Chapter 18. An interview

Rick Kilroy sat in a stark, green-walled room. It had the look, minus blood stains and instruments of torture, of a Soviet era police interrogation chamber. Rick rested his arms on a metal table and drummed a tune with his fingertips. He had the contented look of someone waiting for service at a restaurant.

His uncle Paul Quinn and Inspector Brown sat across the hall. Neither spoke. Quinn chewed his fingernails while Brown fidgeted and wiped the sweat from his brow. They huddled over a small speaker and listened to Rick tapping.

Rick turned as the door opened. Clarke came in. Bunt followed.

"Thanks for coming over," Clarke said.

"No problem." Rick’s smile dissolved into a blank stare.

"We just want to clarify a few things. It shouldn't take long." Clarke pulled out his notebook. "When we talked yesterday, you mentioned you last talked to Jim the morning before last, just after your father had the accident."

"That's right."

"You didn’t talk to him yesterday?"

"That's right."

"Did your mother talk to him yesterday?"

"Don't know. Best ask her."

"We did. She said Jim called your home yesterday just before noon, and you talked to him."

Rick looked unfazed. He nodded his head and put on a look as if trying to figure out a difficult math question.

"You could be right," he said after a pause. "I forgot about that."

"Given everything that happened yesterday, you simply forgot he called?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"What did you talk about?"

"Oh, the usual. He had some new piece of ass."

"Cara Campbell?"

"Yeah."

"According to the phone records, he likely was on the phone with you when your father showed up at his house. The line remained open for a few minutes." Clarke paused to give Rick time to react.

"So?" Rick seemed unable to connect the dots.

"That means the line may have been open when your father was in the house, possibly during the attack." Rick continued with his difficult-math-question frown.

"Did Jim say anything, or did you hear anything unusual?" Clark asked.

"No, nothing I can remember."

"He didn't mention there was someone at the door?"

"No, can't say I remember him saying that."

"Did he put down the phone at any time?"

"I don't think so."

"So, you were both talking the whole time?"

"I remember now," Rick said with the smile of a liar about to outdo himself. "He said he had to take a piss. I waited for him to come back. He didn't, so I hung up."

Michael nodded. "And there was nothing else strange with the call?"

"Nothing I can think of."

"Okay. Well, I guess that explains it. If you remember anything else, let me know."

"Sure."

Clarke looked at Bunt. "Anything you want to ask?"

"No, I think that clears things up for the moment."

Clarke closed his notebook and pushed his chair back. Rick got to his feet, grabbed the backpack, and started for the door.

"Hey, Rick, one last thing," Michael said. "Do you know Trevor Smith?"

Rick stopped but did not turn. "The name sounds familiar."

"He lives on Highfield Crescent. That's not far from you, is it?"

"No, not far."

"Have you talked to him recently?"

Rick turned slowly. Clarke and Bunt sat back in their chairs, staring at him. He returned their stare, seemingly looking for clues, trying to anticipate their next move. He had a hard-to-read expression. It was half unashamed confidence and half latent aggression, a 'don't fuck with me' type of stare. The kind a Mafia kingpin would give to some low-level cop who was getting too close to the action.

"I talked to him last night after I got back from the hospital. Why?"

"What did you talk about?"

Rick shrugged. "I think I mentioned my father's accident."

"You see him since then?" Clarke asked.

"No. Why?"

"He was picked up earlier this morning." Clarke let the statement hang in the air. Rick said nothing.

"Sometime around eight this morning, he went over to Cara Campbell’s home. He broke in and trashed the place like your father did yesterday at the O’Neil house. Fortunately, Cara and her mother weren’t there." Rick’s face was stone.

"Do you have any idea why he might have done that?"

"Why do you think I would know anything about that?"

"We have a witness who claims to have seen someone matching your description talking to Smith, close to the Campbell house after the attack."

"I was home all morning," Rick countered.

"That's fine," Clarke said in a calming tone. Rick's demeanor had told him all he needed to know. "We’re just following up on information. We have to check these things out; I’m sure you understand."

"Sure," Rick answered, quickly regaining his composure. "Can I leave now?"

"Certainly. By the way, I assume you know Jim O’Neil died this morning?"

"Yes, I know. It's terrible."

"It makes things much worse for your father. He’ll face a murder charge."

Rick struggled to organize a look of concern. His eyebrows lifted and fell, he squinted, his face unable to choose an emotion. "Can I leave now?"

Clarke turned to Bunt. "Bill, can you see Rick out?"

After the two were gone, Clarke said, "He’s gone. You can come in now."

Clarke, Brown, and Quinn sat around the table, looking at each other. The conversation had quickly moved from an analysis of the facts to a discussion on next steps. Of the three, Brown was least willing to jump to conclusions.

"I agree the kid is acting strangely," Brown said, "but you have to factor in what he’s going through, what his father did. That alone could explain a lot of things."

"What about the witness this morning?" Clarke said.

"She could be mistaken. We have to move cautiously and not jump to conclusions."

Quinn shook his head. "I’ve known Rick since he was a baby. There’s something else going on here. I don't buy his story, his lack of emotion, any of it. Michael, you saw him at the hospital. He was like a stranger."

"I agree," Clarke said. "Paul, is there any way you could talk to him at home, away from the station, and see if he’ll open up. He’s hiding something. We all see that. Maybe he’s scared, but he might talk to you."

"That's a good idea," Quinn answered. "I can call around after I get off this evening."

"Great. Don't mention that we talked."

"Of course not."

"Okay, we have a plan," Brown said. "Let’s regroup in the morning."