Chapter 26 #2
The uniformed officer stepped forward to escort Hoult back to his cell. As he stood, Hoult’s gaze found Tori’s across the table. For just a moment, something flickered in his expression. Recognition, maybe, or calculation.
Then he was gone.
Tori stood and paced the length of the interview room, her sneakers squeaking against the polished concrete floor.
“How can you be so calm?” she asked Edwards, who remained seated with his hands folded on the metal table.
Edwards shrugged. “I’m used to this dance. Twenty-three years on the job teaches you patience.” He glanced at his watch. “Schmitt will be back soon, and then we’ll see what story Hoult and his attorney cook up.”
“This waiting is killing me.”
“Why don’t you go get some coffee? Clear your head before round two.”
She shook her head. “No thanks. I don’t want to miss even one moment of this interview.”
Edwards raised an eyebrow. “Then get me one. Black.”
Tori gave him a look that could have melted steel, but she headed for the door anyway.
Blade intercepted her in the hallway and fell into step beside her. “That guy doesn’t look like a serial killer to me.”
“What exactly do you think serial killers look like?”
“I don’t know. More intimidating? Less like they’d blow away in a strong wind?”
“Ted Bundy was charming and handsome. Jeffrey Dahmer looked like an accountant. Dennis Rader was a church deacon.” She pushed through the double doors into the bullpen. “They don’t wear signs advertising their hobbies.”
Blade chuckled, wincing slightly. “My job would be a lot easier if they glowed in the dark or something.”
“Wouldn’t that be convenient.” She located the coffeepot and poured Edwards his black coffee. The bitter aroma cut through the stale air. “Unfortunately, monsters tend to look disappointingly ordinary.”
Blade’s hand touched her shoulder, stopping her midstride. “Hey. You doing okay with all this?”
Tori met his eyes and found genuine concern there, not the polite inquiry of a colleague but the worry of someone who’d seen her at her worst and stayed anyway.
She’d been so focused on the case, the analysis, the professional distance that she’d forgotten someone actually cared about her well-being.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she said, meaning it this time. “Thanks for asking.”
She retraced her steps to the interview room, where Edwards accepted the coffee with a grateful nod. They settled into another stretch of waiting, the minutes crawling by with agonizing slowness.
After what felt like forever, the uniformed officer brought Hoult back in, followed by his attorney.
A thin man in his fifties wearing a rumpled suit and carrying a battered briefcase.
His gray hair stuck up at odd angles, and his tie hung slightly askew.
Tori spotted what looked like salsa staining his khaki pants.
The attorney nodded at Edwards. “Good to see you again, Worth.”
“Troy.” Edwards gestured toward Tori. “This is Dr. Crew from FDLE. She’s here for observation.”
The attorney set his briefcase on the table with a thunk. “I’ve had a brief consultation with Mr. Hoult. I understand he’s been Mirandized and we’re ready to proceed.”
Edwards pressed record on the digital device. “Interview resumed at 1:03 p.m. Present are Deputy Edwards, Mr. Jeremy Hoult, attorney Troy Schmitt, and Dr. Tori Crew observing.” He looked directly at Hoult. “Do you understand your rights as previously explained?”
“Yes, sir,” Hoult said.
“Great,” Edwards began, “let’s talk about last night. Can you tell me where you were around ten thirty p.m.?”
Hoult straightened in his chair, his trembling subsiding as he launched into his response. “I was working the night shift at Waffle House. Started at six p.m., clocked out at two thirty a.m.”
Tori watched his body language shift. The nervous energy disappeared, replaced by confidence. His voice steadied, his hands stopped shaking, and he made direct eye contact with Edwards for the first time since entering the room.
“Which Waffle House?” Edwards asked.
“The one at Black Creek Road. I’m a dishwasher there.” Hoult’s words came smoothly now, each detail delivered without hesitation. “I can give you my manager’s number if you want to verify.”
Too eager to provide verification.
“How did you get to work?” Edwards continued.
“Broward County Transit. Route fifteen. Caught the five twenty bus at the stop on Oakland Boulevard, transferred at the Federal Highway station, arrived at work by five fifty.”
Cross streets, exact times, specific route numbers. When people told the truth about routine activities, they approximated. “Around five thirty” or “I think it was the five twenty bus.” Hoult’s timeline had been rehearsed.
“And after work?”
“Same route in reverse. Except I was walking home from work. These two guys jumped me. They wanted my wallet. I tried to run, but one of them had a gun. He shot me when I wouldn’t stop.”
Edwards leaned back in his chair. “Did you get a good look at these men?”
“It was dark. They wore hoodies. I couldn’t see their faces.”
Tori studied Hoult’s expressions as he delivered his story.
No genuine confusion in his eyes, no frustrated searching for information. Instead, she caught a flicker of satisfaction when Edwards wrote something in his file.
The story was too clean, too detailed in some areas, and conveniently blank in others.
Hoult thought he’d constructed a bulletproof alibi, but his coworkers said he’d had a two-hour break.
Time that nobody could account for. The break would probably line up with the window of Blade’s attack. If that was it, Hoult was done.
At least for the attack. She wasn’t so sure Jeremy Hoult had the same qualities she’d identified in the Mandelbrot Killer’s profile. Smart enough to construct an alibi with a vague robbery. Not smart enough to fill every gap.
She tapped her index finger once against the metal table.
Edwards caught the signal without missing a beat. “Tell me about the bus driver that night. The one who picked you up at Oakland Boulevard.”
Hoult’s eyes flicked toward his attorney for a split second before returning to Edwards. “Just a regular driver. Middle-aged guy, I think. Nothing special about him.”
The fractional hesitation screamed deception. He hadn’t thought to memorize details about the bus driver.
Tori leaned close to Edwards’s ear. “Cognitive interview. Make him tell the story backward.”
Edwards nodded and shifted his approach. “Jeremy, I want you to help me understand your route home better. Let’s start from when you reached your front door and work backward. What was the last thing you did before going inside?”
Hoult blinked twice, his practiced confidence wavering. “I . . . unlocked my door.”
“And before that?”
“I walked up the steps to my apartment.”
“How many steps?”
Hoult’s hand moved to the hem of his sling, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “Three, maybe four.”
“Before the steps?”
“I walked across the parking lot.”
Edwards maintained steady eye contact. “From which direction?”
“From . . .” Hoult’s gaze darted around the room, landing anywhere except Edwards’s face. “From the street.”
“Which street?”