Gallery of the Dead

Forty-Four

Detective James Miller stepped into interrogation room one inside the Alvernon Way Police Station in downtown Tucson and closed the door behind him. Instead of approaching the small metal table at the center of the claustrophobic, underground chamber, he stood by the door in complete silence, hands tucked into his trouser pockets, eyes firmly locked on the man sitting at the table.

Despite the door closing with a loud enough bang, the man didn’t look up. He kept his stare on his cuffed hands, which were chained to the tabletop.

The whole ‘standing by the door in silence’ act was all part of Miller’s interrogation technique, a technique he had developed over twelve years as a homicide detective in Arizona, but in spite of all his experience, Miller did feel a tad nervous.

Yes, in those twelve years he had interrogated hundreds of suspects, many of them violent murderers, but as far as he knew he had never been face to face with a serial killer, let alone one wanted by the FBI. He’d read many books and watched a ton of documentaries on them and, truth be told, Miller had always hoped that he would one day be the lead detective in a serial-murder investigation — the kind of investigation that would generate nationwide interest and press coverage. In his head, he had pictured time and time again being the person in charge of the interrogation — the one whose task was to extract the truth from the killer. But as soon as that door closed behind him, Miller felt an uneasiness he hadn’t felt in many years. There was definitely something very different about the man sitting at that table, something that Miller couldn’t yet tell, but whatever it was it seemed to chill the air inside the room.

Miller’s eyes moved to the two-way mirror on the east wall. He knew his partner would be on the other side of it, watching.

Miller kept his composure.

The man kept his head down.

Miller waited.

Inside that same room, Miller had played several variations of that game before — the silent, ‘I will not move, I will not lock eyes with you’ game. From experience, the detective knew that that was nothing more than a mental tug-of-war. A strength-of-mind game. Would the man acknowledge the detective first, either verbally, by movement, or by eye contact, or would Miller give in to the man’s resolve and speak first?

To an outsider, something that trivial could easily sound childish, but Miller knew better than to disregard the importance of such psychological games inside an interrogation room, and that was why he had spent time studying the man from the other side of the two-way mirror. Just like a professional poker player tries to read his opponents and adapts his game tactics accordingly, Miller had tried to do the same, but the man gave nothing away, except the fact that his resolve seemed to be flawless.

Who, Miller thought, after being arrested at the scene of a homicide, spends all that time sitting alone inside an interrogation room without moving a muscle or saying a word? Miller had never encountered anybody with that much self-control before. The man’s discipline, he had to agree, was watertight.

Miller kept his eyes on the man.

The man kept his eyes on his hands.

To his surprise, the first part of Miller’s tactic — the door closing behind him with a loud enough bang — had failed gloriously. The bang was supposed to break the man’s concentration, forcing him to look up and acknowledge the detective’s presence. It was a shock tactic that, until then, had never failed Miller.

Maybe I should’ve slammed the door harder, Miller thought.

He pulled his hands from his pockets and took four steps forward, placing himself directly in front of the metal table.

The man didn’t look up.

Miller took a seat.

The man didn’t look up.

Miller sat back, crossed one leg over the other and casually rested his hands on his lap. That movement was also planned. It placed Miller in a relaxed, carefree position, while the man sat at the edge of his chair with his shoulders slightly hunched. Clearly a much tenser position.

Miller waited.

Ten seconds.

The man didn’t look up.

Fifteen seconds.

The man didn’t look up.

Twenty seconds.

The man’s eyes, and only his eyes, crawled across the table and finally paused on the detective sitting before him.

Gotcha.

Miller felt like jumping up and punching the air, but he kept his cool. All he did was lock eyes with the man. Only then did he notice that the man’s eyes were deep set and as dark as coal.

‘Good evening,’ Miller finally said in a calm and collected tone. The greeting was complemented by a delicate head bow.

The man said nothing.

‘My name is Detective James Miller of the Tucson Police Department, Homicide Division.’

The man said nothing.

‘We could start with you giving us your name. It would make things a lot easier, you know.’

The man said nothing.

‘Well, I know that you can speak because according to the arrest report, when the two officers found you standing over the body of Timothy Davis and told you that they needed to see your hands, you replied, and I quote: “Wait a second, I can explain.” So we know you’re not a mute.’

That had been another trick from Miller. He knew very well that according to the arresting officers’ report, the man had replied, ‘Easy there, partner’ — but Miller had deliberately told him something different to try to trigger a reaction, maybe even a response. ‘That’s not what I said’ would do fine. It would be the beginning of a conversation, something Miller could work with. But once again, the man said nothing in return.

Miller maintained his relaxed position.

‘You can play the silent game all you want, buddy, but we both know that in the end you will sing like a bird. You’re not the first to play that game and you won’t be the last, and the common denominator between all of you is that in the end you all talk. You might not talk to me, but you will talk. I promise you that. I’m just the first in line here and I can guarantee you that I am the easiest one to talk to, but you’ve got some heavy hitters coming for you. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

The man finally moved his head, lifting his chin just enough so he could properly look Miller in the eye. They held each other’s stare for several long seconds and Miller saw no indication that the man was about to forfeit his silence. He tried one more time.

‘How many have you killed so far?’

No reply.

‘Three? Four? Five?’

No reply.

‘How many?’

Silence.

This clearly wasn’t working, not for Miller. He was about to change tactics once again when the interrogation-room door behind him swung open.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

While Detective Miller turned on his chair, the cuffed man barely moved. All he did was tilt his head slightly to one side so he could see past the detective.

‘Have you lost your goddamn mind?’

The booming, authoritative voice belonged to Captain Suarez, a short and full-figured man whose temper seemed to always be at the end of a very short fuse. As he spoke, his thick Mexican-style mustache bounced up and down over his lips in a somewhat comic fashion.

‘Who authorized you to transfer the prisoner from his cell to the interrogation room? Did I fucking stutter when I told you that the suspect was not to be interrogated? This is not our case, Detective Miller. It belongs to the fucking Feds. I thought I had made myself very clear.’

Miller uncrossed his legs and looked at the man. ‘Did you hear that?’ His voice was a gentle murmur. ‘The FBI is coming for you.’

‘Detective Miller.’ Captain Suarez’ voice got even louder.

‘I was just being friendly, Captain. You know, having a little chat with our guest here.’

‘I’ll tell you what I know,’ the captain replied. ‘I know that you’d better get your ass off that goddamn chair and out of this room right now, unless you have a dying urge to shovel horse shit with your bare hands for the next month. Gloves not allowed. And I will make that happen, Detective.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Miller said, calmly getting to his feet and looking back at the man. ‘It was a boring conversation anyway.’ But as the detective got to the door, the man sitting at the metal table surprised him, because he spoke for the first time.

He uttered four simple words.