Ken Follett - the Third Twin (1996)

“Okay, sweetie,” he said, putting on a martyred air. “I understand.”

She looked at him. In the end, when the turmoil of shame and anger and pity died down, all she felt was longing. She wished with all her heart that he could take care of himself, could stay in one place more than a few weeks, could hold down a normal job, could be loving and supportive and stable. She yearned for a father who would be a father. And she knew she would never, ever have her wish. There was a place in her heart for a father, and it would always be empty.

The phone rang.

Jeannie picked it up. “Hello.”

It was Lisa, sounding upset. “Jeannie, it was him!”

“Who? What?”

“That guy they arrested with you. I picked him out of the lineup. He’s the one that raped me. Steven Logan.”

“He’s the rapist?” Jeannie said incredulously. “Are you sure?”

‘There’s no doubt, Jeannie,” Lisa said. “Oh, my God, it was horrible seeing his face again. I didn’t say anything at first, because he looked different with no hat. Then the detective made them all put on baseball caps, and I knew for certain sure.”

“Lisa, it can’t be him,” Jeannie said.

“What do you mean?”

“His tests are all wrong. And I spent time with him, I have a feeling.”

“But I recognized him.” Lisa sounded annoyed.

“I’m amazed. I can’t understand it.”

“This spoils your theory, doesn’t it? You wanted one twin to be good and the other bad.”

“Yes. But one counterexample doesn’t disprove a theory.”

“I’m sorry if you feel your project is threatened by this.”

“That’s not the reason I’m saying it’s not him.” Jeannie sighed. “Hell, maybe it is. I don’t know anymore. Where are you now?”

“At home.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, now that he’s locked up in jail.”

“He seems so nice.”

“They’re the worst kind, Mish told me. The ones that seem perfectly normal on the surface are the cleverest and most ruthless, and they enjoy making women suffer.”

“My God.”

“I’m going to bed, I’m exhausted. I just wanted to tell you. How was your evening?”

“So-so. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

“I still want to go to Richmond with you.”

Jeannie had planned to take Lisa to help her interview Dennis Pinker. “Do you feel up to it?”

“Yes, I really want to go on living a normal life. I’m, not sick, I don’t need to convalesce.”

“Dennis Pinker will probably be Steve Logan’s double.”

“I know. I can handle it.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’ll call you early.”

“Okay. Good night.”

Jeannie sat down heavily. Could Steven’s engaging nature be no more than a mask? I must be a bad judge of character if that’s so, she thought. And maybe a bad scientist too: perhaps all identical twins will turn out to be identically criminal. She sighed.

Her own criminal ancestry sat beside her. “That professor is a nice-looking guy, but he must be older than me!” he said. “You having a thing with him, or what?”

Jeannie wrinkled her nose. “The bathroom’s through there, Daddy,” she said.

13

STEVE WAS BACK IN THE INTERROGATION ROOM WITH THE yellow walls. The same two cigarette butts were still in the ashtray. The room had not changed, but he had. Three hours ago he had been a law-abiding citizen, innocent of any crime worse than driving at sixty in a fifty-five zone. Now he was a rapist, arrested and identified by the victim and accused. He was in the justice machine, on the conveyor. He was a criminal. No matter how often he reminded himself that he had done nothing wrong, he could not shake the feeling of worthlessness and ignominy.

Earlier he had seen the woman detective, Sergeant Delaware. Now the other one, the man, came in, also carrying a blue folder. He was Steve’s height but much broader and heavier, with iron gray hair cut short and a bristling mustache. He sat down and took out a pack of cigarettes. Without speaking, he tapped out a cigarette, lit it, and dropped the match in the ashtray. Then he opened the folder. Inside was yet another form. This one was headed

DISTRICT COURT OF MARYLAND

FOR (City/County)

The top half was divided into two columns headed COMPLAINANTand DEFENDANT. A little lower down it said

STATEMENT OF CHARGES

The detective began to fill out the form, still without speaking. When he had written a few words he lifted the white top sheet and checked each of four attached carbon copies: green, yellow, pink, and tan.

Reading upside down, Steve saw that the victim’s name was Lisa Margaret Hoxton. “What’s she like?” he said.

The detective looked at him. “Shut the fuck up,” he said. He drew on his cigarette and continued writing.

Steve felt demeaned. The man was abusing him and he was powerless to do anything about it. It was another stage in the process of humiliating him, making him feel insignificant and helpless. You bastard, he thought, I’d like to meet you outside of this building, without your damn gun.

The detective began filling in the charges. In box number one he wrote Sunday’s date, then “at Jones Falls University gymnasium, Balto., MD.” Below he wrote, “Rape, 1st degree.” In the next box he put the place and date again, then “Assault with intent to rape.”

He picked up a continuation sheet and added two more charges: “Battery” and “Sodomy.”

“Sodomy?” Steve said in surprise.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Steve was ready to punch him out. This is deliberate, he told himself. The guy wants to provoke me. If I throw a punch at him, he has an excuse to call three other guys in here to hold me down while he kicks the shit out of me. Don’t do it, don’t do it.

When he finished writing, the detective turned the two forms around and pushed them across the table at Steve. “You’re in bad trouble, Steve. You’ve beaten and raped and sodomized a girl—”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Steve bit his lip and remained silent.

“You’re scum. You’re shit. Decent people don’t even want to be in the same room as you. You’ve beaten and raped and sodomized a girl. I know it’s not the first time. You’ve been doing it awhile. You’re sly, and you plan, and you’ve always got away with it in the past. But this time you’ve been caught. Your victim has identified you. Other witnesses place you near the scene at the time. In an hour or so, just as soon as Sergeant Delaware has gotten a search or seizure warrant from the court commissioner on duty, we’re going to take you over to Mercy Hospital and do a blood test and comb through your pubic hair and show that your DNA matches what we found in the victim’s vagina.”

“How long does that take—the DNA test?”

“Shut the fuck up. You’re nailed, Steve. Do you know what’s going to happen to you?”

Steve said nothing.

“The penalty for first-degree rape is life imprisonment. You’re going to jail, and you know what’s going to happen there? You’re going to get a taste of what you’ve been dishing out. A good-looking youngster like you? No problem. You’re going to be beaten and raped and sodomized. You’re going to find out how Lisa felt. Only in your case it will go on for years and years and years.”

He paused, picked up the cigarette packet, and offered it to Steve.

Surprised, Steve shook his head.

“By the way, I’m Detective Brian Allaston.” He lit a cigarette. “I really don’t know why I’m telling you this, but there is a way you can make it better for yourself.”