After the Evil – A Jake Roberts Novel (Book 1) (19 page)

“What a jerk,” Harmon says.

Sometimes the public’s mentality is dumbfounding.
You can only blame so much on the gene pool. Harmon shoves the
officer in the direction he wants him to go.

“Call in and tell them what you’ve got. Get me an
address, telephone number––anything. He’s making this too easy,”
Harmon says.

“Who cares? We’ll follow the trail he’s leaving and
take him down.”

From downstairs, I hear another officer scream out
my name. We converge halfway. I can tell he is seasoned because the
information he carries is presented with urgency, but with far less
drama.

“Anything on the plate?”

“Better, a black and white’s tailing him as we
speak.”

* * *

Harmon shouts into his radio.

“Do you hear me? Stop the vehicle, but do not take
him. Advise that we’re on our way.”

We vault into my filthy, unmarked car. We can’t have
some angry, overzealous officer taking him out before his time,
unless it’s me.

Harmon doesn’t protest my driving this time.

“Damn Jake, this is too good to be true. What’s up
with this guy? Clever enough to elude capture through multiple
murders, and then suddenly he’s brain dead? I don’t get it.”

“Let’s just get there. We can analyze him
after.”

I stop talking and concentrate on driving, on Ed,
and on a psychopath. Harmon’s hands wave in all directions trying
to keep me from killing us, or someone else, before we get there.
My adrenaline is maxed out. Harmon is the first to see where they
have Gates boxed in, and his hands flail around blocking my view.
Sure as taxes, it’s a late-model, silver Lexus. Sure as death, the
plate numbers match. Sure as hell, inside waiting patiently, is
Michael Gates. Officers surround the Lexus on all sides with
weapons braced against their cars. Both of his hands are locked on
the steering wheel. My braking technique almost costs Harmon some
teeth as my car screeches to a stop.

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU, MAN?”

The senior officer on the scene approaches us as we
exit my car. I study Gates from a distance of about thirty feet.
With an emotional plea on Ed’s behalf, the sergeant suggests
something, barely above a whisper, that would invite criminal
charges against us. There is no doubt we all had the same thought.
We have all seen the bad guys walk when they should have fried. Not
an hour ago, I would have shot Gates myself.

“Plate, car and perp’s description are dead on. I
think we should finish it right here. I’d hate to see some lawyer,
judge, or jury let him walk, you know what I mean?” the sergeant
says.

Harmon gets in the sergeant’s face and gives him a
stinging reply.

“I want him by the book.”

“Just a thought. He’s all yours.”

They all loved Ed. I hope my reassuring nod is
enough. It’s hard to keep a cool head at a during a white heat
moment. Emotions are peaked. It’s never easy, but that was where
all of the training had to come in. I have to drop the personal
side of it, at least for now. Surveying the area, I see the media
hounds sniffing at the scene. Gates sits patiently knowing if he
moves. He is a dead man. It’s not his time, yet.

“I’m taking command of the scene, Sergeant. Order
him out, and I don’t want to hear a single gunshot. I hear shots
and I’ll personally shoot whoever fired them, clear?” Harmon
says.

“Yes, sir.”

The officer turns rapidly and shouts the order into
his radio. We watch as the officers holding a perimeter around the
Lexus, execute their duties professionally as they are trained to
do. Within seconds, it’s over. Gates is cuffed and in custody. They
are reading him his rights as we approach. He stares at me the
entire time as if he knows something I don’t. I can’t wait to get
him to the house. For Harmon, this man outran him during the chase.
He's the man responsible for multiple homicides. More importantly,
this man murdered Ed. Harmon’s lower lip quivers. I squeeze his arm
as he points an accusatory finger and shouts at Gates.

“You have the right to an ass-kicking. Anything you
say, or do to prevent one can and will be used against you. Do you
understand what I’m saying, punk?”

Harmon is blinded by rage. I bristle and take up a
position between them, after I see Harmon’s hand twitch toward his
service revolver during his terse reprimand.

“Put the pin back in.”

It’s the best I can come up with to settle him down.
I can only hope Harmon is listening to me. Then I hear the sound of
Gates’ dispassionate voice. He is clear and calm as he watches
Harmon.

“I hate monkeys in monkey suits.”

The statement alone could hasten his demise, but
when he follows it by blowing Harmon a perverted kiss, I have to
step in.

“Easy son, I want you back at the station in one
piece.”

It was obvious he was fearless, daring, unapologetic
and intractable. His has a contemptuous sneer on his face. I want
to smack the sneer off his face. In my mind, I picture a 9mm bullet
whistling and twisting through the air penetrating his smooth baby
forehead. The cop killer is baiting us. Maybe he’s hoping for a
“suicide by cop.” That’s what some of these crazy bastards really
want. They’re afraid to pull the trigger on themselves.

“I can’t wait to get you downtown. Are you
responsible for the murder of Edward Fairchild?” Harmon says.

Harmon’s inquiry is met with the opening act of the
Michael Gates show.

“The white man has been subverted by indulgent
liberals, political prostitutes, corporate cannibals and the
mongrelized media.”

As he is escorted away for transport, Gates shouts
to the media vultures. Every beady look, and ridiculous sound bite,
is captured on videotape. It freaks me out that Gates’ remarks are
the same ones the militia used. The last remark he makes, a
reference to the death penalty, barely makes it out of the squad
car, as he is placed into the caged back seat.

All I have to do now is get him to the precinct
alive, and get Harmon sedated. We walk back to the car, climb in
and follow close behind the transporting black and white. I tell
Harmon I will do the interrogation because he is excessively wired.
He doesn’t argue with me. We make a pact along the way that
assuming Gates is convicted, and whatever sentence he is given,
after the trial––be it the drip, or the jolt, we swear to be there.
If he does manage to be freed by some insane judge, we swear we
will personally hold court and carry out our own execution of his
sentence.

Driving off, we snake through the ever-present
disgruntled onlookers, who jeer at us because they have issues with
law enforcement. Reporters are running alongside my car screaming
asinine questions. It’s amazing. The job isn’t worth it.

Maybe Lori and I will disappear.

Harmon, still full of his personal convictions and
rectitude, can’t stop himself from voicing opinions all the way to
the house.

“That’s one villainous, arrogant and cold-blooded,
sadistic scumbag. Why didn’t he run?”

As I contemplate Harmon’s question about Gates’ lack
of interest in eluding us any longer, another silver Lexus pulls up
alongside. I’m surprised to see Lori. Her window slides down and
she calls to me.

“Jake, hey, where are you going?”

I point ahead at the black and white.

“We just captured the serial killer.”

Lori is visibly stunned by the news. Her reaction is
a contradiction. Maybe the thought of being so near a serial killer
scares her.

“Call me,” she says.

* * *

I never had sympathy for the devil, assuming there
is one. As the story goes, a fallen angel had a seat at the right
hand of God. He knew the rules, and yet he still gave it all up.
Either he has a huge set of cojones, or he is stupid. Interrogation
room B is located on the third floor, behind the secure doors of
CID. Inside the small room, roughly eight feet by ten feet, there
are three wooden chairs, and a metal table. The paint is olive
drab. There are no windows, except for the one wall with the
one-way glass. I walk inside, drop a file on the table, and look at
the pathetic Michael Gates. He smiles back politely looking
completely blameless. He is seated as far from the door as
possible, because I want him to feel isolated and alone,
disconnected from the world. I want him to feel vulnerable and
exposed, like Ed felt on his deathbed. I want him to know that I
control him. The runner is in ankle-shackles, how appropriate.

Gates will do everything in his power to try to
control me, whether by the inflection of his voice, his movements,
or by how much he is willing to reveal. We will play a game of
introjections. I will feign an adoption of his sick values to gain
his confidence, and he will either buy it, or deny it. In any case,
I plan to go through all the motions. After I get him rolling, I
will become a sympathetic listener. They all love to talk about
themselves and their sad childhoods. Before we even begin, he makes
a startling statement with a straight face.

“I want to confess,” he says.”

“Don’t you want to hear the charges first?”

I haven’t even smacked him yet.

“No sir.”

“You’re waiving your right to have an attorney
present?”

“Yes sir.”

“Hang on, let me get the equipment and we can get
started.”

There is no outward sign of hostility from me. As I
get up to leave, Gates asks for some water. I can’t wait to hear
what I’m going to get out of him for a glass of water. Cracking the
door open, I direct the officer outside to get the video technician
and his equipment, and a glass of water. It doesn’t take long
before the equipment is set up and the technician signals ready.
Again, he is read his rights for the tape and I take a seat. I
listen while Gates, for some unknown reason, starts confessing.

God help him if he’s jerking me around.

“...While dad was off on some aircraft carrier
chasing international terrorists, mom was perfectly at home beating
me. When dad came home, he took out his drunken rages on me. I
hated them both. I hated my brothers and sisters who never felt the
pain of the abuse.”

A note is made on my legal pad to check with the
Department of the Navy.

“I killed both my parents, used a shotgun and blew
their heads right off, I made my siblings watch, and then I killed
them one by one.”

Grabbing my pen, I make another note to contact the
National Crime Database to see if that case file exists. Frankly,
I’m surprised by his candor. He doesn’t hold back, and gives all of
the gory detail, telling each story as if he’s being interviewed by
one of those whack job talk show hosts. The way he is just sitting
there without a care in the world makes the process even more
unnerving. While he talks, I can’t help but think he looks like a
good kid. Walking past him on the street, you would never have had
a clue how close to the edge he was, or how much rage was inside of
him.

Was he from a dysfunctional family? Yes. Was he
more than a predatory street punk? Yes. Is he evil
?
I have
no doubt about it.

Because he appears to want to tell the entire
Michael Gates’ story, I do nothing to push him into running silent
and deep. Instead, I encourage him with a few understanding nods.
After two hours, he is still going strong with no sign of letting
up. The last mental count I made, he had already confessed to
fourteen murders. I’ll press him for details of each murder later,
but right now, I have to know one thing.

“So Michael, my question is why?”

“Why did I kill? I told you.”

Before he goes off again about his screwed-up family
life, I cut him off.

“Actually the lawyers and psychiatrists will deal
with those issues. I want to know why you decided to reveal this
information at this time. We had no idea who you were, didn’t have
a clue that you were involved. Why do you want to confess, why
now?”

My eyes narrow and my jaw tenses.

“I want to release the demons inside, Jake.”

Until now, Gates’ eyes haven’t left mine, but now he
looks past me, and sits up straight in his chair. His facial
expressions and body language reveal nothing. For all I know, he
has been lying since he started talking. Time will tell if he is as
brutal and evil as he claims to be. All I need for him to do now is
to say on tape that he murdered Ed. Gates looks back hard at me and
points his index finger to the side of his head.

“There are all kinds of things that aren’t right in
here.”

The man is articulate, well read, and probably knows
all the ins and outs of modern psychiatry, and criminal law. I
assume he is setting up his insanity defense. The next few answers
will determine what Michael Gates is up to, whether or not he will
continue to cooperate, and whether or not he is looking for a deal.
Gates searches the Spartan interrogation room. My guess is he is
looking for a hole to crawl out of.

“I interrogated Ed before I killed him. I’m familiar
with all of your interrogation techniques. I liked Ed.”

He watches closely for my reaction.

“I have been previously incarcerated.”

“You said something about that earlier.”

I make fictitious notes on my legal pad and glance
inside a folder for effect.

“But that was for some small time crime. How and
when did you graduate to the big time?”

“There are things you learn in prison you couldn’t
possibly learn in a university.”

“But from a misdemeanor to murder?”

“You’re trying too hard, Jake. You don’t know me.
You will never know me. I’ve had to make choices you are incapable
of understanding.”

There is a noticeable change in his mood. I sense
restlessness, uneasiness. He starts fidgeting.

“I knew my day would come. This is my day,
Jake.”