Josh Lanyon - The Mermaid Murders

So it was with shock he heard Kennedy say, “I think it’s time for a field trip to MCI Cedar Junction. I think we need to talk to Martin Pink. Let’s have a chat with the Huntsman.”

Chapter Ten

Though both manacled and shackled, the bald and bearded man seated at the stainless-steel table in the prison interrogation room looked like a real and present danger. Pink had bulked up during his years of incarceration. He was not tall, but he was all muscle, and despite the chains and cuffs, he exuded a confidence that was frankly disturbing given how much time he had spent in solitary confinement.

What really disturbed Jason was how much he wanted to walk into that room and bash Pink’s head against the table until his brains poured out. He had not expected such a violent reaction to seeing him again. Not expected to feel this level of hatred. He despised violence. He believed he was smarter than that, better than that. A civilized man. After seeing Martin Pink in the flesh again—he knew just how thin the veneer of civilization was.

He let out a slow, calming breath and nodded. The prison guard opened the heavy steel door, and Jason walked into the eight-by-ten well-insulated room.

Pink was smirking. “Long time no se—” He broke off. His smirk vanished. “Who the hell are you?”

“Special Agent West.” Jason took the chair across the table from Pink.

“Where’s Kennedy?”

Fair question. Kennedy was talking to the prison shrink. For reasons known only to himself, he had decided Jason would be the one to interview Pink. At least, that was the story. Maybe he was on the other side of all that surveillance equipment positioned out of Pink’s line of vision, waiting to see some sign Jason actually was, as Boxner had suggested, Pink’s disciple.

As ludicrous as the thought was, it bothered Jason. He forced himself to concentrate on Pink, unemotionally taking in the shaved head and silver goatee. Pale, dead eyes and a cupid’s bow of a mouth. At least Pink had received proper dental care in prison.

Jason said, “I work with Senior Special Agent Kennedy.”

Pink glared. “I don’t care if you’re Special Agent Fox Mulder. I agreed to talk to Kennedy. Nobody else.”

“Kennedy’s busy.”

Pink’s lips parted as though he was stunned. After a second, he said, “He’s afraid to face me.”

“Yeah. You got him cold,” Jason said. “He’s terrified.” He opened his file.

Pink didn’t like that. “I’m not talking to a piss-ant junior G-man. I’ll talk to Kennedy and nobody else.”

“Then you’ll talk to nobody.” Jason slapped shut his file, rose, and signaled to the guard.

Pink eyed him in open disbelief.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Jason said.

Please change your mind. I can’t walk out of this room without something…anything…you asshole…

Pink’s expression grew derisive. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Bah-bye,” he drawled.

Jason walked to the reinforced steel door. The guard buzzed Open.

Shit . It had taken him all of two minutes to blow this opportunity. Kennedy was going to nail his hide to the wall. And Jason didn’t blame him.

Maybe Pink would back down?

There was only silence from the other side of the room.

Jason strode out. The door closed behind him with a heavy and final-sounding slam.

Kennedy, finally turning up after his meeting with Dr. Fuchs, took it well.

Surprisingly well, in Jason’s opinion. Had he anticipated this outcome?

“All right. Don’t sweat it. Let’s get something to eat,” Kennedy said. “We’ll figure it out over lunch.”

They found a diner a safe distance from the prison and ordered burgers and soft drinks.

“At least Fuchs isn’t a complete bleeding heart,” Kennedy said, as they waited for their meals. “He doesn’t like solitary confinement on principle, but he’s not kicking in Pink’s case.”

“I can’t think of a better place for Pink than isolation,” Jason said.

“He seems to have hit a nerve with you.”

A nerve? Yeah, Pink had hit a nerve. He had murdered someone Jason loved. But the last thing he wanted to do was confirm any ideas Kennedy might have as to his ability to remain objective and impartial.

The waitress brought their soft drinks. Ginger ale for Kennedy and Coke for Jason. Jason peeled the paper off his straw and said, “So according to Fuchs there isn’t any chance Pink might have formed a friendship with another inmate who was subsequently released?”

“No. Not a chance. Pink is in that cell twenty-three hours a day.” Kennedy was definite. “The only time he’s not is when he’s escorted to the shower or to exercise outside in that human kennel with the other lifers. What we can’t be equally sure of is how much contact he has with the world beyond the prison gates.”

In theory he had zero contact—aside from radio, television, and curated reading material. In practice, guards could be bribed and messages could be secretly transmitted through a variety of methods and mediums.

“Is he allowed visitors?” Jason asked.

“He’s permitted two visits a month from family members.”

“Does he have family members?”

“No.”

They paused while the waitress deposited the thick white plates topped with burgers and fries in front of them. She asked if they needed anything else. Kennedy requested mustard and ketchup. Jason requested ranch dressing for his french fries.

Drinks were refilled, the condiments were delivered, and Kennedy said as though there had been no interruption, “He’s also allowed two phone calls a month.”

“Does anyone call?”

“Yes. His fiancée, Coral Nunn, and—”

“ His fiancée ?”

Kennedy said through a mouthful of burger, “She was a student involved in one of these Innocence Project organizations.”

“Why the hell would they waste their time on someone like Martin Pink?”

Kennedy swallowed hastily, cleared his throat, and said, “Clarification. Her class did not take on Pink’s case, but that’s how they met. Although met is not exactly the right term. They do correspond, and she does phone him.”

“He raped and murdered seven teenage girls.”

Kennedy’s brows drew together. He said, “I know. But everyone in this restaurant doesn’t need to.”

Jason glanced at the astonished faces in the booth across from their table, and grimaced in apology. “Right. I just can’t believe—”

“Yes you can. You had all the psych classes. You know it happens. Hybristophilia . Also known as Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome.”

Yes, Jason did know. Every serial killer seemed to have some woman who loved him—though usually not the one he was married to before his crimes were discovered.

Kennedy said, “He also gets the occasional call from a doctor in Boston. Doctor Jeremy Kyser.”

“Never heard of him. What’s his field of medicine?”

“He seems to be a psychologist. He’s working on a book about the brains of serial killers.”

“Why is he allowed contact with Pink?”

Kennedy said mildly, “Presumably because the more we know about the brains of serial killers, the safer we’ll all be.” He took another large bite of his burger.

Jason dunked his skinny fries in the ranch dressing and brooded. He admitted finally, “I didn’t play it right. I didn’t play him right. I should have buttered him up, appealed to his worser nature.”

Kennedy studied him. “Not necessarily. It’s what he’d expect, yes. What he would look for. He’s going to want to talk. He’s been waiting to talk for ten years. I think he’ll take what he can get. Unless he thinks you were bluffing.”