Chapter 11
SITTING IN THE DIMLY LIT, murky isolation of a cell isn’t that bad.
He sort of relishes the slowly shifting shadows that settle in the space, comforting him like a blanket.
He never liked to be around a lot of people anyway; he always thrived in the stillness of solitude.
Whenever the cage gets locked, when they clang the door shut each time they throw him inside, they expect him to panic, but instead he retreats inside himself and feeds a growing, twisted strength that is beginning to blossom.
Where others would wither and die, he gets better.
He hits play and the opening notes of “Head Over Heels” by Tears for Fears begins to pump into his ears.
He’s learned to let music take him somewhere else.
He may not mind the isolation, but he struggles with the complete lack of control.
They tell him when to sleep, when to wake, when to eat, and when to piss.
It’s a constant battle of wills that he never intended to enter.
Being herded around like a sheep is a uniquely disarming torture that only children, the infirm, and prisoners are forced to experience.
It’s just another way life is cruelly cyclical in nature, throwing you screaming into the world in a diaper and ending you the same way more or less.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see one of the guards standing outside his cell’s bars. This facility was around for the invention of the wheel, and although the bars have likely been updated a few times, they remain laughably ineffective.
“Hey, Jimmy,” he says out loud, not turning to face the guard. He sways to the music, feeling the piano chords deep in his chest.
Jimmy unlocks the door, gesturing for him to get up.
“Visitors are here,” he says.
Jeremy smiles, finishing out the song before standing and tossing the player onto his mattress.
He knew it would immediately unnerve his guests to see him in the hectic visitation room ahead of their arrival, so he greased a palm or two to make sure he got there early. Seated in the cramped space, he can hear a snippet of their conversation as the door opens.
“Trust me, we do it all the—” Leroux’s sentence is cut short as they walk through the doorway and see Jeremy Rose already waiting for them.
He stops talking, and Wren’s eyes follow his gaze, landing right on Jeremy.
Leroux instantly looks irritated, but Wren looks surprised.
Jeremy knows that is the key to maintaining the upper hand.
During their last visit, her discomfort was evident in her hand-wringing and the nervous way she tapped her foot under the table.
In the beginning of the conversation, he stays quiet. He wants to see how far it pushes them. They ask about Philip Trudeau and the prints again. When they steer their line of questioning toward the Kingsborough Police Department, he can’t stay silent any longer.
“They’ll protect him to the bitter end,” he says.
Leroux pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh, he speaks,” he says sarcastically. “Protect who, now?”
“Are you saying the police department is protecting Trudeau?” Wren asks.
Jeremy nods. “There’s my smart girl.”
He grins at her, and she does her best to look disgusted, but it isn’t convincing. She’s acting again, putting on a show for him.
“What are they protecting him from?” Leroux asks.
“Discovery,” Jeremy answers, still looking at Wren.
“Because he’s committed crimes?” Leroux is exasperated, which is the intended outcome. “Come on, Confucius. Give us a complete thought, or I’ll talk to someone about giving you a special cellmate.”
Jeremy shrugs. “I’ve probably had worse.” He leans far back in his chair.
Both Leroux and Wren sigh.
“I’ve had enough,” she says, pushing away from the table.
Jeremy watches them act as if they are unbothered, as if they don’t have any idea about Philip Trudeau’s secrets.
Just as they are about to stand to leave, Jeremy says loudly, “They’re never going to find what they need in Kingsborough. He’s made sure of that.”
He watches as a look of intrigue cracks through Wren’s imperfectly crafted mask.
“Nice try. I ain’t buying whatever it is you’re trying to sell here,” Leroux says, clearly trying to bait him.
They came in with an agenda: Nail Philip.
He shivers with pleasure at the thought of their desperation.
They clearly don’t have any real evidence against the good pastor; this interview is just a ploy to ascertain the knowledge that only Jeremy possesses.
There is something delicious in that fact, and he can feel the dynamic shift in the room, the glittery sheen of power suddenly clinging to him like a cloak.
It’s all about chaos now. He can still create a mess from inside a cage.
His whole life, he had always put in the work to turn the world upside down.
Now he’s the puppet master pulling the strings from behind a curtain.
Just when they think he’s leading them down a path toward some answers, he will steer them into more darkness, more unknown.
Nothing pisses off a control freak more than using their weakness to humiliate them.
He can just imagine what they feel like on the other side, assuming he will hold their hands through their own investigation. Humiliation comes from such reckless assumptions, and he is prepared to serve it up cold.
He’ll play into their games, pretending he won’t lead them astray. Although, he is a little offended by how much they’re underestimating his ability to catch on to nuance here. “You know he’ll kill again, right?” he asks with a bite to his voice.
Wren scoffs, clearly not wanting to play into his mind games but doing a poor job of avoiding them. “You’re boring us, Jeremy.”
He smiles, knowing he has her now. Wren doesn’t insult recklessly; she does it out of fear. She forgets that he knows her. He knew her before anyone else here did. Detective Leroux’s protective act doesn’t hold water when compared to her and Jeremy’s past together. He knows Emily. He created Wren.
He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then why don’t you tell me why you two are here?” he asks.
A heavy silence falls over the room. The only sounds they hear are muffled voices from outside the door and their own breathing.
The room is hot and claustrophobic, keeping everyone’s systems on edge.
He suspects that’s on purpose, to keep meetings brief and to discourage touching.
A lot of things in prison are designed to keep inmates docile.
Most of the dopes in here never even notice, too concerned with what’s happening only slightly past the tips of their own noses.
Very little happens by accident in this place; instead, most every interaction is the result of careful consideration. Seeing the difference is survival.
The three of them look at one another, breathing in the thick tension like noxious fumes.
It’s almost chewable, it’s so dense. He can see the atmosphere is starting to get to them, turning their stomachs and making them woozy.
They are far outside their comfort zones, sitting in a muck of manipulation and danger. But this is where he thrives.
“What is he, Jeremy? Is he a righteous man of God, or is he a killer?” Wren asks, desperation subtly seeping out of her pores like a toxin. He can almost smell it.
Silently Jeremy smiles and drags his finger across his throat as if he is slicing it open.
Wren stares back at him, her chest heaving with deep breaths. She doesn’t respond; she just looks at him, and he swears he sees real fear in her eyes, the kind he’s used to: her specific brand of fear that only he can recognize.
Leroux jumps in, trying to redirect Jeremy’s attention. “What makes you so sure he’s a killer? I mean, you did get yourself caught and dragged out of a crawl space in the guy’s basement. Maybe you just feel a little embarrassed?” he asks.
Outwardly, Leroux’s face is unbothered. He’s trying desperately to exude indifference, like he truly believes this is all bullshit.
Staring deeper into his face, into the lines that are forming across his forehead, it’s clear that it’s all an act.
Jeremy can see it. He can see the doubt in his eyes, can tell that John Leroux knows Jeremy might be leading them toward the truth.
Leroux is interested in the breadcrumbs Jeremy is leaving for him, but he can’t let on to that fact and thinks he’s doing a good job hiding it.
Jeremy can’t help but laugh. “Come on, John. Do I strike you as someone who embarrasses easily?”
“You strike me as a miserable prick,” the detective answers without skipping a beat.
The harsh indictment ignites something quick and fierce in Jeremy.
He feels the heat explode in his face, and his hands begin to tremble from adrenaline.
Breathing in deeply through his nose, he begins the process of quieting it all.
After a moment, he realizes that his smile has faded into a line, so he quickly brings it back.
He can’t show anger. He can’t show anything.
“Let’s stop all the foreplay and get to the main event, shall we?
You know as well as I do that Philip killed that whore, Detective.
” He leans forward, slapping his hands palm down on the table in front of him.
“You think that was his first time? A virgin doesn’t perform that cleanly.
” The last few words slither out of his mouth like a thinly veiled taunt.
Wren looks over at Leroux, unable to hide her growing anxiety and disgust. She breathes quickly out of her nose, short bursts of stress that are audible in this cramped space.
As he observes her closer, Jeremy can see the outline of her teeth chewing at the inside of her cheek.
She’s upset and uncomfortable, with a storm raging inside.
She’s waiting for a breakthrough, something to give her the closure for which she is so desperate.