It also made him arrogant as hell, which is how they hoped to get him to talk without a lawyer present telling him to shut up every time he opened his mouth. That and the felony rap hanging over his head for assaulting a police officer. But Arvo sensed he wasn’t the type to respond to threats and plea-bargains. No, if it was going to happen, it was going to happen because Cameron wouldn’t be able to contain himself, because he wouldn’t be able to resist showing off.
He looked relaxed and comfortable in the molded orange plastic chair: legs crossed, hands clasped loosely on his lap, mouth cleaned up. Too comfortable, Arvo thought.
The interview room had no windows; the walls were drab olive, not repainted in about five years; and the only furniture consisted of one table, bolted to the floor, and several chairs. The door was closed and the place was stuffy. Arvo leaned against the wall; Maria stood beside him, arms folded across her chest. Their turn would come later.
Joe started. “Mitch,” he said. “You don’t mind if I call you Mitch, do you?”
“Call me what you want, man.”
“Do you prefer Mitchell?”
“Mitch is fine. Mind if I smoke?”
“Sorry,” said Joe. “This building’s a smoke-free environment. Want a toothpick to chew on? I find it helps.”
Cameron laughed and took a toothpick. “Shit. The whole of California’s a fucking smoke-free environment.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Joe, with a smile. “Never mind, you’ll have plenty of time to smoke in San Quentin, Mitch.”
Cameron ignored the jibe and glanced at his watch. “Look, boys and girls, can we cut the crapola and just get on with it, huh? When this is over, I’ve got to go and see if I’ve still got a job left after that stunt you guys pulled at the club.”
“Ever heard of a kid called John Heimar?”
“Nope.”
“He worked the Boulevard.”
“Not my scene, man.”
“You trying to tell me you’re not gay, Mitch?”
Cameron leaned forward. His eyes hardened. “If I was gay, I can’t see that it would be any of your business. A little homophobic, are we, Detective? It’s not politically correct, you know.” He sat back and examined his fingernails. “Besides, an attitude like yours usually indicates latent homosexual desires, did you know that? Is that your problem, Detective? Not been sucking enough cock lately? Or been sucking too much?”
“Cut the amateur psychology, Mitch. I’m not impressed. John Heimar and what happened to him is my business.”
Cameron rested his hands on the table, palms down, and sat up straight, his eyes fixed on Joe. “Okay,” he said. “I don’t know who these other two cops are, but you told me you’re a big shot from Robbery-Homicide. So let me guess: this kid was robbed and killed? Right? And I’m supposed to have done it, right? But you haven’t got enough evidence to charge me with it yet, so you come up with some bullshit felony rap and hope to drag a confession out of me? Am I on the right track, Detective? This is why you’ve probably lost me my job?”
“Where were you on the evening of December 19?”
Cameron slouched back in his chair and looked down at the table. “How the fuck would I know? Probably at work. How do you expect me to remember that far back? Where were you?”
“Did you go down to Santa Monica Boulevard that evening? Did you pick up a kid called John Heimar? Did you kill him, dismember his body and bury it on the beach near Pacific Palisades?”
“No. No. And no. What is this?”
“Where were you over Christmas?”
He shrugged. “At work. At home. Visiting friends.”
“What about your family?”
“I don’t have any family. Well, only Mark, my brother.”
“You were with him over Christmas?”
“Some of the time. We don’t see a lot of each other.”
“And the rest of the time?”
“Work doesn’t stop just because it’s Christmas, you know. The club’s busy. People like to party.”
“What about your sister, Marianne?”
“How’d you know about her?”
“Did you see her?”
“No. She lives in Boston. Besides, we don’t get along.”
“Do you own a hammer, Mitch?”
“A hammer? I guess so. In the toolbox. I don’t—”
“Ever heard of Jack Marillo?”
“Yeah. The TV guy who got killed.” He laughed. “Don’t tell me, you’re going to pin that one on me, too, right? Just pick on old Mitchell Cameron. This is absurd. Tell me, why would I want to kill a TV star I’ve never met?”
“How about last night, Mitch? Where were you then? That’s a bit more recent. Maybe you can remember what you were doing then?”
“Working. At the club.”
“Ten Forward?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sure you weren’t up in Brentwood?”
“Brentwood? What the fuck would I be doing in Brentwood? Who do you think I am, man? Member of the country-club set, maybe playing a few holes of golf in Bel Air? Don’t talk stupid.”
They would check his alibi, of course. But Cameron was good, Arvo thought. Even denied cigarettes, he wasn’t showing any of the traditional signs of stress or of lying. Occasionally, he would probe his broken tooth with his tongue, but that was a normal enough reaction to pressure — and to a broken tooth.
He didn’t sweat, fidget or chew his lips, and for the most part, his eyes remained calm and steady, fixed on Joe. They were very expressive eyes, though, Arvo noticed. Most of the time they showed only amused, cynical detachment, but they could turn hard. Arvo also thought he saw a kind of cruel hunger in them, a hunger for power over people, dominance for its own sake. A manipulator.
The absence of guilty body language proved nothing in itself. If Cameron were the man who had terrorized Sarah Broughton, killed John Heimar and Jack Marillo and stabbed Stuart Kleigman, then he could hardly be expected to react in a normal way to interrogation.
On the other hand, he was showing no outward signs of schizophrenia or manic depression. Perhaps he had learned to hide the symptoms; or perhaps his problem lay elsewhere. A serious delusional disorder might not be so obvious to an outsider. As planned, Arvo let Joe carry on asking Cameron about the murders. His turn would come soon. Cameron did seem to be getting a little confused now and then, and maybe that would give them the edge they needed to crack him. He certainly did like to talk.
“Why did you run when we came to question you?” Joe asked.
“You know why I ran. I’ve got a record. You guys come and roust me, you’re looking for an arrest. I mean, if you look at what’s happening right now, it’s point proven. Pretty soon you’ll have me down for every unsolved murder on your books.”
“We don’t work like that, Mitch.”
“Bullshit you don’t.”
“What have you got to hide, Mitch?”
“Nothing. I told you. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
It was there, Arvo noticed. A chink in the armor. Gone almost the moment he saw it, but there: a slight twitch, no more than a tic, at the corner of one eye. In someone as controlled as Mitchell Cameron, it was a sure sign he was lying.
Joe had noticed it, too. “Come on, Mitch, you can’t expect me to believe that old line.”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“Sure you do. You want us to believe you’re innocent.”