Pellegrini had crafted his memo requesting the interrogator with that argument at its center, and he was careful to dwell on the reputation of the firm rather than the suggestion that the Baltimore unit lacked any necessary expertise. The use of the company’s interviewers for one weekend would cost about a thousand dollars, and for a department as impoverished as the Baltimore force-where no real money is budgeted to pay street informants, much less contract out for investigative talent-Pellegrini’s request was an extraordinary one.
Landsman backed him, of course. Not out of any great belief in the science of the thing, but simply because Pellegrini was the primary investigator. It was his murder, and this was a suspect he had pursued and developed for ten months. In Landsman’s mind, the issue was clear: His detective had a right to see this thing through in whatever way he saw fit.
The captain also gave the proposal support, and as Pellegrini’s memo traveled from gold braid to gold braid on the eighth floor, it met with surprisingly little resistance. More than anything else that year, the Latonya Wallace case had been a true crusade for the department as a whole, and in this rare instance, the bosses seemed to feel as their detectives did.
The money was allocated. The Interrotec people were contacted and the date set. A week ago, and then yesterday as well, Pellegrini had visited Whitelock Street and the Fish Man, reminding his suspect that he would probably need to talk with him again on Friday and suggesting that the store owner’s cooperation was in every way required.
And now they begin.
“You understand why you’re here,” says the man on the other side of the table. The words are quiet but hard, and the voice speaking them somehow manages to impart conflicting emotions in every syllable-behind the voice is anger and empathy, unyielding patience and raging impulse.
To Pellegrini’s eye, Glenn Foster has a real talent for interrogation, and the detective is satisfied to let the man lead this last charge. As the vice president of Interrotec and an acknowledged expert in the craft of criminal interrogation, Foster was sold to Pellegrini as something of a magic bullet-an interrogator who had been used by police agencies in eighteen criminal investigations and who had emerged with results every time. The Pentagon had used Foster for sensitive security interviews; veteran prosecutors and detectives who had worked with the Interrotec people swore by him.
In addition to his hired gun, Pellegrini can also count on the leverage being different than in the past. This time, he has the tar and burned wood samples-the virtual match between the smudges on the dead girl’s pants and the debris from the Fish Man’s gutted Whitelock Street store. That is evidence, to be sure, and more of it than they had for the first two interrogations of the store owner.
On the other hand, Pellegrini’s attempt to isolate the store as the only logical source of the burned material had proved futile. The computer run he requested two months ago for Reservoir Hill arson and fire calls over the last several years has turned up a hundred or more separate addresses that had been damaged by fire. Now, months after the murder, there was no conceivable way for Pellegrini to eliminate many of those locations from consideration, or for him even to be sure which burned buildings were actually gutted back in February. Some had since been repaired; others had been vacant for years; still others-small structures or parts of structures that burned in small, unreported fires-might not even be on the computer list. No, the chemical analysis was leverage for this interrogation and nothing more. Still, leverage used properly could mean everything.
Granted his request for interrogative expertise, Pellegrini had told himself that if this last confrontation failed, he could close the file knowing that he had done everything conceivable. He told himself that there would be no more recrimination, that he would leave this bastard of a case in a file drawer and go back into the rotation-really go back this time-and work the murders hard. No more Theodore Johnsons. No more Barney Erelys. He told that to himself and to Landsman as well, but Pellegrini was more confident than he let on; in fact, he had a hard time imagining that this final assault on the Fish Man would fail. They had a quality interrogator lined up, a man who had taught criminology at universities and lectured at police academies nationwide. They had the chemical match. And still, after all these months, they had a suspect who knew the victim, who had blown his lie detector, who had no alibi, who matched the FBI’s psychological profile of the killer, who had a history of sex offenses, whose willingness to subject himself to harsh, prolonged investigation was proven. This time, Pellegrini believed, they could win. He could win.
From the other side of the conference room table, Pellegrini listens to Foster circling like some calculating predator, probing for every weakness.
“Listen to me,” says Foster.
“Hmmm,” says the Fish Man, looking up.
“You understand why you’re here.”
“You brought me here.”
“But you know why, don’t you?”
The Fish Man says nothing.
“Why are you here?” asks Foster.
“It’s about the girl,” says the Fish Man, uncomfortable.
“The girl,” says Foster.
“Yeah,” says the Fish Man after a pause.
“Say her name,” says Foster.
The Fish Man looks across the table.
“Say her name.”
“Her name?” says the Fish Man, visibly upset.
“You know her name.”
“Latonya.” The store owner lets go of the name as though it’s the very confession itself. With each answer, Pellegrini can feel the Fish Man losing a little bit of control. Foster is good, thinks Pellegrini. Damn good. Making the Fish Man say the little girl’s name, for example: What better technique to bring an introvert like the old store owner out of his shell.
Born and bred deep in the Bible Belt, Foster had come to law enforcement after a stint as a Baptist minister, an experience that marked the pattern and delivery of his speech. His voice could be at one moment a blunt instrument, heavy with accusation, and at the next a faint whisper, hinting at broken secrets.
“Let me tell you why I’m here,” Foster says to the Fish Man. “I’m here because I’ve seen your kind before. I know about your kind…”
The Fish Man looks up, curious.
“I’ve seen a thousand like you.”
Pellegrini watches his suspect, trying to gauge his body language. The Fish Man’s downward gaze at the table or at the floor is a sure sign of deception, according to the Kinesic Interviewing texts, just as the folded arms and backward lean in the chair suggest an introvert unwilling to accept control. To Pellegrini, all of the reading and preparation of the last three months now seems relevant to the moment-all of the science would now be put to the test.
“… and you’ve never met anyone like me,” Foster tells the Fish Man. “No, you haven’t. You may have had people talk to you before, but not the way I’m going to talk to you. I know you, mister…”
Pellegrini listens as the lead interrogator begins an unyielding monologue, an endless rant in which Foster transforms himself from a merely mortal form into a towering figure of omnipotent authority. It is the standard prelude to any prolonged interrogation, the beginning of the soliloquy in which a detective establishes his own myth of expertise. For the Baltimore detectives, the speech usually consists of assuring a suspect that he’s dealing with the reincarnation of Eliot Ness and that everyone who was ever foolish enough to sit in this box and talk shit to God’s own detective is now marking time on Death Row. But to Pellegrini, Foster seems to be giving the standard lecture a little more dramatic intensity.