Bones of the Lost(83)
Creach’s hands dropped, allowing a better view of his face. The harsh fluorescent lighting turned the white patch on his cheek a pallid blue.
“Hey, man.” Creach flicked a nervous grin. “What’s happening?”
Slidell stared down at his subject, silent and unsmiling.
“Guess I got a little worked up.” Creach made an odd giggling sound.
Slidell pulled out a chair.
“Dude has no sense of humor. I’ll apologize. No harm no foul, right?”
Slidell sat. Opened the file. Slowly sorted and organized the contents.
Creach sat back. Sat forward.
Slidell checked that the AV equipment was on and working.
“This interview will be recorded. For your protection and for mine. Do you have any objection to that?”
Creach shook his head.
Slidell hit a button. “Present at this interview are Detective Erskine Slidell, Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department Felony Investigative Bureau/Homicide Unit, and Cecil Converse Creach.” Slidell provided the date and time.
As Creach watched nervously, Slidell drew a paper from his stack and pretended to read. I knew what he was doing. And why he’d left Creach waiting so long. He wanted Creach anxious, vulnerable. More likely to make mistakes.
Slidell laid down the paper. “Class is now in session.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You ever go to school, CC? Maybe ride the special bus?”
“School of hard knocks.” Creach giggled in a way that made me think of Jack Nicholson in Easy Rider.
“You think this is funny?”
“I thought you was joking. You know, that shit about going to school.”
Slidell just stared.
Creach’s right foot started pumping, sending one bony knee bouncing like a piston.
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“That’s what we call a double negative, CC. If you didn’t do nothing, then you done something. Which is why you’re sitting here stinking up my interrogation room.”
Some interviewers like to put their subjects at ease, gain their trust, then take advantage. Not Slidell. He believes in going straight for the kill.
“You’re on parole, ain’t that right?”
Creach nodded.
“A drunk and disorderly violates. Am I right again?”
No reaction.
“You don’t cooperate, CC, your skinny black ass is back in the joint. I hear you’re a popular guy inside.”
Creach’s eyes began jumping around the room.
“Look at me, dipshit. You lose focus, I lose patience. You don’t want that.”
“You got it wrong, man.”
“Do I? Let’s try this. Passion Fruit Club.”
Creach looked genuinely confused.
“Ever get your pipe cleaned at the Passion Fruit?”
“What?”
“You need I should spell it out real slow?”
Creach opened his lips, but said nothing.
“I asked a question, asshole. You get your joystick tuned up at the”—Slidell hooked quotation marks—“massage parlor?”
Creach couldn’t sit still. His fingers picked at the table edge. His sneaker went rat-tat-tat on the tile.
Slidell sighed and began gathering his papers.
Creach’s hands flew up. “Fine, then. Yeah. I been there.”
“When?”
“Couple times. Maybe three.”
“When?”
“Like, a date?”
“Yeah, dipshit. Like a date.”
“I’m not so good with dates.”
“Dig real deep, CC.”
Creach’s eyes stilled as he thought about his recent timetable.
“A few weeks ago, maybe.”
Slidell tipped his head.
“A Monday? Yeah. I remember. Two weeks ago Monday. I was with this guy Zeno. Zeno said they got fresh stuff dancing at the Bronco Club.”
I grabbed my iPhone and opened the calendar. Two Mondays back. The day our Jane Doe died.
“What do you mean, ‘fresh stuff’?”
“The owner brings new dancers in the first Monday of every month. When we’re flush, Zeno and me go to check out the titties.”
“How old are these titties?”
“I don’t know.”
Slidell drilled Creach with a look.
“The ones come those special Mondays, they’re young.”
“Kids?”
“Look, man. I don’t ask their IDs.”
“And sometimes these young ladies rock your world.”
“No way.” Creach’s head wagged too fast and too many times. “One of them complained about something, it wasn’t me. Or if they’s underage or something.”
“Uh-huh. Let me guess. You can’t afford poontang at the Bronco, so you go down market to the Passion Fruit. What, the chicks a little older there? Maybe got all their molars?”