are?”
I’m slow to arrive at the answer he wants, but when I do, I freeze. “You think they’re here?”
Alan is quiet for a moment. “I think it’s a possibility, which is not good. Hollister’s obviously off the deep end. Something or someone’s got him bugalooed. Last time I saw behavior like this with a suspect while questioning him in his home, it turned out he’d killed his wife just before we arrived. Took a long time to answer the door, just like Hollister. Know why?”
“He was hiding the body?”
“Close. He was washing the blood off his hands. The body was stuffed behind the couch while we were interviewing him.”
“Jesus.” I feel my hackles go up at the pure creepiness of this. “What do you want to do?”
I focus my attention on Hollister, who’s holding up his end of a terse conversation with Burns. Probable cause is the name of the game. He invited us into his home, but we’re not here on a warrant. Evidence we can use is limited to what we can actually see.
“It’s time to turn up the heat,” I tell Alan. “We don’t have a legal reason, yet, to search his home. If we do it anyway, we run the risk of whatever we find being inadmissible. Somehow, we need to crack him here and now.”
“And if we don’t?”
I study Alan. “What’s your gut? Are the boys alive or dead?”
“Dead.” He says it without hesitation. “He emptied out when I brought up Avery and Dylan.”
“If you don’t break him, I’ll think of something.”
Alan cracks his knuckles, watching Hollister again. “I think the direct approach is the one to take at this point.” His voice is thoughtful. “I’ll start by explaining neurolinguistics to him. Then we’ll see.”
We head back out to the living room. Alan takes his seat again. I remain standing.
“Sorry about that,” Alan says.
“No problem,” Hollister replies. He looks relieved not to have to continue his conversation with Burns.
“I want to talk to you about neurolinguistic interviewing, Mr. Hollister.”
Hollister frowns. “Neuro what?”
“Neurolinguistic interviewing. There’s a lot of technical jargon, but I’ll simplify it for you. It’s a way of finding out when someone you are interviewing is using their cognitive process and when they’re remembering something. By cognitive process, I mean thinking. Creating an answer to a problem. Like, when I asked you earlier what movie was Eastwood’s best directing effort, you had to review the movies you’d seen and then come up with an answer based on the data you have. You follow?”
“I guess.”
“When you remember something, you don’t have to use the cognitive process. It’s a memory. You have to locate it. We access different parts of the brain for each function, and we have specific physiological reactions when we do that.” He leans forward. “It’s in the eyes.”
The tic in Hollister’s own eye starts again. “The eyes?” he repeats, somewhat moronically.
Alan nods. “Yes, sir. Most people, when they are remembering something, look up and to the right. When they’re solving a problem, they generally look down and to the left. It varies, but you ask each kind of question and establish a baseline. You know why?”
“So you can tell when they’re lying,” Hollister whispers, hollow-eyed and dreadful again.
“That’s right. If you ask them for a memory, and they access the cognitive function of their brain, that means they’re lying. When I asked you to remember what day your wife was abducted, for example, you weren’t lying. You were remembering.” He shrugs. “There’re other indicators, of course. Nervousness is an obvious one.” Alan smiles. “You were already nervous and sweating like a pig when we arrived. You said you were sick and napping, but I don’t think so.”
Hollister says nothing. He’s turned into the bird. Alan is the cobra.
“Here’s the thing I’m really concerned about, Mr. Hollister.” Alan moves closer, parting Hollister’s knees with one of his own, creating an unconscious threat to his manhood. “When I asked you about your sons? When I asked where Avery and Dylan are? You lied to me. I could see it. And that bothers me—us—Mr. Hollister. Why would you need to lie about the location of your sons?”
Hollister’s eyes have gone wide. His mouth is hanging open, though I doubt he realizes it. He’s falling apart right in front of us.
“We’re also trained to keep an eye on what we call ‘affect,’ Mr. Hollister. Do you know what that is? Roughly, it’s the observable effects of someone experiencing a particular emotion or emotions. You can have a bored affect, a sad affect, so on.” He moves in even closer, pushing his knee in further. It’s now only an inch or two away from Hollister’s crotch.
Hollister farts, once. He’s unaware of it. It’s a small toot, but it’s telling. You see this, and sometimes belching, in a highly skilled interrogation. The person doesn’t even have to be guilty. It’s a physiological reaction of fear.
“Your affect when I asked you about your sons went from fearful to a near total absence of emotion. Do you know who I see that kind of reaction in the most?” He cranes his neck forward, so that his nose is almost touching Hollister’s. “I see it in murderers.”
“Gahhh …” Hollister says.
He is shattering now. Most people have no idea how devastating an interrogation can be. Men have fainted dead away when faced with nothing more than an accusation and a badge.
“Jesus, he’s wetting himself,” Burns mutters.
I see the stain spreading before the smell reaches my nose. Alan doesn’t move.
“Where are Avery and Dylan’s bodies, sir?” Alan asks.
Hollister doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have the presence of mind for words. He extends his arm and he points. Upstairs.
I waste no time. I leave Douglas Hollister to Alan and Burns and I race up the beige-carpeted stairwell to the second floor. The lights are on in the upstairs hallway. The walls are white and covered in a patchwork of framed and carefully hung photos. I was wrong about the bedrooms. I see only two here: the double door of a master, and then a single door on the right at the end of the hallway. The other is a bathroom; I can tell because it’s open.
I begin with the master. I open the door and am hit with the faint odor of feces. I curl my nose and pull my gun and enter. It’s an unimaginative but entirely acceptable room. A ceiling fan hangs above a king-size bed. There’s a dark-blue accent wall, but the rest is white. All the furniture is wood, neither too old nor too new.
I’m never going to look at beige the same way again.
The humor doesn’t dispel the willies, and I almost fire my weapon when I hear the sound. It’s a snort, followed by a wet smacking noise. It’s coming from the master bathroom. I take a breath and clear my mind and head toward it. I reach the door, which is cracked, and I open it.
I see Avery and Dylan Hollister right away. I had expected it, but still, my heart sinks. The floor of the bathroom is carpeted with a thick shag, all the way up to the separate tub and shower. One of the boys is lying on his side, his face turned in to the carpet so that only the back of his head and his ears are visible. There is bruising around his neck. The other lies faceup, on his back, his eyes closed and his mouth open. I kneel down and check for a pulse on the first boy, hoping but not really expecting to find one. Nothing.
The smacking sounds start up again, bringing me to my feet, gun raised. They’re coming from the bathtub, which is a deep whirlpool tub. I inch over to it. I can see what I know to be a body bag inside the tub. A white tube sticks out of the bag. Suddenly the bag moves and a wet, gargling noise comes from it.
I holster my gun and climb inside the tub without thinking twice. My hands are shaking as I undo the zipper. The smell of feces is strong, but I ignore it. All I can think of is that someone’s alive inside there, maybe injured, and time’s an enemy. I push the flaps of the bag open and a horrible odor wafts out. I look down at the woman inside and I can feel the blood draining from my face. I feel dizzy for a moment.
I sit down on the edge of the tub. I want to call for Alan, but I seem to have lost my voice. All I can do is stare.
It’s Dana Hollister; I recognize her from the black-and-white photograph. She’s nude. Her eyes are empty and they stare into nothing, and her open mouth yaws, hungering at the level of instinct only, the plastic tube falling out and away.
