The Vanished Man (Lincoln Rhyme 5)

Charles Grady was on the other side, flanked by his second, Roland Bell. Amelia Sachs stood; the pungent interview room, with its jaundiced, milky windows, gave her a renewed sense of claustrophobia, which had been receding only slowly after the terrible panic at the Cirque Fantastique. She fidgeted and rocked her weight back and forth.

The door opened and Constable's guard led the prisoner into the room, recuffed his hands in front of him. Then he swung the door closed and returned to the corridor.

"It didn't work" was the first thing Grady said to him. A calm voice, oddly dispassionate, Sachs thought, considering that his family had nearly been wiped out.

"What didn't . . . ?" Constable began. "Is this about that fool Ralph Swensen?"

"No, this is about Erick Weir," Grady said.

"Who?" A frown that seemed genuine crossed the man's face.

The prosecutor went on to explain about the attempt on his family's life by the former illusionist turned professional killer.

"No, no, no. . . . I didn't have anything to do with Swensen. And I didn't have anything to do with this." The man looked helplessly at the scarred tabletop. There was some graffiti scraped in the gray paint beside his hands. It seemed to be an A then a C then a partial K. "I've told you all along, Charles, there're some people I've known in the past who've gone way overboard with things. They see you and the state as the enemies--working with the Jewish people and the African Americans or whoever--and they're twisting my words around and using me as an excuse to come after you." He said in a low voice, "I'll say it again. I promise you that I had nothing to do with this."

Roth said to the prosecutor, "Let's not play games here, Charles. You're just fishing. If you've got something to connect my client to the break-in of your apartment, then--"

"Weir killed two individuals yesterday--and a police officer. That makes it capital murder."

Constable winced. His lawyer added bluntly, "Well, I'm sorry about that. But I notice you haven't charged my client. Because you don't have any evidence linking him to Weir, right?"

Grady ignored this and continued, "We're negotiating with Weir right now about turning state's evidence."

Constable turned his eyes to Sachs, looked her up and down. He seemed helpless and the gaze suggested that he was imploring her to help in some way. Perhaps she was supposed to provide the voice of female reason. But she remained silent, as did Bell. It wasn't their job to argue with suspects. The detective was here to keep an eye on Grady and see if he could learn more about the attempt on the D.A.'s life and possible future attacks. Sachs was here to see if she might learn more about Constable and his partners to help solidify the case against Weir.

Also, she'd been curious about this man--someone she'd been told was pure evil and yet who seemed to all appearances reasonable, understanding and genuinely troubled by the events of the past few days. Rhyme was content solely to look at the evidence; he had no patience for an examination of a perp's mind or soul. Sachs, though, was fascinated with questions of good and evil. Was she looking at an innocent man now or another Adolf Hitler?

Constable shook his head. "Look, it makes no sense for me to try and kill you. The state'd send in a replacement D.A. The trial'd go on, only I'd have a murder charge slapped on me. Why'd I want to do that? What possible reason would I have to kill you?"

"Because you're a bigot and a killer and--"

Constable interrupted heatedly, "Listen here. I've put up with a lot, sir. I was arrested, humiliated in front of my family. I've been abused here and in the press. And you know what my only crime is?" He leveled his gaze to Grady. "Asking hard questions."

"Andrew." Roth touched his arm. But, with a loud jangle, the prisoner pulled it away. He was indignant and wouldn't be stopped.

"Right here in this room, right now, I'm going to commit the only crimes I've ever been guilty of. First offense: I'm asking if you don't agree that when government gets to be too big it loses touch with the people. That's when cops end up with the power to stick a mop handle up the rectum of a black prisoner in custody--an innocent prisoner, by the way."

"They were caught," Grady countered lethargically.

"Them going to jail's not going to give that poor man back his dignity, now, is it? And how many don't get caught? . . . Look at what's happened in Washington. They let terrorists walk right into our country, intent to kill us, and we don't dare offend 'em by keeping 'em out or forcing 'em to be fingerprinted and carry ID cards. . . . How about another offense? Let me ask you, why don't we all just admit that there're differences between races and cultures? I've never said one race is better or worse than any other. But I do say you get grief if you go and try to mix them."

"We got rid of segregation some years ago," Bell drawled. "It is a crime, you know."

"Used to be a crime to sell liquor, Detective. Used to be a crime to work on Sunday. Used to be legal for ten-year-olds to work in factories. Then people wised up and changed those laws because they didn't reflect human nature."

He leaned forward and looked from Bell to Sachs. "My two police officer friends here. . . . Let me ask you a hard question. You get a report that a man might've committed a murder and he's black or Hispanic. You see him in an alley. Well, won't your finger be a little tighter on the trigger of your gun than if he's white? Or if he is a white man and looks like a smart man--if he has all his teeth and wears clothes that don't smell like yesterday's piss--well, then, are you going to be just a little slower to pull that trigger? Are you going to frisk him a little more gently?"

The prisoner sat back, shook his head. "Those're my crimes. That's it. Asking questions like those."

Grady said cynically, "Great material, Andrew. But before you play the persecution card, whatta you do with the fact that Erick Weir had lunch with three other people at the Riverside Inn in Bedford Junction two weeks ago. Which is two clicks from the Patriot Assembly meeting hall in Canton Falls and about five from your house."

Constable blinked. "The Riverside Inn?" He looked out the window, which was so grimy it was impossible to tell if the sky was blue or polluted yellow or drizzly gray.

Grady's eyes narrowed. "What? You know something about that place?"

"I . . ." His lawyer touched his arm to silence him. They whispered to each other for a moment.

Grady couldn't resist pushing. "Do you know somebody who's a regular there?"