And when I did, he mocked her as she suffered.
And when her suffering was over, he mocked her as she died.
So then, my mistake.
I hit him. Hard. Twice. Even though he was handcuffed and wasn’t fleeing or resisting arrest. And in a dark moment of rage at what he’d done, I reached for the scalpel to go to work on him, but thankfully, I was able to hold myself back. As it was, I only broke his jaw.
Later, for a reason I’ve never been able to guess, he told the interrogating officers he’d broken his jaw when the meat hook hit him, even though it never touched him.
At the time, I didn’t want anything to jeopardize the state’s case, so in my official report I didn’t clarify things as carefully as I should have. “There was an altercation,” I wrote. “Later it was discovered that the suspect’s jaw was broken sometime during his apprehension.” It was the truth, it just wasn’t the whole truth. The physical evidence was enough to convict him, and the defense didn’t make a big deal out of the broken jaw, especially since Basque himself claimed it was accidental. The specific circumstances surrounding the fight never came up during the trial. He was convicted, sentenced, and that was the end of it.
But that wasn’t the end of it.
I still carried the memory with me. I’d physically assaulted a suspect and then omitted pertinent information in my report. It was a secret I wasn’t proud of. And Basque knew about it. And when someone knows your secrets, he has power over you.
More than anything else, psychopaths crave feelings of power and control. So maybe that was it. Maybe that’s why he’d kept quiet all these years. There was no way to know.
But one thing I did know: I didn’t like Basque having power over anyone. Especially not over me.
I found Ralph waiting for me beside the elevator bank.
Even though he’s not quite as tall as me, he’s still over six foot, and with his broad shoulders he seemed to fill the entire hallway. Lately, he’d been trying to bench as much as he did when he was an Army Ranger, before he joined the FBI. Maybe it was a midlife thing, I wasn’t sure. Last I heard, he was repping at 225-which meant he could probably max out at 405. Not bad for a guy who was pushing forty.
“Let’s go up the back way,” he said. He was popping some kind of small white snacks about the size of M amp;M’s into his mouth. He pushed open a nearby door, and I followed him through a narrow hallway toward the back stairs.
“Anything on Taylor?” I asked.
“Nothing yet. If he’s here, he’s a ghost.”
We passed a window and I saw the Cook County Jail encircled with razor wire fences lying just across an alley. That’s where they were keeping Basque.
When I was still a detective with the MPD working the Basque case, Ralph was the FBI agent who’d been assigned to help us find him. After Basque’s apprehension, Ralph had encouraged me to apply at the FBI academy. It was a few years before I took him up on his invitation, but eventually I did, and we’d been close friends ever since.
Ralph had shaved his head since the last time I’d seen him, and I decided it was worth a comment.
“Nice haircut,” I said.
“Brineesha’s idea,” he grumbled, rubbing a huge paw across his head. “Said it makes me sexy. I feel like a cue ball.”
“I agree with your wife. You’re looking good, my friend.”
Even though a few people crossed the far end of the corridor, we’d ended up in a relatively deserted part of the building. Maybe Ralph had chosen this route on purpose so we could talk without anyone eavesdropping on our conversation.
He popped some more of his snack into his mouth. “Lien-hua’s gonna be jealous when I tell her you said that.”
I felt a sting of regret as he mentioned her name. Lien-hua was the woman I’d been seeing for the last four months, a fellow FBI agent, a profiler. Ralph didn’t know our relationship was in its dying throes, and it didn’t seem like the best time to tell him, so I decided to change the subject. “What are you eating?”
The stairs they used to transfer prisoners from the jail to the courtrooms lay just ahead.
“Yogurt-covered raisins.” He slid his hand into his pocket and drew out another handful. Tossed them in his mouth.
“You’re kidding me.”
“Brineesha got me hooked on ’em last week.” He was talking with his mouth full. “Have you tried ’em? These things are amazing.”
He offered me a handful from his pocket. A clump of lint joined them in his hand.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m not really a big fan of yogurt.”
“Suit yourself.” He tossed the entire handful into his mouth, lint and all. “You’re the one missing out.”
“I’ll try to make do.”
We passed a drinking fountain, and he nodded toward a restroom near the stairwell. “Hey, I gotta take a leak.”
I thought of how I’d be stuck in the courtroom for the next few hours and decided I should probably make a pit stop too.
Ralph paused at the water fountain for a drink so I stepped past him and pushed the men’s room door open and then stopped midstride.
Facing me, one meter away and flanked by a pair of mammoth Cook County Sheriff’s Department officers, stood Richard Devin Basque.
9
As soon as I saw Basque I felt a tightening in my chest, a sharp flare of anger and regret, the past clamping down on me. If only you’d kept your cool after Sylvia died… If only you’d gotten to the slaughterhouse sooner she might still be alive… If only you’d pieced the case together one day earlier…
He smiled at me. “Detective Bowers.” For some reason, I noticed that his teeth were all still in place, still flawless. His jaw looked perfect too; the surgeons had done a good job. “No, wait… it’s Dr. Bowers now, isn’t it? And an FBI agent? How time flies. So good to see you again.”
I didn’t reply.
Ralph wedged himself next to me in the doorway, blocking the path.
“C’mon,” barked one of the officers, manhandling Basque toward the door. “Let’s go.” But Ralph put his hand on the man’s shoulder. At first the guy looked like he was going to swat it away, but then he noticed the cords of muscle in Ralph’s forearm and paused.
“It’s OK, buddy. Let him be.” Ralph removed his hand when he was ready. “We can talk for a sec. We’re just here to use the john.” But Ralph didn’t enter the bathroom, just stood barring the doorway.
I began to wonder what he had in mind; I had a feeling he was hoping Basque would try something so he could take him down. Hard. I hoped that wasn’t where things were heading.
“For the record, then,” Basque said, “I waive all my rights to have my lawyer present. A chat might be nice.”
“See?” Ralph said to the officers. “There you go.”
Both of them sized up Ralph, and nobody made a move. They eased back, and we all stood facing each other.
To be safe, I decided I wouldn’t speak to Basque before testifying and chance a mistrial.
He eyed me. Thirteen years in prison had hardly changed him. He still had the handsome, confident good looks of a big-screen leading man and the incisive eyes and disarming smile that had served him so well in luring his victims into his car. Just like Ted Bundy and so many other killers, Basque had used his charm and charisma as his most effective weapon.
Looks intact, his time in prison had only served to harden his features, lend a few creases to the edges of his eyes, and wrap him in a thick layer of chiseled muscles that flexed against the designer suit that his lawyers had undoubtedly purchased just for the trial. Overall, he looked as dashing and trustworthy and GQ as ever. Maybe more so.
A handsome, respectable-looking cannibalistic killer.
I used to get shocked when I met people who commit the most appalling crimes-torturing and eviscerating their victims, eating or raping decaying corpses-because the offenders almost never look like you’d expect. Instead of looking like monsters, they look like Little League coaches and college professors and church elders and the guy who lives next door-because all too often that’s exactly who they are.