Joe Dillard - 02 - In Good Faith (15 page)

The men surrounding Fraley were focused, their eyes wide in anticipation of the unknown danger behind the motel room door. Fraley thought about all the search warrants and felony arrest warrants he’d executed in the past and the inherent danger in breaking down a door without knowing what was on the other side. As the group of officers moved away from their cars and towards the motel, Fraley noticed that his skin was tingling. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in a long time, and it reminded him of an irony he’d discovered years ago: it was in moments like this, when the prospect of sudden, violent death became real and immediate, that he truly appreciated being alive.

Fraley was in the back of the pack. Norcross led the way. The front was reserved for the young guys, guys with quicker reflexes, better cardiovascular systems, steadier hands. They jogged along the back of the shopping center, staying in the shadows, and across a side street that bordered the parking lot of the Lost Weekend. Once they crossed the street, they turned towards the back of the motel. Norcross picked up the pace as they moved the length of the building to the shadows of the far-west wall and made their way back around to the front. Everyone squatted there while Fraley dialed the agent who was waiting with the motel owner on the cell phone.

“One minute,” Fraley whispered as he closed his phone and stuck it in his pocket.

Norcross led the way around the corner to the room. Four agents passed him silently. Three squatted beneath the window on the east side of the door, flashlights in one hand, guns in the other. The fourth took up a position next to a car in the parking lot about twenty feet away and trained his weapon on the door. Fraley, along with one other agent, stopped on the west side, less than five feet away. Still another remained behind and pointed his gun at the door. Everyone froze for maybe twenty seconds—it seemed like twenty years—waiting for the phone inside the room to ring. Fraley looked at his watch. With his right hand, he started counting down… .

Five fingers … four … three … two … one …

Nothing. No sound from inside the room. Fraley muttering, “Ring, goddamn it!” under his breath. Norcross looking back over his shoulder at Fraley, eyebrows raised as if to say,
What now?

The telephone inside the room rang. Fraley saw the massive head of the sledgehammer looming above the door. The phone rang again, and then—
wham!
—the door splintered as it exploded with the sound and force of a gunshot. Norcross tossing the sledge to the side. A man screaming. Lights flashing. A flurry of movement. Fraley feeling his heart pounding inside his chest. Male voices: “Police! Get on the ground! Get on the ground!” A strange scent of incense hanging in the air. Flashes of candlelight. “Give me your hands! Give me your fucking hands! If you move I’ll blow your fucking brains out!” Bright light as someone flipped a switch.

And then only the sound of men breathing heavily.

“Are we clear?” Fraley said.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

Three bodies facedown on the floor on the dirty shag carpet, hands cuffed tightly behind their backs. Two males and a female, all wearing black robes with hoods. Candles scattered around the room on the floor, on the nightstand by the bed, on the vanity near the bathroom. Black candles. A silver cup, a chalice, lay in the center of the floor, apparently overturned in the confusion. Fraley knelt beside it. Most of the liquid inside had spilled onto the floor, making a dark stain.

“Looks like blood,” he said, resisting the urge to pick it up.

One of the agents was hoisting the girl to her feet. She looked to be around twenty years old, redheaded, attractive at first glance, somehow familiar-looking. As she stood the robe fell open in front. She was naked beneath it. Fraley glanced around the room as other agents pulled their prey up off the floor. The other two—the males—were wearing white pancake makeup. They had black hair, with rings in their eyebrows, noses, and ears. They were both naked beneath the robes. There was blood running down both of their forearms. All of them seemed dazed.

“Get the cars,” Fraley said. Three of the agents left immediately.

The girl began to mumble something unintelligible, quietly at first, then more loudly. Fraley couldn’t understand a word she was saying.

“Shut your fucking mouth!” Fraley hissed as he moved towards her and jerked her cuffed hands upwards behind her back. She winced and went silent.

“You’re all under arrest,” Fraley said through gritted teeth. “You have a right to keep your fucking mouth shut, you have a right to a scumbag lawyer. Anything that comes out of your hole can be used against you in court.”

The agents arrived with the vehicles in less than a minute. Fraley shoved the girl towards the door.

“Get them out of here,” Fraley said. He watched as the three were led out to the waiting vehicles. Once they were out of earshot, Fraley walked towards the bathroom. He’d noticed three separate piles of clothing: one pile—obviously the girl’s—was on the vanity next to the sink. Another pile was near the wall next to the vanity, and a third was inside the bathroom on the floor near the toilet. There was a pair of shoes in each pile.

“Bag these up separately and bring them to the office,” Fraley said to Norcross.

“Shouldn’t they go to the lab?” Norcross said.

“They will. But first I have to make sure who they belong to. Watch and learn, my son.”

Tuesday, October 7

As soon as Fraley walked into the office, he turned the thermostat to cool, set the temperature at sixty degrees, and made sure everyone knew to leave it there. The other agents brought the suspects in one at a time. Since there were only two interrogation rooms in the satellite TBI office, Fraley was forced to improvise. Boyer and Barnett were placed in the interrogation rooms. The redhead, the one they weren’t expecting, was handcuffed to a chair in Fraley’s office and left to stew. The door was left open and an agent was posted outside.

Fraley thought about what Dillard had told him.
One who commands.
A female. This might be her. The lack of makeup and Goth persona certainly set her apart from the others, but she hadn’t done or said anything to indicate she was a leader. After her initial attempt at speaking back at the hotel had been derailed by Fraley’s hammerlock, she’d ridden from the motel to the TBI office in silence in the darkened backseat.

A search of the motel room and the clothing that had been strewn around produced nothing of value—a couple of razor blades, the boys’ wallets, a watch. They hadn’t found even an ID card for the redhead. Fraley still had no idea who she was.

But the green Cavalier parked outside had yielded what Fraley hoped would literally be the smoking guns—two semiautomatic pistols, both nine-millimeter. Drugs were also found in the car—a quarter ounce of marijuana, about a half gram of crystal meth, and a dozen pills, probably hydrocodone or oxycodone, were in the console. When Fraley opened the trunk and flashed his light inside, he saw what appeared to be a bloodstain near the spare-tire well. If it was blood, it might be Norman Brockwell’s. And then there were the shoes and clothes. Maybe the shoes would match footprints found at the scenes. Maybe the clothing would yield fibers. Maybe the tires would match the casts taken from the woods where Norman Brockwell was murdered.

The mobile forensic unit had been on standby at the office and was now going over the room and doing a preliminary on the car. Lab personnel were on standby in Knoxville. The forensics people would do what they could at the scene and then load the car onto a rollback and take it down to Knoxville along with the rest of the evidence. There was usually a significant waiting period for lab work, but this case had been moved to the front of the line. Fraley knew that by midmorning, much of the lab analysis would be finished.

Fraley walked to his office and picked up a few files. The redhead stared at him but said nothing. Fraley did a double take when he saw her eyes. One blue, one green. Piercing, as though they could see straight into his soul, full of hatred. He made a quick trip to the bathroom and walked out to the snack room. He poured himself a cup of coffee and started slathering Cheez Whiz on a cracker. He looked up at the clock on the wall. It was two fifteen a.m. Fraley had been up for twenty-two hours, and it didn’t look like he’d be going home anytime soon.

Fraley had asked Norcross and another agent to Mirandize the suspects again. They were reading the suspects their constitutional rights and asking them to sign a form that acknowledged that their rights had been explained to them and that they understood. He’d already sent two other agents to Levi Barnett’s home to bring back Levi’s aunt, who was identified in his juvenile records as Barnett’s legal guardian. Levi’s father was in prison for dealing crystal meth, and his mother had deserted them a decade ago.

Fraley sipped his coffee and flipped through the files. When he came across the photos of the murdered children, the rage he felt when he thought about his granddaughter returned. He’d looked at the photos only once. They turned his stomach.

He thought briefly about how he would conduct the interrogations. The Reid Technique was now standard operating procedure in law enforcement. Make the suspect as comfortable as possible. Make him think you were there to help him. Try to find some common ground and get him talking; it didn’t matter what the conversation was about initially. The theory behind the Reid Technique was that suspects would naturally feel guilt and want to unload their burden. The officer was there to facilitate the cleansing of the spirit. Get him talking, eventually turn the conversation towards the crime, and gently persuade him to confess.

Fuck that.

If he had his way, he’d subject every goddamned one of them to torture. Maybe a little waterboarding would loosen their tongues. A few well-placed blows to the solar plexus or groin. Maybe even some electroshock therapy. Then, once he had his confessions, he could proceed right to execution. No need for a trial and sentencing once they’d admitted it. Take them out back, shoot them in the head, load them in the back of a pickup truck, and haul them to the city dump. Get them out of the mix and be done with it.

When he came out of his fantasy-induced trance, Fraley noticed that guys were moving in and out of the snack room, trading good-natured insults and laughing. The mood in the office was lighter than it had been in weeks. The raid had gone off without a hitch. Arrests had been made. Evidence had been found and was being processed. The nightmare, it seemed, was over.

Norcross and Taylor came in and sat down, and the others filed out. Norcross had played defensive end at Memphis State before earning a law degree and joining the TBI ten years earlier. At thirty-five, he looked like he belonged on a poster for the Green Berets. His jaw was strong and square, his eyes hazel, and he kept his black hair cut to a half an inch. Taylor was younger, a University of Tennessee accounting graduate who’d been an agent for six years. He was lanky and balding, with a nasal, high-pitched voice that quickly got on Fraley’s nerves.

“What do you think?” Fraley said, looking at Norcross. He was too tired to listen to Taylor.

“The young kid and the girl are cold as fucking ice,” Norcross said. “And did you see that girl’s eyes? Freaky.”

“I take it they didn’t offer to confess.”

“The older guy, Boyer, is the softest one,” Norcross said. “He’s scared shitless. He was shaking so bad he could barely sign the Miranda waiver.”

“But he signed it?”

“Yeah. He was the only one who’d sign.”

“Are they high?”

“Who knows?”

“Nobody lawyered up?”

“Not yet.”

“Did the girl say anything?”

“Not a word. Wouldn’t sign the waiver, wouldn’t tell me her name. Just stared at me. Gave me fucking chills. I’d start with the dude.”

“Have they brought the young kid’s aunt in yet?”

“Yeah, but she’s not happy. She keeps harping about his clothes. She says he’s cold.”

“Fuck her.”

Fraley leaned back and stretched, thinking about the utter futility of what he was about to do. Since he couldn’t offer any kind of deal, there was absolutely no reason for any of them to talk to him. What did they have to gain by confessing? Nothing. What did they stand to lose by confessing? Everything. He put his palms on the table and pushed himself up. Pain shot up his lower back from the beginnings of arthritis in his hips.

“Might as well get to it,” he said as he moved to the sink and ran cold water over a dishrag. He glanced up at the clock. Nearly an hour had passed since the suspects had been placed in the interrogation rooms.

Fraley closed the door behind him as he walked into the room where Samuel Boyer was sitting. In one hand he held two plastic bags of clothing and the dishrag, in the other a manila folder. Boyer, still clad in the ridiculous-looking robe, was sitting with his head down on the table shivering, his cuffed hands clasped in front of him. Fraley tossed the bags of clothing down in front of Boyer.

“Sorry it’s so goddamned cold in here,” Fraley said. “Something’s wrong with the heat and we can’t get anybody to fix it until morning. I brought you your clothes, but I wasn’t sure which set was yours. You can put them on or you can sit there and freeze. Doesn’t matter to me.”

Boyer looked at the bags and reached for one. Slowly, he pulled on a pair of black jeans. Fraley unlocked Boyer’s cuffs briefly so he could put on a black sweatshirt. He pulled a pair of black boots out of the bag and looked at Fraley as if to ask whether he had permission to put them on.

“Go ahead,” Fraley said. “For all I know you might be leaving in a little while.”

Boyer pulled on a pair of socks and slid the boots over them.

“There. Feel better?” Fraley said.

Boyer didn’t respond. Fraley sat back and watched as Boyer dropped his head onto the table, into the same position he’d been in when Fraley entered the room. Fraley stood and walked to the door.

“Norcross!”

A moment later, the big man filled the doorway as Fraley sat down.