His smile disappears and he leans forward. He puts his arms on the table and folds them. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you.”
“If I’m the man you think I am, then I’ve already proven I’m smarter than you. But no, I’m not that man. Which proves I can’t be that smart.”
“Yeah, well, you were too smart this morning for that psych test. That zero percent rating of yours. You know what that was, don’t you? That was your ego. That was you proving to the rest of the world just how smart you thought you really were, but the results are back, Joe, and that ego of yours fucked you over.”
“Whatever,” I say, annoyed that he knows about the test. I guess word gets around, even if you’ve been fired from the force.
“Truth is, I kind of like the way you sounded when you were mentally challenged. Kind of went with your look. That’s why you pulled off that routine so well. I mean, of course you fooled us, Joe, because you played the perfect fool.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, okay, Carl? You’re trying to make fun of me, trying to put me down, what is it you want that doesn’t need my lawyer present?”
He leans back. He doesn’t interlock his fingers like the psychiatrist. Maybe he’s come to the same conclusions about psychiatrists that I have.
“You said you needed my help,” I say, prompting him, and his face twists up a little as though the words have cut him somehow. “Hell, Carl, you look pretty pale. You feeling okay?”
“Twenty thousand dollars,” he says.
I must have missed part of the conversation. “What?”
“That’s what I’m here to offer you.”
I start to laugh as hard as he did earlier, only mine is forced, not real at all, and the act doesn’t work. I end up coughing, and a few wet strands of something warm fall out of my nose and hit the desk. My eyelid locks up, and I have to reach up and close it manually to get it working again. Schroder sits there silently the whole time, just watching me, shifting occasionally to adjust his wet clothes.
“We got your DNA,” he says. “You drank and ate at your victims’ houses. You were found with Detective Calhoun’s gun. We’ve got audio tapes you made from our conference room so you knew where our investigation was at. We got a parking ticket that was once in your possession that led to a body at the top of a car parking building.”
“We? You’re a cop again now are you?”
“We’ve got your DNA everywhere, Joe. We have so much on you that—”
“You’re still saying we,” I point out.
“That you’re embarrassing yourself with this insanity plea,” he says, carrying on. “A guy can’t kill as many people as you did and get away with it as long as you did unless he was in complete control of himself.”
“Or unless the police force is made up of monkeys and morons,” I say. “So is this meeting over, Carl, or are you going to tell me what it is that you want that involves twenty thousand dollars?”
“Like you know, I no longer work for the police force anymore,” he tells me. “In any capacity.”
“No shit. I’m surprised you’re working at all. I saw the footage of you showing up drunk to a crime scene. It made good TV viewing. You deserved to be fired.”
“I work for a TV show now.”
“What?”
“It’s a show about psychics.”
I slowly shake my head, hoping to shake something loose in there that will help any of this make sense, but I’m missing the bits and pieces to make that happen. A psychic? Money? What the fuck? “What the hell are you on about, Carl?”
“It’s a show about psychics who help solve unsolved cases.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“They want to look at your case.”
“My case? I don’t have a case, Carl. I haven’t hurt anybody.”
Schroder nods. No doubt he expected this answer. “Okay, let me speak hypothetically here,” he says. “Let’s say you know where Detective Calhoun is.”
“I don’t. All I know is that he’s dead.”
“But we’re being hypothetical here, Joe.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I tell him. “Hyper what? Hyper pathetic? I’m not good with big words.”
He closes his eyes and pinches the top of his nose again for a few moments. “Look, Joe, this show,” he says, talking into his hand, “they’re willing to pay you twenty thousand dollars on the chance that you may know where the body is.” He pulls his hand away from his nose and interlocks his fingers with his other hand. “Giving us a location would in no way suggest your guilt. In fact both you and the show would sign waivers to say you could never discuss with anybody that you gave this information. Now, hypothetically, if we found the body, what would your guess be that there is anything the police could use to find Melissa?”
I think about it. I set fire to Detective Calhoun’s dead body, and I buried it. There’s nothing there for the cops to find, just ashes and bone and dirt, maybe a few fragments of clothing.
“Look, Joe, we know Melissa killed him. We know you hid the body. You have nothing to lose by telling us where he is, and a lot to gain.”
“What does the show need with the body?” I ask, but the words are barely out of my mouth before I know the answer. They want to find it. They want to put on some stage show with the dead, probably with the late Detective Calhoun, probably some psychic surrounded by candles and going into some kind of fuck-knuckle trance. Then he’ll lead them to his remains. The TV viewing public will love it. The show will gain ratings, it’ll gain attention, the psychic on the case will gain a fan base for more shows, maybe even write a book. “Wait,” I tell him. “I’ve figured it out. The psychic wants to eat him.”
“Yeah, Joe, that’s right.”
“What the hell am I going to do with twenty thousand dollars?” I ask.
“You can use it to make yourself more comfortable,” he tells me. “Money is as good in here as it is anywhere else. Hell, maybe you can use it to get yourself a better lawyer.”
“First of all, Carl, no, money is much better out there than in here. Secondly, I don’t know where this dead guy is,” I say, and before Schroder can react I raise a hand in a stopping gesture. “But maybe I’ll think about it overnight. Twenty grand isn’t going to help the thinking, though. In fact I’m having a psychic vision of my own. I’m sensing . . . I’m sensing that if it were fifty grand I might be more helpful.”
“No way,” Schroder says.
“Yes way. The way I see it, Carl, Sally got paid fifty grand after you arrested me, right?” I ask, and it’s true. Last year there was a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for my capture, and somehow The Sally—the overweight, Jesus-loving maintenance worker at the police station—was given that reward. Somehow through a series of fuckups, The Sally figured out what the police couldn’t, and that led them to my door. “So if you’re going to hand money out like candy, then I want my share.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Hyper pathetically you should get me those contracts you’re talking about. Hyper pathetically for fifty thousand dollars I might take a guess as to where Detective Calhoun is.”
“So you’ll do it?”
I shrug. Hypothetically I just might.
“Clock is ticking, Joe. You have till tomorrow to decide.”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him. “Come back tomorrow and bring the contracts.”
Schroder stands back up. He grabs his wet jacket and doesn’t put it on, just drapes it over one of his dry arms. He moves to the door and bangs on it. It’s opened and we don’t hug, he just walks out the door without even a good-bye. I wait in the room to be escorted back to my cell, my world is about waiting, and now I have something new to think about while I’m doing it—and that’s trying to figure out what kind of power fifty thousand dollars could buy in a place like this.