Kristeva felt oddly naked without his gun, and found that he would keep reaching for the spot where it was usually holstered as they were led down a prison hallway toward an interrogation room. He glanced at Devetko a few times as they walked, but the other detective didn't seem to share his feelings, instead continuing to browse the computer printouts he'd brought along with him. Kristeva had no idea how much of the case material he'd decided to look over.
"I'm thinking we should talk with Mitch first," he ventured, loud enough for the guard ahead of them to be included in the conversation; then, receiving no response, continued anyway, more quietly. "Kinnie said he's unlikely to talk to us, so it's probably best to take a shot at him before word spreads that we're here. I imagine if we talked with Jenner first and he found out, it'd spook him."
"He didn't talk at his trial, so I don't see why you think there's any chance he'll talk now that he has nothing to gain from it," Devetko said.
Well, at least he was listening. Kristeva shrugged. "Two birds with one stone, I guess."
"More like, the second Chief Bowen finds out about this visit, the sooner both of us will be stuck on desk duty, so yeah, two birds with one stone, since it's not like there's going to be another stone any time soon."
"From what I read about him, Mitch isn't that bright," Kristeva said, opting to change the subject. "Not stupid, exactly...just lacking in common sense. Hates authority, and wants to be a leader, but has a need to be a follower. Wrap your brain around that. Apparently he had some delusions that he was 'protected' by Satan or whatever you'd like to call it, read the Satanic Bible and all that shit, thought he had weird powers. Not nearly enough to be considered insane, just...lacking in common sense."
"He considered himself a Satanist?"
"Well...yes and no. Depends on how you'd define 'Satanist.' Most Satanists don't actually believe in Satan as in this red pointy-horned guy with a pitchfork."
"I wasn't aware anyone still thought that. Nowadays doesn't he just walk around with a goat's head?"
Kristeva pursed his lips. He'd really have to stop underestimating this guy. "Well...most Satanists don't actually believe that, either. It's more like a state of mind or something. Self-empowerment. 'Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.' They're more like atheists than anything." He gestured at Devetko's folder, unsure whether it held any of the court transcripts or not. "Apparently Mitch never got the memo on that. I think the more appropriate description for him would be 'Devil worshipper.'"
"Semantics," Devetko said, but didn't elaborate. Then, almost under his breath, "It's almost like you've made a hobby out of this sort of stuff."
"It kind of comes with the territory. If these are the sort of people I'm going to be dealing with, then I'd like to know what's going on in their heads." He looked toward the prison guard who was leading them down the hallway. "Suffice it to say that whatever approach we use on Mitch won't work on Jenner. I haven't been able to figure out where he stands on all this. But judging by their mindsets, if either one of these two was a 'real' Satanist, it'd be him."
From the corner of his eye he saw Devetko glance toward him slightly, then back at the papers. The guard slowed down and halted before a metal door, retrieving one of numerous keys and unlocking it and gesturing them inside. The room was even more barren than the interrogation rooms at the station, with its concrete floor and cinderblock walls and single table with the legs bolted to the ground; the three chairs were the only moveable equipment. Kristeva glanced up and spotted a security camera in the corner just under the ceiling. "Everything you say here is being recorded," the guard said, before turning and exiting the room--"The prisoner will be with you shortly"--and then the door clanged shut behind him, leaving them in silence.
Kristeva turned toward Devetko as the other detective settled into a chair, still looking at the papers. "We're going to need an approach, since I doubt he'll just talk freely. Good Cop, Bad Cop is way too obvious; he might be dense but he'd see right through it." He paused for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek and staring at the wall. "Sane Cop, Crazy Cop?"
"What?" Devetko lifted his head and frowned at him.
"Something to get him talking. You think Sane Cop, Crazy Cop might stand a chance?"
Devetko's frown grew. "You're joking, right?"
"Well..." Kristeva shrugged. "Toss me some ideas if you think you can do better. If not--" He held out his fist. "Best two out of three gets to choose."
"What are you talking about--?"
"Rock, Paper, Scissors. Winner picks Sane Cop, or Crazy Cop, or whatever cop they prefer."
Devetko's face screwed up now. "I'm not playing Rock, Paper, Scissors and I'm definitely not playing Sane Cop, Crazy Cop, whatever the hell that is. I thought we were here to do an interview, not pretend to be fourth graders!"
Kristeva bobbed his fist, undeterred. "It's a thoroughly legitimate interrogation technique, why else do you think we've been using it for years? Does it really trivialize it if we modify it for the situation?" He made scissors out of his fingers. "I'll even give you the first one free if it makes you feel any better."
Devetko slapped his hand away. "I have an idea, how about Talkative Cop, Silent Cop? And I choose Talkative Cop so that's out of the way. All you have to do is sit and keep your mouth shut."
Kristeva pursed his lips again--"I really don't see how that'll work, but we can give it a shot"--and pulled out the second chair and sat. A few minutes later, the door opened again and the guard reentered, his hand on the elbow of a young man in handcuffs and an orange prison uniform. He was considerably thinner, and there were dark rings under his eyes, but Kristeva recognized Mitchell Barnes from his mugshot; judging by the way Mitch looked at him and then at Devetko, brow furrowing slightly, he could tell the inmate must have no idea who they were or why they were there. He'd requested ahead of time that the nature of the meeting be kept as ambiguous as possible, and it looked like this request had been granted.
The guard pulled out the chair on the other side of the table and pushed down on Mitch's arm so he was forced to sit, even though he wasn't putting up any fight. Mitch winced a little when he landed hard on the seat, and watched the guard turn and exit the room, shutting the door and remaining posted just outside. He turned back and looked from Kristeva to Devetko again.
"What is this?" he asked.
"I'm Det. Devetko and this is Det. Kristeva," Devetko said, gesturing vaguely toward Kristeva without bothering to look up, as if the printouts before him were the most fascinating thing in the world. "We wanted to ask for some information related to a cold case."
"Detectives?" Mitch frowned. "From where? What department?"
"Minot Police Department."
Mitch's eyes narrowed and he scootched his chair back from the table a little. "Oh yeah, right. Guess you haven't heard. I don't feel like talking to anybody Kooky Kinnie sends this way."
"We're here following up on a case on our own," Devetko said, still not bothering to look at him. "Nobody sent us. You've heard yet of the Missing Persons Unit...?"
"Missing Persons...?" Mitch's perplexed frown returned. "I don't know anything about any missing people. You said you're from the MPD? And Kinnie didn't send you? I find that pretty hard to believe..."
"It turns out there's a cold case that might be peripherally related to your own case. You didn't provide much information at your trial."
"Well, there's this Fifth Amendment thing for a reason, you know? Lot of fucking good it did." He peered at Kristeva now. "Your friend here ever talk? What's the matter, pig got your tongue?"
"Speaking of..." Devetko pulled out a paper and turned it around, sliding it toward Mitch. "You were the one behind this, correct?"
Mitch looked down at the photo of the slain goat with the warning sign around its neck and his mouth twitched. "Yeah, some of my best work, actually. Why, you want an autograph? Sorry, but I don't sign for cops. Hope you understand."
"According to the court transcripts you were actually ordered to produce these threats by Officer Chad Jenner, is that correct?"
Mitch's smile promptly vanished and a scowl took its place, though Kristeva thought he detected a trace of fear in his eyes. "Like I can't figure out how to cut up a stupid goat on my own. Anyway, I already said, this Fifth Amendment thing. Look it up. If this is all you've got to ask me about, I think I want to go back to my cell now." Another glance at Kristeva. "What's this guy's deal, already? Is he gonna ask me something or not--?"
Devetko just pushed another paper toward him. "Do you recognize any of these people?"
Mitch reached out with both hands--since the wrists were cuffed together--and pulled the printout toward himself. The grainy photo of Det. Singer and his family. "No," he said, without a trace of recognition on his face, "am I supposed to?"
"The man in the photo is Det. Wesley Singer. An undercover detective who went missing while on the job back in 198*."
"And you honestly think I'm gonna recognize this guy. You checked my records before you came here, you know how old I am, right?" He leaned forward for a closer look. "Missing, you said? For like twenty* years? This is your cold case? I'd say it's more like Antarctica." He let out an unpleasant bark of a laugh. "He's probably dead and buried in a cement pit or something somewhere, I bet. Good riddance. Another pig bites the dust." Looking at Kristeva--"Sorry if he was a good personal friend of yours or something. Oh wait, no, I'm not. Seriously, what is your fucking issue?--are you too retarded to talk?"
"So you know nothing about Det. Singer, haven't even heard his name in passing or some such--?"
"I guess you're too dense to realize what I meant when I said if you know how old I am. This geezer was probably dead and dust long before my time. They don't teach you guys math, huh? But they let you carry guns."
"It doesn't take a great deal of intellect to shoot somebody," Devetko said, "though I'm sure you're quite aware of that."
Kristeva had to fight not to smile at that; Mitch briefly looked confused, then the scowl returned. He pushed the photo away. "Well, like I said, if that's the tone this is taking, I think I want to go back, now. You're done with these stupid-ass questions--? I think your partner needs his diaper changed, might be getting ready to say his first word."
"Not quite yet. You remember I mentioned our cold case seems to tie in with your own case. Det. Singer was investigating a criminal group when he went missing."
"Yeah, big fucking whoop. Still don't see what this has to do with me."
"This criminal group was also investigated by a Sgt. Mark Kincaid of the MPD," Devetko said, "not long after Singer went missing. A raid uncovered weapons, drugs, pornography, and what looked like cult-related paraphernalia. I read that you consider yourself a cultist. You might find such items familiar...?" He pushed forward a printout of some of the items seized in Sgt. Kincaid's raid.
At the name Mark Kincaid, all the blood had drained from Mitch's face. He didn't even bother looking at the picture. "That was way before my time," he said after a long silence, his voice thin, barely above a whisper.
"So you're saying you wouldn't know anything about that," Devetko said, finally looking up and meeting his eyes.
"Yeah, that's what I'm saying."
"It wasn't too long before Officer Jenner's time, though, even if he wasn't old enough to be on the police force just yet. He would've been, what, in his mid-teens? Presumably around Lt. Kincaid's age. Because I forgot to mention, a missing teenager named Alan Doe was also found on that raid, though you probably know him better as 'Kooky Kinnie.' I find it kind of hard to believe that Jenner never once mentioned any of this in all the time he was mentoring you, or whatever word you'd use for whatever you were doing."
Mitch had started twitching and fidgeting a little during this, practically gnawing on the inside of his mouth, and Kristeva could tell that some part of him was aching to let something out, but the rest was forcing him to keep it in. "I don't have anything to say about that," he said; then he snapped at Kristeva, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you staring at me like that? Why won't you say anything--?"
"Unless you're a total moron," Devetko said, drawing the pictures back toward himself, "there's no way it's possible you're completely unaware of the sorts of activities your group engages in. I don't mean just murder or cutting up animals, either, but even more lovely things like human trafficking and child pornography. That's the kind of porn they found on Sgt. Kincaid's raid, you do know--? Kiddie porn? And there's no way you're unaware that this criminal group surely has ties to the group you were with, if they're not in fact the same group. I don't believe in coincidences, and you might believe in some pretty weird stuff but I doubt you believe in coincidences, either."
"I don't know anything about kiddie porn! And don't you dare go ins--insinu--saying that I do! None of my charges had ANYTHING to do with that sort of shit!"
Devetko shrugged and tapped the papers into the folder. "Your own lack of direct participation doesn't matter much, does it, as long as you did this group's bidding? From what I hear you were so gung-ho about being a follower before you got caught. You might've learned to keep your mouth shut, but guilt by association doesn't go away once you end up behind bars. Though I can't really figure out why you refuse to incriminate anyone else, it doesn't really look like anyone else is going to stand up for you."
Mitch shot to his feet so abruptly that Devetko flinched; Kristeva tensed his muscles but didn't move. "Here's something maybe you understand. Groups like you call them have ways of getting stuff done. Stuff you've probably never heard of, ignorant as you are. And no, I don't mean dumb shit like telling people not to talk and stuff like that, that's child's play. Anybody can say they're going to kill you and then go through with it, easy stuff. Fuck, even I could do it, and I did! I don't need anybody telling me what I can and can't do. But there's stuff you don't get and never will. Too high over your heads. Just take a look, you've got these cases, ten, twenty years old, and you have no idea what you're even looking at, what certain people can do. It's right in front of you and you're too stupid to see it."
"You mean like your nonsense supernatural abilities...?" Devetko said, voice as mild as ever.
Mitch barked again. "Nonsense? See if you're singing that tune the deeper you get into this. But anyway, no, that's not what I'm talking about. We don't even need stuff like that to get things done. As for what exactly I'm talking about? You want me to make your job easier for you? Well, tough shit. Figure it out on your own." He whirled toward Kristeva, clenched his fists, and hammered them down on the table, voice rising into a shriek. "Fucking say something! Quit fucking staring at me and SAY SOMETHING!!" He swept Devetko's folder off the table so the papers skittered across the floor and the detective pushed his chair back to avoid getting hit, but all that Mitch did after that was pound his balled fists on the tabletop a second and third time, cuffs rattling; the door rattled as well and the guard outside looked in, then hurried toward him, hand reaching for his baton.* Mitch ignored him, leaning over the table toward Kristeva, eyes livid and spittle flecking his lips. "You think I'm too stupid to do things on my own? I can do plenty on my own! That July bitch, I shot her up easy on my own, and if I were out of here I could shoot you up, too! See how you like being dead!"
He suddenly backed away from the table, but not of his own volition--the guard's arms encircled him from behind and pulled him back, baton restraining his own arms against his body, just as two more guards entered the room. Kristeva and Devetko finally stood, Devetko stooping to retrieve his scattered papers and Kristeva watching as the guards subdued Mitch, recuffing his arms behind his back and shackling his feet for good measure; two of them hauled him out of the room, still yelling at the top of his lungs, while the first guard turned to the two detectives, uniform mussed and his voice slightly winded.
"Are you guys just about done yet?"
"Actually we had another prisoner to talk to," Devetko said, standing up and straightening out his folder.
The guard rolled his eyes and let out a gusty sigh. "Maybe try to keep the dramatics to a minimum this time then, okay...?" he said as he turned to the door, gesturing curtly for them to follow. They did so, albeit at a slight distance, as the guard's sour attitude didn't need any more contributing factors; Kristeva fell into step beside Devetko, who was now trying to put the mussed pages in order, and tilted his head to the side to speak in a murmur.
"I have to admit, I was skeptical."
"About what?"
"Talkative Cop, Silent Cop? I seriously didn't think that one would work. But you pulled it off wonderfully. Great choice."
Devetko glanced up at him, looking confused. Then disgust flitted through his eyes and he picked up his pace to walk ahead. Kristeva smiled although he didn't see it, and walked faster to catch up.
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