Rage Against the Dying - By Becky Masterman Page 0,50

window where Mike had moved very quickly to saunter toward the dirt bike at the edge of the property. Lynch started after him.

I picked up the box before he could think about selling the contents on eBay and asked, “Would you mind if we took the box along, Mr. Lynch? You don’t seem to have any use for this stuff.”

“Mr. Lynch, what was in that box doesn’t necessarily prove your son is a serial killer,” Coleman said.

Lynch started to turn away, snapping as he did, “Oh, just kill him and get it over with.”

I saw us losing control of the interview, gave Coleman a hard look. This wasn’t an authorized visit and we needed to make the most of it. She stopped him and handed him a card, which he tucked in his shirt pocket without looking at it. “Mr. Lynch, do you know of anyone else who might have been associated with your son over the years?”

“Can’t rightly say,” he said, heading quickly down the hall to the living room as if he couldn’t care less how long we stayed.

“Is there anyone who might benefit from your son confessing to the Route 66 murders?” I called after him as he went out the front door. “Did he ever mention any name at all?”

But Lynch had other things on his mind. Over the growl of the motorbike he set his feet wide apart and yelled at his son with raw fury, “You tell me, goddamit. You get off that fuckin’ bike and tell me if Floyd killed my dog.”

As we stepped down the rickety metal steps of the trailer, between the shouting and the motor, I was able to come closer to Lynch, take off my sunglasses. I hoped to catch him off guard when I asked without Coleman hearing, “Did he ever mention the name Brigid Quinn?”

All I was to him was an annoyance. He gripped me around the upper arm and his face came very close to mine. He tongued the groove in his lip.

“It’s not my fault,” he said, his breath muddying the air with its shame. “You have a kid who turns out to be a monster. Doesn’t deserve to live. What do you do then? I shoulda drownded the little bastard when I had the chance.”

Nineteen

Coleman expertly turned on the ignition and the AC simultaneously. “Shit, we forgot to ask him if his wife was a fan of Kate Smith. That’s what Floyd said.”

“Textbook interviews only happen in the textbooks,” I said. “Here’s to Barky. May he rest in peace.”

She said, “I never said Floyd was a nice man. Did you know he said he experimented by mummifying animals?”

“Yes, that was part of the video you gave me, but the family pet? I mean, come on.”

“Still not a capital offense,” Coleman said. She deftly maneuvered her Prius out of the trailer park and onto the main street of Benson. “I’m going to stop at that Burger King we saw on the way in to get a Coke for the ride back. Want something?”

“Yes. Don’t go through the drive-through, park so I can go inside and pee. And please get me a Coke, too.”

I did, she did, and we were back on I-10 in short order heading west while slurping our sodas. It’s about an hour’s drive back to Tucson proper, so she got chitchatty the way people do on long automobile rides after interviewing a couple of jerkwads. It’s a way of assuring yourself you’re one of the normal people.

“How did you get into the Bureau?” she asked.

I slurped the remaining soda, jiggled the ice to make the most of it. “Family was a cop family, dad and brother in city police, sister joined the CIA. My sister Ariel and I played with Barbies, but they busted Ken for possession instead of going to the prom.” Coleman laughed, I assume because she thought I was kidding. “How about you?”

“I joined right in the middle of the Route 66 killings,” Coleman said. “I thought you got lousy treatment, by the way, then and, and later.” “Later” would be code for when I shot the perp. “I thought you were one of the best,” she said.

“I’m not dead yet,” I said. Time to change the focus: “Beyond the ears, that whole interrogation video was something to watch. Good work. You spent a lot of time with that guy. Pretty disgusting, huh?”

“Not—” and stopped to clear her throat.

I was rapidly coming to recognize that Coleman always had something