An hour later, Avery stood in a small, dark side chamber with O'Malley and Connelly. Ahead of them, through one-way glass, sat George Fine. His hands were handcuffed to a metal table and he had bandages on his shoulders and legs from the gunshot wounds. He was lucky, Avery realized, that she had just grazed him. Her aim had been true.
Every so often he muttered something under his breath, or twitched. Blank eyes sought out nothing but seemed deep in thought.
In her hand, Avery held a picture that displayed six different black-and-white interpretations of a man's face, based off the surveillance videos of the killer. Each picture showed a Caucasian perpetrator with a narrow chin, high cheekbones, small eyes, and a high forehead. In three of the photos, the wig, glasses, and moustache had been removed, and the artist had given the killer various hairstyles and facial hair. The last three images maintained at least one aspect of the disguise in case it wasn't a disguise.
Avery took time to absorb every photo.
The face she'd seen on the cameras was embedded in her mind, and now, with a bunch of clear sketches, she was able to infer other looks: a wider chin, lower cheekbones, a bald head, larger eyes, glasses, and multiple colors for the eyes.
Every so often, she looked up Fine. There were similarities: Caucasian, high cheeks…He seemed to have a leaner frame, but they were both light on their feet. The graceful movements Avery had seen on camera were a lot like the ones she'd observed when George overtook Dan. Still, Avery wasn't sure. There were the plants and animals. Also, the killer on camera had a fiendishness about him, a spritely humor that was lacking in George. Would George Fine have bowed to a camera?
As if Connelly could mentally hear her doubts, he pointed at the window and said: "This is our guy. I'm sure of it. Look at him. He's barely said two words since he came here. Can you believe he wants a lawyer? No way. He gets nothing. We need a confession."
O'Malley had on a dark suit and red tie. He pulled at his lips and frowned and said: "I might have to agree with Connelly on this one. You said you found pictures of Jenkins in his room. He attacked and nearly killed a cop. He also fits the profile. Those sketches are a near match. What's the hesitation?"
"The pieces don't all add up," she said. "Where did he take Cindy after the abduction? How did he learn how to embalm? Randy Johnson said those hairs on Jenkins' dress were from a cat. Fine doesn't own a cat. What he does have is a lot of Internet searches for porn and relationship advice. Does that sound like a killer?"
"Listen, Black, this is a courtesy here," Connelly said with finality. "As far as I'm concerned, this case is over. We got him. He must have a safe house somewhere. That's where we'll find the cat and the minivan and the murder weapon. Your job is to find that house. Jeez, why do you always have to act like you're so much better than everyone else?"
"I just want to get it right."
"Yeah? Well, that wasn't always the case, was it?"
A feral energy pulsed from Connelly, cheeks red, eyes bloodshot as if he'd been drinking or had a rough night. He was busting out of his shirt, as usual, and he appeared ready to punch someone in the face.
She addressed O'Malley.
"Let me talk to him."
"He's your perp." O'Malley shrugged. "You can do what you want. But we think this is our guy. We've got a lot of people breathing down our necks on this one. Unless you can prove something else, and quick, let's wrap this up, OK?"
She gave him the thumb's-up.
"You got it, boss."
The door to the interrogation room buzzed and Avery pushed through. Everything was gray, including the steel table where the shooter sat, and the mirror and walls.
George blew out a frustrated breath and lowered his head. He wore the same tank top and sweats.
"You remember me?" Avery asked.
"Yeah," he said, "you're the bitch that pointed a gun in my face."
"You tried to kill my partner."
"Self-defense." He shrugged. "You busted into my room. Everybody knows Boston PD have itchy trigger-fingers. I was just trying to protect myself."
"You stabbed him."
"Talk to my lawyer."
Avery took a seat.
"Let me see if I can get this straight," she said. "You're an economics major. Average student. Army reserve. No criminal record, well, at least not before today. By all accounts, a quiet, harmless student. Only a few friends." She shrugged. "But I guess that's what you get when you're not a hard partier in college. Successful parents. One lawyer. One doctor. No siblings, but," she noted with emphasis, "a history of hard crushes. Yeah," she almost apologized, "I talked to the dean and learned all about your crush on Tammy Smith, the girl you followed from Scarsdale? Is she the reason you went to Harvard, or was that just coincidence?"
"I didn't kill anyone," he said, and looked her right in the eyes with a determined, unrelenting gaze as if he dared her to say otherwise.
Nothing about the interview felt right to Avery.
Instinct told her she'd already made the correct assessment: he was unstable and lonely, a teenager on the verge of a breakdown before the girl of his dreams was suddenly murdered, and then he snapped. But a meticulous murderer that drained bodies and put them in angelic, lifelike positions? She had trouble believing it. There was just no solid proof.
"Do you like movies?" she asked.
He frowned, uncertain about her line of questioning.
"Can you tell me what's currently playing at the Omni Theatre?" she added. "The cinema across from Lederman Park?"
A blank expression greeted her.
"There are three movies playing there," she answered. "Two of them are 3D summer action flicks. I don't really care about those," she said with a flick of her wrist. "The third is called L'Amour Mes Amis, a little French film about three women who fall in love with each other. Have you ever seen that movie?"
"Never heard of it."
"Do you like foreign films?"
"Talk to my lawyer."
"All right, all right," she said. "How about this? One more question. You give me an honest answer and I'll leave here and get you a lawyer. OK?"
He said nothing.
"No strings attached," she added. "I'm serious."
Avery took a moment to formulate her thoughts.
"You could be my killer," she said. "You really could. We have a lot of avenues to still explore but some of the pieces add up. Why else would you attack a cop? Why is your room so clean? Makes me think you have another place somewhere. Do you?"
An unreadable stare greeted her.
"Here's my problem," Avery said. "You could also just be a stupid kid that was destroyed over the death of a crush. Maybe you were furious and miserable, and obviously a little unstable because you attacked a cop. But," she emphasized and pointed to the two-way glass, "my supervising officer and my captain both think you're guilty of first-degree murder. They want to see you burn. I'm going to give you a choice. Answer one question for me and I'll rethink my position and give you what you want. OK?"
She leaned forward and peered deep into his eyes.
"Why did you attack my partner?"
A complex set of emotions passed through George Fine. He frowned and mulled over his words, and then he looked away and back at Avery.
A part of him seemed to be calculating a response, and figuring out what that response would mean in a court of law. Finally, he settled on something. He moved in closer, and although he tried to act tough, his eyes were glassy.
"You all think you're so big, so important. Well, I'm important too," he said. "My feelings matter. You can't just say we're friends and then ignore me. That's confusing. I'm important too. And when you kiss me, that means you're mine. Do you understand?"
His face cocked and tears rolled down his cheeks and he screamed:
"That's means you're mine!"
