She realized they were already at a stand-off. “Mr. Caterino, I need your verbal authorization to enter your residence.”
His beefy arms were crossed over his chest. He offered a curt nod. “Granted.”
Will reached ahead of her to open the door. Faith kept her purse close to her side. Her bad vibe had crested into a tsunami of red flags. Everything about Gerald Caterino felt charged, ready to explode. He was sitting on the edge of his chair. His arms were still crossed. His laptop was closed. Timecards were stacked beside it. He was wearing black cargo shorts and a black polo shirt. Bright white skin showed between the V of the unbuttoned collar. He had a landscaper’s tan that stopped with his work shirt.
Faith glanced around. There was another camera, a bubble-type, mounted on the ceiling by the kitchen door. The porch was wide and narrow. The table Caterino was sitting at had three chairs and an opening for a wheelchair.
Faith offered her credentials. Several seconds passed before he took them. He put on his glasses. He studied the ID, comparing the photo to Faith. Will handed over his wallet and received the same scrutiny.
Caterino asked, “Why are you here?”
Faith shifted on her feet. He hadn’t told them to sit down. “Daryl Nesbitt.”
Caterino’s body grew exponentially more tense. Instead of volunteering that he’d been sending Nesbitt articles for the last five years, he looked out at the back yard. Sunlight bounced off the surface of the pool, turning it into a mirror. “What’s he trying to get this time?”
“Ultimately, we think he wants to be moved to a lower security facility.”
Caterino nodded, as if that made sense. And it probably did. The last time Nesbitt had made a deal, he’d been transferred from maximum. The move had probably cost Caterino around one hundred grand in legal fees.
Faith said, “Mr. Cateri—”
“My daughter was left out in those woods for half an hour before somebody realized she was alive.” He looked at Faith, then Will. “Do you know what that thirty minutes would’ve meant to her recovery? To her life?”
Faith didn’t think that question could ever be answered, but it was clearly something he was holding on to.
“Thirty minutes,” Caterino said. “My little girl was paralyzed, traumatized, unable to speak or even blink, and not one of those filthy, fucking cops thought to check to see if she was still alive. To even touch her face or hold her hand. If that pediatrician hadn’t just wandered by …”
Faith tried to keep her tone light as a contrast to the bitterness in his voice. “What else did Brad Stephens tell you about that day?”
Caterino shook his head. “Worthless little punk did what they all do. The second you ask a cop to go on the record, they clam up. That thin blue line is like a fucking noose around my neck.”
“Mr. Caterino, we’re here to get the truth,” Faith said. “The only line we care about is the one that separates right from wrong.”
“Bullshit. You dirtbags always cover for each other.”
Faith thought about Nick grabbing Daryl Nesbitt and throwing him into the wall.
“Worthless fuckers.” Caterino hissed out a long stream of air between his teeth. “I should’ve never let you in here. I know my rights. I don’t have to talk to you.”
Faith tried to deflect with the parent card. “I’ve got a son, too. How old is Heath?”
“Six.” Caterino straightened his laptop on the table. “My ex-girlfriend, his mother, couldn’t handle it when Beckey got hurt. We didn’t part on good terms. I was really angry back then.”
Faith thought he was really angry right now. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Sorry?” he repeated. “What the hell are you sorry for?”
Faith knew she wasn’t responsible, but she felt responsible anyway. The Justice for Rebecca website had dozens of photographs that showed Beckey before and after the attack. She was a beautiful young woman who had suffered lifelong damage as a consequence of that day in the woods. Below-the-waist paralysis. Speech impairment. Vision impairment. Traumatic brain injury. According to the site, the attack had left her intellectually disabled to the point that she required round-the-clock care.
That thirty minutes in the forest had likely been the last thirty minutes that Rebecca Caterino had ever been left completely alone for the rest of her life.
Gerald Caterino pushed his glasses back onto the top of his head. He looked out at the pool again. He had to clear his throat before he could speak.
“Twelve years ago, I truly believed that the worst thing that would ever happen to me was losing my wife. Then eight years ago, my daughter goes off to college and she comes back like …” His voice trailed off. “Do you know what’s worse than both of those things, Special Agent Faith Mitchell?”
Faith could tell this was a game he’d played before. You could not guess what was worse than losing someone you loved. You could only pray that it would never happen to you.
Caterino said, “What about you, Special Agent Will Trent? What’s worse? What’s the worst thing that the two of you could do to me right now?”
Will didn’t hesitate. “We could give you hope.”
He looked sucker-punched. His eyes began to water. He nodded once. He looked back at the pool.
Will said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Caterino. We’re not here to give you hope.”
His throat worked again. Faith realized that what she had taken for anger could actually be Gerald Caterino’s way of coping with fear. He had spent years trying to avenge his daughter. He was terrified that he would spend another five, ten, thirty years without finding closure.
Will asked, “Can you tell us why you mailed those articles to Daryl Nesbitt?”
Caterino shook his head. “That sneaky piece of shit is so crooked that he should’ve joined the police force.”
Will asked, “Why those articles in particular?”
Caterino looked up at Will. “What does it matter?”
Will said, “That’s why we’re here, Mr. Caterino.