Everyone chows—even Ellen and the Pig are fairly distracted with it—except Sean, who merely sips coffee and watches me. I can sense he wants to finish what he started out on Covington. Well, if he hates me now… just wait.
As the clock approaches eleven, my stomach full and my palate satiated—let’s call it my last meal—I tell them I’m ready to name names and confess to crimes committed. Everyone cleans their area, tosses their trash into a metal can in the corner. The room smells of olive oil and stale coffee.
I look down at my pad, satisfied with everything I’ve written, provided enough information to blow their minds. The fuse is set, and I light it as I hand my pad to Coffee Guy. He takes it but does not look at it, merely hands it to the lady next to him, who hands it to the guy next to her. The pad slowly moves along the table, the fuse burning down with every body closer to Ellen and Ciacco. And when it reaches Ellen, she places it evenly between her drink and Ciacco’s.
The Pig studies it, turns a hand up in confusion, starts flipping pages to read all the notes I have on this solitary individual, everything I ever knew, addresses, dates, conversations.
“One name,” he says. “This isn’t a list. Where’s the list? This is one name.” He looks down at the top page, with the single person’s moniker on it, and says, “And who the hell is Randall Gardner?”
Kaboom.
From the corner of my eye, I see Sean lean forward and put his coffee cup on the table, slide to the edge of his chair, stare and frown at me.
Within seconds everyone in the room is startled by a tap on the mirror—from the other side. Ciacco gets up and walks through the adjoining door, disappears for five minutes. I don’t say a single word. Everyone follows suit.
By eleven-thirty the energy that once crackled around the table has fizzled to the intensity of a sparkler. Ciacco and Ellen sit and stare forward in defeat as the room empties, like two teenagers caught throwing a party by parents who arrived home earlier than expected. No one is behind the glass anymore, the door wide open, the lights off. Ciacco, Ellen, and Sean are now joined by each of their respective superiors: the people from behind the glass. I unravel the entire story, elaborate on the details covering the subsequent pages beyond Gardner’s name. I explain how his gambling addiction was firmly in place before Justice promoted him to handling more sensitive data, how the salary they provided was not enough to offset his recurring losses, how I became as dependent on him as he did on me.
When the doubt and disbelief begin to emerge—the denial that their system would permit this to ever happen—I ask the simple questions, turn Socratic to help them understand.
How would I even know who Randall was or what he did for a living?
How could I supply such detailed and correct information, like addresses of the specific buildings where he worked, the specific database system they utilized, and details of what he did and did not have access to?
And best of all: “How could I have possibly known so many locations where Melody had been relocated at exactly the right time?”
Ciacco sighs with his teeth clenched, makes a whistling sound. “So that’s it?”
“Sorry?” I say.
“You have no other information you’d like to share about your family? Perhaps starting with the recent disappearances of Manny Pastulo, Salvatore Foresi, or Vic Panella?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that.”
Ciacco taps his fingers on the table a few times, then scratches his head and says, “Rest assured we’ll be interviewing Mr. Gardner in short order, and discipline will be applied as needed. However, what you’re offering us as far as information is a pair of murders committed by someone who’s already deceased and a confession of a murder committed by you.” He laughs a little as he stands. “I’d say you’re not a likely candidate for the Witness Protection Program.” As he walks toward the door he adds, “I’d find yourself an excellent lawyer.”
I stare at the guy at the end of the table, an oversized gentleman in a well-tailored suit, and ask, “Where’s he going?”
He stares back, keeps his fist to his mouth, but Ciacco answers, “I’ve got more important things to do.”
As his hand finds the door handle, I say, “Sit down, Pig.”