“Doughnut?” She motioned to the box. “Help yourself.”
“No thanks.”
“M.C.?”
“Sure.” She made a great show of choosing one, then taking a bite.
“Why am I here?”
“I think you know, Mr. Todd.”
“So I got a job at the Fun Zone. Big fuckin’ deal.”
“Where were you last night, Mr. Todd?”
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“At a friend’s.”
“Name?”
“Don’t have one. Met her in a bar.”
No accounting for taste. “Which bar?”
He hesitated. “Google Me.”
“You don’t seem so sure about that.”
“I’m sure. Just don’t want you pigs to know where I hang out.”
Another indication of low IQ: insulting people who carry guns and hold your fate in their hands.
Duh.
M.C. glanced at Kitt. She was watching Todd intently, the expression in her eyes fierce. She could guess her thoughts: Look at the paper, damn you.
But he didn’t. Almost pointedly. Could he be on to them? She didn’t think this one had the native intelligence to know what they were up to, but she needed to put it to the test.
“Kitt, can I have a word with you outside?”
The other woman met her eyes, immediately understanding what she was up to. They exited the interrogation room, locking the door behind them. They went around the corner to the surveillance room. There an assistant D.A., a thirtyish young man sporting Harry Potter spectacles and prematurely thinning hair, Sal and Sergeant Haas were watching the video monitor.
All homicide interrogations were videotaped, a relatively recent addition to the RPD’s investigative arsenal. The videotape provided a permanent account of the interrogation to study at length later, and a means for the department to cover its ass against rights violations and brutality charges.
Other than a quick glance in their direction, the trio never took their eyes from the monitor. M.C. pulled up a chair; Kitt stood. Todd thrummed his fingers on the table. He stood and paced. He sat again, looked at the camera and flipped them the bird.
But he didn’t give the paper more than a cursory glance.
“Maybe he can’t read,” M.C. muttered.
“He’s not the one,” Kitt said. “He’s not going for it.”
“You don’t know that for certain,” M.C. shot back.
“Yeah, I do. Dammit!”
“Hold on,” the assistant D.A. said, “he’s taking the bait.”
M.C. swung back to the monitor. Sure enough, Todd was inching his chair closer to the paper. As they watched, he leaned forward, as if craning to read the headline around the box of doughnuts.
She held her breath. Move the box. Get yourself a real good look at that paper. Read all about it, you bastard.
Instead, he spat into the box of pastries, then settled back into his seat, smiling.
“That little son of a bitch,” Sal muttered. “I was going to have one of those.”
M.C. looked at Kitt. “Let’s take the gloves off.”
Kitt frowned slightly. “That’s not the way we rehearsed it.”
“So?”
“So, we go the way we rehearsed it.”
M.C. made a sound of frustration. “He needs more heat.”
Kitt pulled rank. “We give it another minute or two. Then up our ante.”
M.C. wanted to argue, but saw Sal frown. He would not have his detectives arguing over methods, and certainly not at this important juncture. “Okay, let’s go.”
They returned to the interview room. Todd grinned at them. “Doughnut, detectives?”
“You’re a nasty little prick, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Whatever,” she repeated, pulling a chair out, angling it to face him. “Funny you would patronize a place called Google Me. After all, you wouldn’t want to be Googled, would you, Mr. Todd?”
“Fuck you.”
“Do you think that woman you spent the night with would have let you near her if she had known you’re a registered sex offender? Or maybe she wasn’t a woman at all. How old was this “friend” last night?”
Kitt stepped in before he could respond. She kept her tone low, without the edginess of her partner’s. “Who at the Fun Zone hired you?”
“The owner. Sydney Dale.” He said the man’s name on a sneer.
“No love lost there?” she asked. “Even though he gave an ex-con a job?”
“No love. You could say that. The guy’s a dick.”
“When he hired you, did he know your history?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care.”
M.C. took over. “Really? A children’s play center seems a strange place for a child molester to work. Or maybe not so strange…at least from the pervert’s point of view?”
His face turned red. “I’m not a child molester!”
“A jury disagreed, didn’t they?”
She grabbed the newspaper and tossed the front page on the table in front of him. She tapped Julie and Marianne’s photos. “Ever see either of these girls before?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?”
He stared at the paper. The headline. He put it all together. And looked ready to puke.
“Care now?”
“I never saw those girls.”
“Did you work Saturday, January 21?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I can help with that,” Kitt said. “I had Mr. Zuba check your time card. You did.”
“How about Saturday, February 11?”
“I don’t remember. Probably.”
“You did,” Kitt offered, cheerfully.
“So?”
He tried for his earlier confident attitude, but came off scared and queasy instead.
“Both those girls had birthday parties at the Fun Zone. Julie Entzel in January. Marianne Vest in February. That’s a pretty big coincidence, don’t you think? A convicted sex offender working at the place two murdered girls had their birthday parties?”
He went white. Sweat beaded his upper lips. “I want a lawyer.”
“I’ll just bet you do, Mr. Todd.” M.C. straightened. “Come on, Kitt, let’s get Mr. Innocence here an attorney. Obviously, he needs one.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
Kitt took the motherly role. “Derrick, this looks bad. You know that. I want to help you. I want to catch whoever is hurting these girls. If you didn’t do this-”
“I didn’t, I swear! I never even saw those girls at the Fun Zone. There are birthdays there all the time!”
“So, why are you working at the Fun Zone? What are we supposed to think?”
