“Time to interrogate the pris-nah,” he said.
CHAPTER 9
BRADY AND I huddled in his office.
He gave me the official body count, just tallied.
“Twenty-five people dead. Forty-five injured. Some of them critical, with low to terrible odds of survival.”
He handed me a list of the casualties. I skimmed it for Joe’s name. Then I folded the paper into thirds and stuffed it into the inside breast pocket of my everyday blue blazer.
“You sure you’re up to this?” he asked me.
I was mad. I was hurting. I was worried about Joe, sleep deprived, and still in shock from last night’s horror show, which would very likely stay with me for the rest of my life. I was stressed to the bone and I knew that it showed on my face.
Still, that Brady even questioned my ability to do the interrogation pissed me off.
“Who can do this interview better than me? I was there. He talked to me.”
Brady said, “Okay. I was being considerate. Trying to be considerate. So look, Boxer. Here’s what we know about Connor Grant.”
Brady makes lists. Whenever possible, he writes them in red grease pencil on a yellow legal pad. I looked at the pad. What I saw was a very short list.
Said Brady, “He’s forty-five. Drives a late-model Hyundai. Never married, no kids, no family we could find, but there are a lot of Grants in this country. Anyway. He teaches ninth-grade science at Saint Brendan High School. Been there for about five years. Science teacher blows up a science museum. That’s interesting, right? His reviews on Rate My Teachers are good. The kids like him.”
“He doesn’t have a sheet?”
“Nope. He’s clean as a nun’s habit. A solid citizen. Pays his taxes. Obeys traffic laws. Colors within the lines.”
“Humph. I find this hard to believe.”
Brady went on. “Parisi will be observing. Jacobi, too.”
I wasn’t surprised that the DA and the chief of police would be watching our interrogation. We had an admitted mass murderer in the box.
I asked Brady, “What else do I need to know?”
“You take the lead. Be nice. The tape could be used in court. If nice doesn’t do the job, I’ll step in as badass.”
Brady handed me a folder of eight-by-ten photos. I flipped through them, then looked back into Brady’s iceblue eyes. All we had in the way of leverage was Grant’s on-the-scene admission. We didn’t have it in writing.
Brady said, “Boxer. Don’t worry about the big picture right now. I don’t care who he knows, what he hates, et cetera. If he’s talking, great. We want it all. But right now, this morning, be his friend. We just need him to say, ‘I did it.’ Anything else is gravy.”
CHAPTER 10
BRADY AND I left his office and walked the short length of corridor to Interview 2. He held the door open and followed me inside.
Connor Grant was seated at the table wearing a brightorange jumpsuit and a smirk. His hands were cuffed, ankles shackled. He looked happy to see me, and oddly, I was happy to see him, too.
I nodded to the two guards standing in the corners and shot a glance at the red blinking camera eye in the ceiling. Then I looked at the two-way mirror. I was glad that Parisi and Jacobi were behind it. Top brass on deck.
Brady had given me a clear-cut assignment: Get Grant’s confession on the record. Get it to stick. After that Len Parisi could negotiate with this monster for convincing details, names of others involved, then either make a deal or prosecute him to the full extent of the law for killing more than two dozen human beings.
I took a seat in one of the straight-backed aluminum chairs across the table from Grant, and Brady did the same.
To the “pris-nah” I said, “Hello again, Mr. Grant. How are you this morning? Sleep okay?”
“Not bad. I forget. How do I know you?”