Authors: John Cutter
Anderson smiled. Medveded could practically see the wheels in his head turning around the leverage he thought he had.
“Absolutely, Detective,” he said. He put up his right hand in mock sincerity. “I swear it.”
“Great. We’re going to return you to the holding cell in the meantime, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course.” Anderson’s face was conspiratorial, the face of someone used to being an accomplice.
Medveded let himself out. When the door closed behind him, he gestured to one of the BPD cops standing by.
“You can move him back to the cell,” he said. “I’m done with him. Let’s get him something to eat—just get him whatever he wants. Let’s keep him comfortable and on our side for the time being, until we nail down his friend.”
Medveded headed over to Polk’s office, where Morrison was waiting for him.
“Well? How’d it go?” Morrison asked, knowing very well how it always went with Medveded.
“We got him, Cap,” Medveded said. “He gave up everything.”
“Incredible,” Morrison said, marveling as much at the detective’s modesty as at his superlative ability. However many hours in a room by himself with a sociopath, and the guy was still saying
we
. Consummate
team player, that was for sure.
“One problem, though,” Medveded added. “They didn’t do the one in Gramercy.”
“Are you sure?”
“Definitely.”
“All right—well, shit.” When Alexander Medveded was sure, there was no room for doubt. “Who the hell did it, then?”
“I don’t know, and I’m pretty sure these guys won’t be able to tell us,” Medveded said. “But if we have a copycat still running around in New York, Cap, the clock’s ticking.”
24
While Medveded’s interview with Anderson was underway, preparations were being made a few doors down for a very different line of questioning. As Adam Rutherford was led into his interrogation room, Captain Morrison was holding a last-minute briefing with the Coke Brothers when Tina Koreski walked in.
“Cap, can we talk about this?” she said. “I really want to talk to this guy. I wanted it before we got them, but since the ride back to the stationhouse, I’m convinced it’s the right thing.”
“Why do you say that?” Morrison asked.
“He wouldn’t shut up on the ride back—he was trying to get all suave and sophisticated with me, talking all kinds of shit. I think that’s going to be his weakness here.”
Morrison turned to Kasak and Marchioni, who, as usual, had been standing there the whole time without saying a word.
“Would you wait outside the office for a moment?” he asked them.
They nodded placidly and walked out without dispute, secure in their assignment. For Morrison to hand over the interrogation to Koreski was unheard-of; it would be like swapping out a ten-time all-star for a utility player in a Series game.
“Tina,” Morrison said once the door was closed, “we both know
what happened to you. I wouldn’t ever want you having a meltdown from someone bringing back those memories, but we
really
can’t risk it happening now. This case is just too important for all of us.”
Koreski was visibly struggling to hold back her anger. “Captain,” she said carefully, “I’m not that woman. I can handle this, I know it. I need you to trust me on this.”
“Of course I trust you. But even aside from all that, I already told the Coke boys that they’d get the first shot at this guy. I can’t take that away from them; you know that.”
“But if—”
“Enough,” Morrison said firmly, holding up his hand. “Kasak and Marchioni get him first. If they struggle with the guy, you’ll get your chance.”
“All right,” Koreski said through clenched teeth. Morrison opened the door and poked his head out.
“Okay, boys,” he said to the two waiting outside. “Let the games begin.”
Leo Kasak was the first to enter the room. The shorter of the Coke boys was nevertheless imposing. Built like a brick wall, he had the street-smart toughness to back it up. His family had come over from Poland to settle in the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn, where many Polish immigrants had settled before them; and he still remembered the late nights outside of bars on Humboldt where, as a young man, he would sit and watch as men brought their disputes out to settle them in the street. Back then they didn’t use guns or knives, or even their fists; they quite literally used their heads. Squaring off outside the bar, they’d run head-on at each other like stags, slamming heads until one or the other of them couldn’t get back up. Once the dispute was settled, they would invariably return to the bar together and buy each other a drink, with as little talk afterward of retribution as of post-concussion syndrome. In this old-fashioned atmosphere of honor and raw power, Kasak had come into his own, and it was easy to see him applying the philosophy still.
His partner, detective Michael Marchioni, was right behind him.
Mike was slightly overweight and balding, though he never seemed willing to accept the fact. He liked to say he had a receding hairline, and went to great lengths to keep what little hair he had left slicked back in an ’80s tough-guy style to match his pencil moustache.
Like the rest of their shtick, the Coke Brothers’ hardline persona had proven rather slow to adapt to changing times. They were certainly the oldest detectives on their Major Crimes squad, holdovers from the era of the Son of Sam and two-thousand-homicide years in the city. Legends in their own minds, they were extremely resistant to change—a fact that, for men who’d come into their own as cops during a time when the blackjack was a way of life, was sometimes a problem in a community that no longer accepted police brutality as part of the job.
Yet as Morrison knew—and as they continued to prove to their detractors—Marchioni and Kasak were generally quite good with the background details. They developed their cases slowly, often using tactics unique to themselves; but when they struck, it stuck. For this they were well known throughout the department, and beyond. Some called them the Old Bulls—a nickname that had its origin in a joke Bill Morrison sometimes told to explain them to newcomers.
An old bull and a young bull are sitting on a hill, overlooking a herd of cows. Let’s run down and fuck one of those cows, the young bull says excitedly; to which the old bull calmly replies, Let’s walk down and fuck them all.
They found Adam Rutherford sitting comfortably in the interview room when they entered. He looked up at them with a smug smile when they sat down, and both could tell immediately that Rutherford would be a tougher nut to crack than his friend down the hall.
Kasak was the first to speak, in the agreeable, old-friends-reuniting tone with which he began every interview. It was the easiest way to size up a suspect, and invite them to reveal any weaknesses or tells that might give the interviewer leverage. For now, Marchioni sat silently beside him, notepad at the ready.
“Hello, Adam,” he said. “I’m Detective Leo Kasak, and this is my partner, Mike Marchioni. We’d like to talk to you today about some
things that happened recently in New York City.”
Rutherford shifted in his seat, pulling himself back from the table where he’d been leaning. The Coke Brothers took mental note: it was tell number one.
“Ask away detective,” he said confidently. “I have no problem answering any questions you might have. Though I’m not sure what you’d want to hear about from me, unless it’s what parties I’ve attended there, or how many girls I’ve fucked.”
Kasak smiled, unshaken by the ugly turn in Rutherford’s tone. “So, you do visit New York City, then?” he asked, maintaining his civil tone.
“Sure. Doesn’t everyone who’s anyone visit it?”
Answering questions with questions was usually a stall tactic, making time to think of what to say next. Kasak made note of that, too.
“And you’d say you usually visit the city to party?” he asked.
“Yeah, like I—”
“Have you been to Sutton Place, over the past several months?” Kasak asked quickly, throwing Rutherford off-guard. Rutherford looked away. Marchioni scribbled something on his notepad.
“Where’s that?” Rutherford asked obliquely. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Upper East Side. You know—lots of pretty women, known for nice buildings with expensive price tags.”
“I don’t know, I guess I might have been.”
“That’s a pretty nice car you have,” Kasak said, changing topic.
“Damn right it is,” Rutherford said under his breath.
“I’m sorry?”
Rutherford smirked. “I said yes, it is.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Couple of years now.”
“Got it new?”
“Of course. You think I’m buying used?”
“Does anyone else ever use it, besides you?”
“What are you, crazy? No one touches my things. That’s why they’re mine.”
“I see,” said Kasak. “So when you visit the city, where do you go?”
“I don’t know—we just tool around looking for cool things to do.”
“‘We’? Who’s we?”
“Myself and Brian Anderson, the guy you have in the next room.”
“How long have you two been friends?”
“As long as I can remember, pretty much.”
“And do you often visit the city together?”
“Whenever I’m there, I’m there with him.”
“But you don’t let him use your car.”
Rutherford gave a little laugh. “Like I said, Detective, he’s always with me. He never needs to use my car, because I’m the one driving us. Aren’t you listening?”
Kasak returned his smile, striving to keep down his disgust. This kid was going to be tricky.
“All right,” he said evenly. “Fair enough. Let’s talk a little about the places you’ve visited in the city, shall we?”
Bill Morrison watched with concern through the two-way mirror of the interview room. It had been an hour already, and Rutherford hadn’t slipped up once—a fact that was obviously beginning to wear on his interviewers’ composure. The pace of the interview had accelerated noticeably, and particularly with Marchioni, it was starting to look as though the Coke Brothers’ old-school patience was about to give way to their old-school ruthlessness.
Morrison cursed under his breath. Why hadn’t he had Medveded do this guy? He’d known Rutherford was going to be more difficult to break; what the hell had he been thinking? Alex had the patience to play cat-and-mouse for hours; Leo and Mike—as good as they were—were more likely to lose it with this rich punk and his attitude. He’d have to keep a careful eye on things; if Kasak and Marchioni got too aggressive, Rutherford could shut down and ask for a lawyer.
Kasak had had a folder sitting in front of him through the whole interview so far, which several times had attracted Rutherford’s eye.
Now Kasak opened it, taking out a few photos and placing them on the desk in front of Rutherford.
The first was of Abigail Johnson, the woman from Jamaica Estates. It wasn’t a crime-scene photo, but one taken from her home, showing her before she’d ever met her killers.
Rutherford looked at the photo for a long moment before shaking his head.
“Nope, never seen her,” he said flippantly.
Kasak placed additional photos on the table—of Victoria Adams, the woman from Sutton Place, Jennifer Burnett from 63
rd
Street, and Giovanna Palmiere from Park Avenue South. All of them were beautiful women, with bright, sunny smiles. Both detectives noticed that Rutherford barely glanced at the last photo before he answered again.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said. “I don’t know any of these broads.”
Marchioni had had enough. Slapping his notebook face-down on the table, he picked up the folder and drew out a few more photo-graphs—this time crime-scene pictures of the same women after their gruesome murders. He spread them out unceremoniously in front of Rutherford.
“Maybe this’ll help you remember them, you fucking animal,” he snarled. “This is how you last saw them, after you had your fun.”
Rutherford stared back at him, the smile gone from his lips but still dancing maddeningly in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Detective,” he said. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The fuck you don’t!” Marchioni shouted, slamming his palm down on the table. Kasak looked over at his partner with a silent warning, but Marchioni was too pissed off to notice it. He gestured at the pictures in disgust. “You know, you must be one sick motherfucker to do that.
Real
sick. And you think you’re getting
away
with it?”
“This
conversation
is starting to bore me,” Rutherford said evenly. “If you aren’t going to put me under arrest, I think I’m—”
He was cut off by the noise of the interrogation-room door swinging open. Morrison leaned in to talk to the two detectives.
“Can I speak to you both outside for a moment?” he asked in a stern tone.
Kasak and Marchioni stood stiffly and walked out. Morrison had hoped Rutherford’s ego would be flattered enough by this display of internal conflict that he’d stick around for the next round, and it was. Rutherford leaned back in his chair, smiling triumphantly.
“See you later, suckers,” he scoffed.
Marchioni turned back toward him with a murderous look in his eyes. Morrison grabbed his arm.
“Mike, that’s enough,” he said, pulling the door shut behind them.
“Wish I had a goddamn bottle of Coke right now,” Marchioni grumbled.
25
Detective Tina Koreski opened the door and went in.
Rutherford was holding the photos of the victims, flipping through them nonchalantly in an apparent effort to show indifference toward whoever was here to speak to him.
“Like what you see?” she asked as she sat.
Now he looked up, startled for a moment by the feminine voice. In an instant he’d recovered, and gave her the elevator eyes.
“I do, now that you’re here,” he said cockily.
She smiled coyly, beginning to gather up the crime scene photos in a distracted way. “I’m flattered; I don’t normally appeal to everyone’s taste.”
“Yeah, well, my taste isn’t everyone’s.”