Criss Cross

Chapter 87

The following afternoon, William Nolan’s attorney notified us that her client was willing to talk. Bree, John, and I were cleared through FBI security at the Bureau’s downtown headquarters soon afterward.

As we rode the elevator and walked the length of several hallways, I was still hearing the mental echoes of how hard we’d laughed the night before. We’d stop and then Nana Mama would say something else, and we’d yell, “Write that one down!”

I couldn’t remember having that much fun at dinner in a long time. It was all Ali had talked about that morning at breakfast before school. He was going to write down at least thirty good Nana-isms before he “launched the hashtag.”

“You get the feeling the mountain-biking bug might be over?” Bree asked now.

“I was thinking the same thing. Especially after he said he was skipping tonight’s Wild Wheels ride to work on Nana Mama’s social media presence.”

Sampson laughed. “The kid does jump from one thing to the next.”

“He’s exploring,” I said. “It’s what kids do.”

Ned Mahoney stepped out of a doorway near the end of the hall. He gestured at me, said, “Alex, you were his target, so you are observing today. If you have something you want asked, we’ll hear you over the earbuds. Chief Stone?”

Bree straightened her shoulders, glanced at me with mock pity, then followed Mahoney inside. John and I went into the observation booth with Special Agent Kim Tillis, who had just arrived.

On the other side of the one-way mirror, William Nolan had his left wrist cuffed to his chair and his right arm in a sling. He was hunched over and looked miserable. I was surprised to see Sandra Wendover, the same federal public defender who’d worked on Martin Forbes’s case, sitting beside him.

“Hey, c’mon,” Nolan said as Bree and Ned took chairs. “I’m dying here.”

“You’re not dying, Mr. Nolan,” Mahoney said.

“I’m in serious pain,” he insisted in a hoarse whine.

Wendover said, “My client has three broken ribs, a blown ACL in his right knee, and a separated shoulder. That could be construed as brutality.”

Mahoney snorted. “Except your client jumped off a roof into a tree and then took off trying to elude federal officers who were forced to subdue him.”

“Who cares?” Nolan said, irritated. “Because I know for a fact I’ve done nothing wrong. A misdemeanor, maybe. But not something you go away for.” Mahoney said, “Well, Mr. Jailhouse Lawyer, here’s a news flash for you: We are holding you as the prime suspect in a federal kidnapping-and-mass-murder investigation.”

That got Nolan’s attention in a big way. He rocked back in his chair, eyes big as sand dollars, then he winced and said, “Whoa! Whoa! What are you talking about?”

Wendover said, “Wait — he’s involved in Martin Forbes’s case?”

“He is.”

“Then I must recuse, and I advise my client to stay silent until federal defenders can send over another lawyer to represent him.”

“What? No,” Nolan said. “No, just sit here, I’m not admitting to nothing because I didn’t do anything.”

Bree said, “How about cutting off people’s heads? You did that, didn’t you, M?”

Wendover said, “Mr. Nolan, I advise you not to answer.”

Nolan shook his head violently. “I do not know what they’re talking about.”

“Are you M?” Mahoney asked. “Simple question.”

Nolan’s brow knitted. “That a name or something?”

“You know it is.”

“What, like some rapper?”

“You’re saying you are not M?” Bree said.

“I can say without a doubt that I am not Em or Eminem or whoever this dude is, and I have never, ever killed anyone, much less chopped off a bunch of people’s heads.”

On the other side of the mirror, behind Mahoney and Bree, I keyed my mike, said, “The blood he splattered on my windshield.”

Bree nodded, said, “You’re sure, William? Because Dr. Cross says you threw a blood balloon at his windshield out on the Beltway.”

“Blood balloon?” Wendover said. “Do not answer that question, Mr. Nolan.”

He ignored her. “That was fake blood, and so what? It’s like a kid’s prank.”

“Except that wasn’t fake blood,” Mahoney said. “That was a blood cocktail taken from several different human beings. We haven’t done the entire DNA workup yet, Mr. Nolan, but the smart money is on the blood matching the heads and, therefore, you.”

Nolan lost all color and looked dazed by what he’d just been told.

“Okay,” Wendover said, gathering her things and standing. “I am out of here.”

“Stop!” Nolan said. “Why?”

She glared at him. “Because, Mr. Nolan, I represent an innocent man who’s in jail, accused of the heinous crimes you’ve been involved in.”

“Heinous?” he said, looking after her as she left the room. “I’ve never done anything heinous in my entire life!”

Wendover shut the door behind her. I was about to go out into the hallway to talk to her when Nolan said, “I admit I’ve done things I’m not proud of, and I did time for them, but nothing heinous. Nothing remotely heinous.”

“But you can see where this is going, William,” Bree said. “Your blood balloon. The heads. The bodies. You must already be fearing the day they execute you.”

“Wait, now. I...” He struggled and then apparently came to a decision. “I was given the balloon. I was told the blood was fake, you know, movie-prop stuff.” In the observation booth, we all leaned forward as one.

“Who told you that, Mr. Nolan?” Bree asked. “Who gave you the balloon? And who told you to visit Marty Forbes in jail and act like Kyle Craig?”

Nolan closed his eyes, said, “He calls himself M.”