Tuesday, September 21, 3:50 p.m.
“You should have called me,” Barlow said between his teeth. He and Olivia stood looking into Interview Two, where Lincoln Jefferson sat in a chair at the table, his hands cuffed and his legs shackled. He hadn’t asked for an attorney yet. Olivia wasn’t certain that enough of his mind was present to do so.
“I did call you,” she said calmly. “That’s why you’re here.”
Barlow’s jaw clenched. “You should have called me right away.”
Olivia glanced to her left. Special Agent Crawford stood beside her, his intense gaze fixed on Lincoln Jefferson, as if willing him to speak. She didn’t like the FBI man but knew better than to fight his presence. “You were processing a crime scene. I called you when we’d confirmed this man’s identity.”
“I can’t believe his name really is Lincoln Jefferson,” Kane said.
“His brother is Truman Jefferson,” Olivia added. “The mother confirmed it.”
“I want Moss,” Crawford said in a low, angry voice. “Let me talk to this shit. He’ll know where Moss is hiding.”
“That’ll be up to our captain,” Kane said carefully. “But nobody sees him until our shrink gets here. Lincoln may have no bearing on our case, but we can’t assume that. Dr. Donahue will assess him and advise the best way to question him.”
“He’s not crazy,” Crawford said with contempt. “He’s an arsonist, plain and simple.”
“The behavior David Hunter described makes him sound pretty crazy,” Olivia said. “Either way, we do nothing until Donahue gets here and does the psych eval.”
“We’re wasting time,” Crawford hissed. “You may not feel the urgency of this situation, Detective, but I do. Every minute he sits there is another minute Moss is free to plan his next attack. I’m going to talk to him, before it’s too late.” He started to move into the interview room and Olivia grabbed the lapel of his black suit.
“Cool your jets, Agent Crawford,” she warned sharply, releasing his lapel. “This is not your investigation.”
“It will be,” he said. He left the viewing area and Barlow sighed.
“Thank you. He’s been breathing down my neck all day.”
“Which is a major reason we didn’t call you,” Kane said reasonably. “We didn’t want Crawford going off on Lincoln in David Hunter’s living room.”
“Where is Hunter?” Barlow asked wearily.
“Filling out a complaint,” Olivia said. “He followed us. His promising to come to the station with Lincoln was the only way we could keep him calm enough to transport.”
“We thought we were going to have to request a tranquilizer gun,” Kane said, only half joking. “Lincoln went wild when the uniformed cops showed up to cuff him. It was only when Hunter talked to him that he calmed down. Bizarre, considering.”
“Yes, it is.” Jessie Donahue joined them at the window, watching in silence for a minute. “What’s that he’s chanting?” she asked. “I can’t make it out.”
“Valla Eam,” Olivia told her and Donahue nodded.
“‘Defend her,’” she murmured. “SPOT’s rallying cry. What can you tell me?”
“Just what his mother told us,” Olivia said. “She said he was diagnosed as a schizophrenic at twenty-one, when he was at the university. With meds, life is better.”
“But he doesn’t take his meds,” Dr. Donahue said.
Olivia nodded. “According to his mom, that’s true. She said Lincoln has been in and out of psychiatric care for the last ten years.”
“You think he really was at the last SPOT fire?” Donahue asked.
“He was a student in Moss’s university class twelve years ago,” Kane said. “It fits.”
“He was in the home of the firefighter who caught the ball. Did he say why?”
“Conspiracy theory. The fire department was dragging Moss’s name through the mud.” Olivia eyed Donahue. Since joining the team, the shrink had made no reference to Olivia’s three mandated visits. Or the fourth that she’d rescheduled six times. “Is Lincoln crazy?”
Donahue met her eyes and Olivia had the sense the woman was reading her mind. Discomfiting. “If he’s diagnosed schizophrenic, then yes, he’s certifiably crazy. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be held accountable for what he did today or twelve years ago.”
“Special Agent Crawford wants to talk to him,” Kane said. “Dig Moss’s whereabouts out of his brain.”
Donahue frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
The door closed sharply behind them. “It doesn’t matter,” Crawford said smugly. He was standing next to Abbott, who looked worn out.
“We are to cooperate with the FBI,” Abbott said stiffly. “So let the man through.”
What followed made them all cringe. Crawford was twice as belligerent with Lincoln as he’d been with them, repeating his demand, “Tell me where Moss is,” again and again. Within minutes Lincoln was cowering and rocking in his chair.
Donahue crossed her arms over her chest. “What is he doing?” she asked angrily.
“Crawford’s an old-fashioned sink with two spigots,” Barlow said. “One hot, one cold. This morning we got cold. A few times during the day, he went hot. It was not fun.”
“But you’re not a schizophrenic off his meds,” Olivia said. She looked at Abbott, frustrated. “Don’t let him break Lincoln’s brain before we can talk to him.”
A few seconds later, Crawford himself gave Abbott an official out when he grabbed Lincoln’s collar and yanked him so that he sat up in the chair. “You will answer me.”
Abbott stepped into the room. “Special Agent Crawford, you have a phone call.”
“I’m busy. Take a message.”
Abbott shook his head. “I’m sorry. You need to take this call. Please.”
Crawford thrust Lincoln away in disgust. “I’ll be back for you,” he said angrily, then followed Abbott into the observation room. “What the fuck?” he exploded as soon as the door was closed. “How dare you? I was going to break him.”
“We don’t want him broken,” Abbott said. “He is our witness.”
“He’s wanted for a goddamn federal crime,” Crawford said, getting in Abbott’s face. “Are you going to give him milk and cookies? What kind of department do you run?”
“A successful one,” Abbott said quietly, not moving a muscle, not backing down. “Now, we will question him, but we’ll follow the advice of our psychiatrist.”
Crawford’s expression became one of blatant disrespect. “And she’ll say he’s crazy, that he can’t be held responsible,” he said sarcastically. “Then be my guest. Try the milk-and-cookies approach. See if you can cajole a confession out of him.”
“Under this kind of duress,” Donahue said, “no confession you pull from him will hold weight in court anyway. His defense attorney will leap all over this. I don’t think you want that, Special Agent Crawford.”
“I don’t want him. I want Moss,” Crawford uttered slowly as if they were all stupid.
“Then we need to calm Lincoln down,” Kane said. “Liv, you up to try?”
“We both tried to calm him down back at David’s,” she said. “The only person he listened to was David Hunter.”
“The firefighter?” Crawford asked, narrowing his eyes. “What did Hunter tell him?”
Olivia looked at Abbott, purposely ignoring Crawford. “David’s been reading Moss’s speeches since he caught the ball. The uniforms had cuffed Lincoln and had him facedown on the carpet. David started quoting Moss’s speeches, word for word.”
Abbott’s brows lifted. “Some memory.”
You have no idea, Olivia wanted to say, but swallowed it back. “Apparently so. He thinks Lincoln might be the guy who built the Web site shrine to Moss.”
“Where is Hunter now?” Abbott asked.
“Filling out a complaint,” Kane said. “You want him in there?”