Open Season (Alex Delaware #40)

Chapter 49

Chapter

49

I left my car at the station and the two of us drove east of downtown to the Men’s Central Jail on Bauchet Street. Forty-minute ride from West L.A. Five minutes from the Coroner’s on Mission Road, which is efficient.

Before we got out, Milo said, “Anything else you want to tell me?”

“Nope.”

“Just be aware that his world revolves around his self-image as brilliant.”

“Exactly. He’ll likely insult our intelligence and try to control the situation with insults and erudite vocabulary.”

“Got it,” he said. “Duh.”

—

It had been a while since I’d been at the jail but the procedure hadn’t changed.

Check in, leave your I.D., stash any weapons in a locker—in this case, Milo’s Glock.

That completed, a Sheriff’s deputy named Ortiz met us on the other side of a sally port and guided us up the elevator to a stale-smelling hallway and finally to an interview room where a second deputy named Coolidge stood guard.

Ortiz left and Coolidge let us into a stingy, windowless space that would never recover from decades of human stink.

Cameron Flick sat behind a small steel table screwed to the floor. His right hand was chained to a heavy eyebolt welded to the table’s side.

His red uniform signaled High Risk. So did the H on his red wristband. Below that, K1, for “Keep him away from everyone else.”

His free hand flicked the blood-colored fabric. “Not my best hue but good taste is in dire shortage here.”

We sat down facing him. Coolidge said, “I’ll be right outside.”

“Superfluous announcement,” said Cameron Flick. “If you know what that means.”

Coolidge remained stoic and left, closing the door behind him.

Flick said, “Good riddance to maladaptive detritus.”

—

He’d shaved off his beard, ended up with a pale, doughy, soft-around-the-edges baby face blotched in places by pink razor rash.

I thought about him wielding a razor in his cell as I studied him.

Just a face. Like his eyes, unremarkable.

Sometimes you see the same kind of countenance in old photos of young Nazi storm troopers making their way through the streets of Munich or Berlin.

The monster concealed within.

Camouflaged like the weapon Flick had used to slaughter half a dozen people.

Milo said, “You wanted to talk to us.”

“To you. Who’s he?”

“Alex Delaware.”

He looked me up and down and shrugged. Eager to clarify how little my presence meant to him. Returned his attention to Milo.

“So,” he said, “you must be quite pleased with yourself. With the erudition you acquired learning about me in the course of your so-called investigation.”

“I’m pleased you’re in here and not shooting people.”

Flick nodded. “Of course you’d see it in a narrow perspective. I’ve summoned you here for some corrective education.”

“You’re going to tutor me.”

Flick smiled. “The first thing you need to know is that I’ll be representing myself in court. All the supposed experts say it’s foolhardy but I’ve learned that following my own instincts works best.”

Milo said, “The court will assign you a lawyer as backup.”

“Whom I will utterly ignore.”

Milo crossed his legs.

Flick said, “Relaxing your posture in order to tell me you’re not concerned. Pathetic attempt at insouciance.”

“What would I be concerned about, Cameron?”

“My getting acquitted.”

I smiled. Milo laughed.

Flick said, “Expected response. Again, constricted by lack of imagination.”

“You murdered a lot of people, Cameron.”

“Expected response. Tell me, do you enjoy parades?”

“Not particularly.”

Flick smirked. “Even pride parades?”

Winking. I’ve done research on you.

Milo’s failure to react made Flick blink.

He repeated the question. Vocally twisting the word “pride.”

Milo said, “Even them.”

“I doubt that but now you’re reaching for the un expected response,” said Flick. “Well, putting that aside, a lot of people do enjoy parades. And who’s often honored at a parade?”

“A hero.”

“A military hero. And what did that military hero do to garner admiration?”

Milo said, “You want me to say he killed a lot of people.”

“It’s not a matter of what I want,” said Flick. “It’s a fact. Heroes are mass murderers who get to ride in parade floats.”

“You see yourself as a war hero.”

“Why wouldn’t I? Just like good old G.I. Joe, I eliminate bad people.”

“Whitney Killeen—”

“Was in danger of destroying a family.”

“So it was time for cruel to be kind.”

“Are you being dense to annoy me or have we simply reached the limits of your education-starved imagination? Pay attention: Nothing separates heinous from heroic other than intent.”

“Leaving a two-year-old in a boat next to his mother’s corpse was heroic.”

Flick lifted a free index finger into the air and waved it. “The ultimate expected response. I don’t need to explain myself to you but I will. That child was never in danger. I observed him closely and had, in fact, every intent to rescue him when a nosy neighbor showed up and simplified matters.”

“Meanwhile, he’s next to his mom’s bloody corpse.”

“Not an issue,” said Flick. “Memories registered that early inevitably fade.”

“Do they.”

“If you knew your child psychology, you wouldn’t even raise the issue.”

“Thought you were a mathematician.”

“I am, indeed,” said Flick, “but that doesn’t preclude my acquiring knowledge in other fields. In fact, it enhances it. Mathematics engenders an overall sense of intellectual inquisitiveness and creative problem solving and is the undisputed ruler of academia.”

“You’re interested in the world.”

“In the meaningful aspects of the world.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t expect you to fully grasp it,” said Flick. “But once you’re out of here, give it some thought and you may glean a bit of insight.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” said Milo.

“So,” said Flick, “you’re undoubtedly wondering why I’ve summoned you.”

Milo said nothing.

Flick said, “That’s not going to work, you’re curious and showing it. And let me emphasize that I use the term intentionally. Summoned. I called, you arrived, obedient as a trained poodle. With a sidekick so you can appear more authoritative but that does nothing to alter the basics.”

Dismissive smile in my direction. I was ready for it and had looked away.

Flick frowned. “Would you care to ask?”

Milo said, “Ask what?”

“Why I’ve summoned you?”

“This isn’t a game, Cameron. If you have something to say, say it. If not, see you at trial.”

“Now that you mention it,” said Flick. “ That’s why you’re here. To become educated about the trial. I’m putting you on my list as a defense witness and thought it would be a gracious notion to inform you so that you can prepare your testimony.”

“You want me to be on your side.”

Flick said, “It’s not a matter of what I want. It’s what will transpire. You’ll be on the defense list and that fact will be noted. Once you’ve parroted the prosecution case as their unsurprising pawn, I’ll have my way with you and get to the core.”

Licking his lips on “have my way.”

Milo said, “Ah.”

“Milo, Milo, Milo,” said Flick, “you can posture all you like but you will help me, despite yourself. Here’s why: A. You’re more aware than any juror of my intentions and we will explore that in great detail. Including the heroism/criminal dichotomy I’ve just cited. B. You’re aware of the precision of my shots. A single, precisely placed bullet that managed to sever the carotid artery, the jugular vein, and the trachea. A triumph of marksmanship aimed—pun intended—on reducing needless pain.”

Milo said, “You engaged in humane slaughter.”

“If you must,” said Cameron Flick. “But that’s selling me short. Not far from where I grew up there was a slaughterhouse. Cows and bulls dispatched daily so the world could have burgers. When the wind was right, their lowing and moaning could be heard for miles. Traveling along with the stink.”

Another lip-lick. Violence and sexuality melded early.

“As a child, I’d go over there to catch a glimpse of how the poor bovines were actually processed. Quite a mundane but nonetheless bloody routine. Hoisted, shackled, a shotgun shell to the skull, then the butchers would get busy with their long knives whether or not the animal’s chest was still heaving.”

Milo said, “Did that turn you into a vegetarian?”

Flick’s lips pursed. Genuinely perplexed. “Why would it? I’m merely pointing out that my military mission was maximally humane, far beyond anything offered to animals or humans. And that the targeted enemy had in every case committed a heinous act.”

“You think if you get me to say those things you’ll be acquitted.”

“If not acquitted, I’ll be offered a brief, relatively benign sentence, which my good behavior will shorten further. In the meantime, a time-limited incarceration will be easier on me than on other inmates. I’ll engage in my studies.”

“Ph.D. in math.”

“As I’ve pointed out, the apex of academia,” said Flick. “There’s no debate: Mathematicians have been shown to have the highest I.Q.’s. Higher, I might add, than the psychologists who design the I.Q. tests and undoubtedly give themselves a sizable advantage.”

“You’re a smart guy,” said Milo. “Therefore, you’ll beat the system.”

Flick grinned. “If I was a lottery ticket, Milo, you’d be wise to buy me.”

“Hmm. Parole, then finish your Ph.D.”

“Followed by a post-doctoral fellowship and eventual welcome into the tenure track of a highly ranked institution.”

“Your time behind bars—”

“Will not make a difference. Math is free of irrelevancies. That’s the beauty of it.”

“Hmm,” said Milo. “Too bad it’ll never happen.”

“Your lack of faith is comical, Milo. A few years in some minimum security will not impact—”

“I’m not talking jail, Cameron. I’m talking the Ph.D. The U. booted you out two years five months ago because you could never come up with anything close to original.”

Flick’s pale skin turned gray, the pink rash, beige. His neck tendons—cords he’d severed in other people’s necks—stood out in relief, stiff as pencils.

“You,” he said, extruding words through taut lips, “are stupid and obtuse and ludicrously in error.”

“Not claiming to be a genius, Cameron, but I’m totally on base. Not only were you kicked out of the department, you didn’t make much of an impression while you were there. I’ve spoken to several of your professors. They barely remember you.”

“That,” said Flick, “is…is…you’re blaspheming. ”

“Now you’re God?”

“God- like. The mentally gifted are. I was talking when I was ten months old. Taught myself to read at four and a half—”

“Great, Cameron. But looks like you front-loaded your smarts and reached your apex at the bachelor’s degree level. Didn’t even earn a master’s. Even a dumb guy like me could do that. M.A. in American Literature. True, it’s not math, but it’s still one degree above you.”

Flick stared. Gripped the table. Opened his mouth, clamped it shut. Produced a small oval aperture in the center of taut, nearly white lips.

“Session over!”

No response from outside the room.

Milo said, “Maybe Deputy Coolidge took your words to heart, Cameron. Superfluous, so why stick around?”

“You,” said Cameron, “are a dolt. A taurine—no, too charitable, you’re a porcine dolt. An obese, slavering, sweaty-faced porcine saurine admixture of scale and swine…and…and…”

His lips continued working but nothing came out. Something choking internally.

Unable to come up with more words, he began shaking. Banged a left fist on the table, so hard it had to hurt.

“Session over!”

Milo said, “So there you have it, Cameron. I may be a dolt but I’m a dolt with a master’s. Which you don’t have. But let’s put that aside and talk about Alex here. He’s got a Ph.D.”

Flick gaped. “Right.”

“This is Dr. Alex Delaware, our consulting psychologist. Didn’t you get your Ph.D. from the U.?”

I nodded.

“Same place that had no use for you, Cameron. How old were you, Doc, when you earned your degree?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four, Cameron. Did you eventually get tenure, Doc?”

I nodded.

“How old were you when you got tenure?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Hear that, Cameron? Tenure at thirty-two, which is just around your age, isn’t that something. Dr. Delaware earns tenure and you can’t even—”

Flick’s body shot upward. His shackled hand yanked him down on his right side and he ended up standing in a lopsided, crab-like position.

“Smart is as smart does, Cam. You’re here because you’re stupid.”

“Session over! Over-over-over-over-over!”

The door opened. Slowly. Deputy Coolidge peeked in, then stood back for a second as Flick continued to pound and shriek.

“Everything okay?” he asked Milo.

“Someone’s having a rough morning.”

“Looks like it. Okay, you shut up or I’ll call the medics and they’ll inject something in you.”

Cameron Flick shouted, “Sess—” then stopped himself and stared at each of us in turn.

“You fixin’ to behave yourself?” said Coolidge. “The least bit of trouble and it’s Thorazine or whatever.”

Flick said nothing.

Coolidge said, “I need a response.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“I’m fine.”

“Better be,” said Coolidge. To us: “Have a good one, Loo. You, too, Doc.”

Milo said, “You as well, Twan.”

“?’Bout as good as it can be taking care of idiots.”

Cameron Flick shuddered.

Coolidge said, “Don’t start or you will get injected.”

Flick’s face seemed to melt.

As we left, he said, “Don’t think it’s over.” But in a new, pitiful voice.

—

Outside the jail, Milo said, “What do you think he meant by that?”

“Empty threat,” I said. “He’s pretty much torn down.”

“Think he will subpoena me?”

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter. He’s delusional.”

“Hey,” he said. “Keep your voice down, just in case his next lawyer’s around here.”

No one in sight but for two deputies returning to the jail. Fronting the building was a dirt patch in which a few gray-green shrubs struggled to survive. I went over and pretended to search behind them.

“Nope, coast is clear.”

He laughed. “Time to ditch my own delusions, huh?”