enough.

“Could you explain what happened on the morning of November 2, 2001?”

James told the entire story of that horrible morning. He told Bill how he had left early in the morning to pick up some parts in Beaumont. He mentioned he had warned Angie about the dreams he’d been having and told her that she shouldn’t let anyone in the house. He mentioned that he had asked Greg to pass by the house while he was gone. Then he told the sheriff about nodding off and catching a glimpse of his front door and how he had sped back through town and arrived to find his wife and son dead.

While James talked, Bill listened. His eyes continued to bore into James. His expression never changed, not even at the mention of James’ dreams. No emotion was visible, not belief, not disbelief, not even a hint of sympathy as James mentioned finding his wife and child brutally murdered. Every now and then Bill would ask a simple question: Did she always wake up that early? Was there a certain time Deputy O’Brien was supposed to come by? About how long do you think you were gone from the house? But other than this Bill remained quiet and expressionless.

“Everything is a little hazy after that,” James finished, quite proud of himself for not bursting into tears at having to recall the horrible night.

“Do you recall shooting Deputy O’Brien?”

“Vaguely, yes.”

“So you do admit that it was you who shot Deputy O’Brien?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bill broke his gaze from James for the first time in the interview and jotted down some notes on the notebook. He checked a clock on the wall and made a note of it. James realized what he had said would probably be considered a confession in a court of law; not that he’d ever denied the fact. Still, it made him nervous.

“Do y'all want anything to drink? We’ve got coffee, water, and a coke machine in the lobby,” Bill asked, although his voice sounded as if this was an official question, not one of courtesy.

“No, thanks,” Greg answered.

“No, sir,” James answered at the same time.

Bill pressed the intercom button on the phone. “Debra, could you bring me some coffee?” They sat in silence for about thirty seconds, then someone knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Debra Duncan, the daytime dispatcher as well as Bill’s secretary, entered the room. She was a well-dressed middle-aged woman with dyed black hair. She handed Bill his coffee.

“There you go, Bill,” Debra said in a sweet voice.

“Thank you,” Bill said, and Debra turned and left.

Bill took a long drink, then returned to his former position. “Now tell me what happened early this morning, November tenth.”

James told the story, starting with when he decided to go home. He mentioned that his medication had made him sleep heavier, and he didn’t have the dreams while he was on it. But, as soon as he’d stopped taking it, he had the dream of the creature at Mr. Youngblood’s house. He managed to wake himself, go immediately to the house, but he arrived too late. However, he did mention that he thought he had just missed the beast because of the dog he heard yelp in the back when he arrived.

Again, while James talked, Bill listened. His eyes never shifted away from James’. He asked a few more simple questions during the story: What type of medication was it? Who was the doctor who prescribed the medication? Was Mr. Youngblood’s door unlocked when you got there? Did you see any movement behind the house?

“All right,” Bill said, averting his eyes long enough to jot down some notes and take a sip of coffee. “Can you explain why you were out at Sharon Perrett’s place on October twenty-ninth, the day after she was killed?”

“Yes, sir. I saw that thing kill her horse and her the next night. I wanted to take a look around to see if I could find some tracks or anything left behind by whatever it was that killed Mrs. Perrett and her horse.”

“Did you find anything?”

“The rain had washed away most of the tracks outside and I didn’t have time to look inside the barn, but I did find some near the barn’s outside wall. Strange tracks — they almost looked human, except for the long claws.”