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Special Agent Beckett Sanders
A tired yawn tries to leave my body, but I force myself to hold back. Mind over matter, never show them your weaknesses. Let him think I’ve got all the energy I need to keep this going forever while he slowly starts to reach his limits.
It’s been a non-stop interrogation ever since we took Remington Ashburn into custody. Well, I took him into custody. I took it upon myself, certainly when it came out he lied about not having seen Felicia Lanster. He keeps claiming that he hasn’t seen her, or at least is not aware of having seen her. He didn’t even know she was back on the West Coast. But five times? That’s too coincidental. Everything about this man seems off. He gives me a certain feeling that lets me know things are bad. And I can always trust my gut.
“Where were you on the night of the second?” I ask him again. It’s a question we’ve been over again and again.
He holds his head in his hands while his elbows rest on the table. His voice is flat; he’s tired. This would be the point in the interrogation where he breaks. “I told you, like, at least fifteen times already. I was home, I went out back and I chopped wood, then I watched a movie on Netflix.”
“What movie?” I ask, even though I’ve asked him just as many times already.
“Red Notice,” he answers again. His answer has been the same every time. But he’s smart. We’ve had our team check out his Netflix activity, and it checks out, but that doesn’t mean he was at home while the movie was on. Just like his phone being in the house doesn’t mean he was in the house.
“I fell asleep after the movie, because of the wood chopping and being tired.”
That’s another thing he keeps repeating, but it seems a little too coincidental if you ask me. He’s been texting nonstop with Abby, but that night there were no texts to prove he was in his house with the phone. I don’t believe in coincidences.
“Mighty unhandy story. There’s nothing we can check,” I say, trying to get him to say more. Something, anything we can get, just to see if what he says checks out. But he doesn’t say anything new. He just sticks to his story.
“You don’t say. I just love being stuck in here with you, without anything to say or do to prove I’m innocent. Don’t you think that if I could magically make a few witnesses appear so they can prove my innocence, I would?”
“There is nobody to magically appear, because you were somewhere else, doing something you shouldn’t be doing, and now another woman is dead.” My voice stays calm and flat, just like I’m taught.
His blue eyes look up at me from beneath his dark lashes, and there’s a mixture of anger and fatigue there. He’s a good actor. I wonder if he used ruses to get close to the women he took. He’s used to being on a stage, used to giving a show. Lying should come naturally to him. He uses his body to sell stories. I can see him using it right now.
That’s how he got close to Abby too. She really did not want to see what was obviously happening. To admit that the man she chose to be with turned out to be the man that was taunting her, the man we were hunting. When push came to shove, she saw though. The look on her face when her mind finally gave in will be stuck with me for a long time.
I’ve had bad news conversations with plenty of people. Told mothers their kids had died. Told men their wives would not be coming home ever again. I get more skilled every time I have to do it, but it never gets easier. Tearing down Abby’s belief in the man sitting in front of me was somehow harder.
Something about her makes it difficult to keep my professional distance. At least I was able to keep enough distance to see Remy for who he really is. The time. The killer. He wrapped his hands around the necks of twelve women and squeezed until the life went out of them.
“How much do you remember, Isaac?” I ask him, provoking him, seeing if I can make his dark side come out to play.
“Isaac?” he asks, his brows furrowed as he sits back in his chair. “Who’s that?”
“Well, it’s you. You just don’t remember, do you? You just remember your mother and how she was murdered.”
“The only one that murdered my mother was my mother. Or maybe her job. Or the law. Anyway, she had a massive heart attack last year and died. Nobody murdered her. What the hell are you trying to sell me?” He’s breathing loudly through his nose and his teeth are grinding. His eyes are harsh, breaking through the facade of the kind man that Remington Ashburn pretends to be.
The door to the interrogation room opens and Winny walks in, opening the door with her back. She has a cup of something and a bag of chips in her hands. She beckons me to step out of the room, and walks inside to give Remy the food and beverage. I’d love to deny him those things, but he has basic rights and I guess it works with the whole good-cop bad-cop routine Winny and I have going on. So far, we’re lucky he hasn’t called in an attorney. That would make this interrogation even more difficult.
“Eat up, drink up,” Winny says with a warmth in her voice I wouldn’t be able to replicate. Then her eyes fall on me. “Need you for a sec.”
She doesn’t give me the chance to answer her before she opens the door for me and waits for me to follow her. I don’t exactly want to leave the room, but I know better than to fight her in front of Remington Ashburn. We at least need to look like a united front. When I follow her into the hallway, the door closes and we end up in the adjourning room, where we can observe what Remy is doing. He’s drinking whatever it is that Winny gave him, looking tired and disturbed while he combs his hand through his dark hair.
“What did you get him to drink?” I ask my partner, who is looking at Ashburn through the two–way mirror.
“Coffee. I figured that at the rate you keep poking him, he would need it.” She sounds condescending. She’s still not as sold on him being the serial killer as I am.
“He’ll mess up,” I grumble, taking out my phone, but there’s nothing to see.
“Or he’s innocent.”
My eyes find hers and she’s as calm as a cat. It’s the way she usually is, she loves the paperwork, the research, the thrill. Me? I need to move. Get out there. Follow the trail. We’ve both got each other’s backs and complement one another, but we’re vastly different people.
“What makes you so sure he’s innocent? The evidence says differently.” My hands are balled to fists because she refuses to see what I see.
“No,” she says while she gives me a look, which I know means trouble. “The evidence is telling us there’s nothing there to exonerate him, not that he’s guilty. And what makes me so sure is my motherly instinct.”
I scoff. “You’re not even the one who’s carrying your baby, Winny. Caroline is the one who’s pregnant, not you.”
“I’m still developing motherly instincts.”
“That’s no reason not to think he’s innocent.”
“Neither is your gut feeling a reason to think he’s guilty!” She’s getting riled up now, her cheeks flushed and her shoulders tense. Are pregnancy hormones a thing when it’s your wife who’s pregnant?
I sigh. “You didn’t get me a coffee too?”
“No.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re mad at me?”
“Because I am.”
I give her a pained look. I get that I went around her when I arrested him, but I still one hundred percent believe I’m right. I’m too tired for this, but I make myself get up to go back in and ask some more questions. He seemed genuinely surprised when I called him Isaac. Was that because it made him remember something?
Winny sees she’s losing me, and puts a hand on my arm. “Don’t,” she says, “stay here for a moment.”
“Why?”
“Because you should let him stew for a bit. See if he gets back in the second round with more spirit or if he stays as defeated as he is now. If he’s truly innocent, this is the part where he starts to lose hope. If he’s not, he’ll be more spunky next time you talk to him.”
I let myself fall on the table right behind me. She’s kind of right. My face must be showing as much, because suddenly she seems cockier than before. I roll my eyes at her.
The wonderful thing about being a profiler is that we understand each other without words.
My phone pings and I grab it to see that I’ve received a text from Abby. I feel something lift inside my chest, the corner of my mouth pulls up unwillingly. I don’t open it.
“Abby?” Winny asks innocently.
The absolute worst thing about being a profiler is that we understand each other without words. My lack of an answer tells her everything.
“What does she want?”
“Don’t know, haven’t read it yet.”
“You should ask her to come over. See how he responds to her. If he’s truly the serial killer, he won’t be able to hide his interest in her. If he gets pissed or acts betrayed, I’m willing to bet he’s innocent. All-in on the latter, by the way.”
She gets up and walks to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Getting you a cup of coffee.”
“I thought you were mad at me?” I ask in confusion.
“I was. I still am. But the look on your face when you got that text explains a lot about why Remington Ashburn is in custody and why I am right.”
I furrow my brow.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
She fucking smirks at me. “Figure it out on your own, Mister Hotshot FBI agent.”
No fucking idea what she means and I don’t care to examine it further. I understand other people and criminal behavior, but I’ve never been one to do some soul searching. Winny does. She understands herself better than anyone. She understands mebetter than anyone. She usually tells me some kind of crap about it having something to do with her connection to nature and being more grounded. Grabbing my phone again, I open the text I got earlier.
Abby: You really, really sure?
Me: Really sure. Come over and see for yourself? Bring hackerboy if you have to.
Abby: Hackerboy. I think that’s going to be his new nickname next time he hacks the FBI.
Me: Looking forward to it.
Abby: We’ll be there in thirty.
My heart starts beating faster when I read that last text. I comb my hand through my hair, pocket my phone again and grab a chair to sit down and observe my suspect from the other side of the two-way mirror for a while.
Looks like Remington Ashburn will get another thirty minutes to stew. Then we’ll have a little social experiment to solidify my hypothesis.