“Mr. Volk, I’m Investigator Claire Kozak. This is my partner, Ned Carillo. Before we proceed we want you to know that the camera lens in the upper corner, with the red light, means our conversation is being recorded.”
Volk glanced at it then back at Kozak.
“You were given your Miranda rights earlier, but we’ll give them to you again,” Kozak said. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?”
“Yes.”
Kozak took a page from a folder. “This document states you’ve been advised of and understand your rights. We need you to sign at the bottom.”
She set down a pen. Volk looked at the document then picked it up, his chain clinking as he signed and she noticed his muscular, tattooed arms.
“We’d like to talk about Jennifer Griffin.” Kozak took the signed document and pen. “Understanding your rights, do you wish to talk to us?”
Volk remained silent.
Carillo leaned forward.
“Let’s get to it, Zoran. You won’t be free for years, if ever.”
Volk looked at Carillo with a sharp glint in his eyes.
“As we speak,” Carillo said, “we have people combing through your cabin, your house, your van, your laptop, your life. We know Jennifer Griffin was one of your projects.”
Volk’s jaw muscles bunched.
“We’ve got videos you took of her when you were in her house, when you followed her in the mall. We’ve got video of you in the store that night. We know about your cabin, the camera, and chains on the bed.”
Volk said nothing.
“You selected her, stalked, and hunted her,” Kozak said.
“Where is Jennifer Griffin?” Carillo said.
Volk stared at Carillo, then at Kozak.
“Mr. Volk,” Kozak said. “You have the right to remain silent and to end this interview at any time and request a lawyer. If you do, we’re required to inform the district attorney that you’re not cooperating. The consequences of that decision can be profound.”
“Zoran.” Carillo drew his face closer. “You’re facing life in prison. But if you help us, if you cooperate, you may get a shot at parole.”
Volk said nothing.
“Do you want to die in prison, an old man?” Carillo said.
Volk swallowed.
“Where is she, Zoran? What did you do to Jennifer Griffin?” Kozak asked.
His handcuffs jingled as he clasped his hands together.
“Get me a lawyer and I’ll help you find her.”
Eighty
Clarence, New York
Zoran Volk’s tattoos writhed along the muscles of his glistening skin as he did push-ups in the holding cell while waiting for his lawyer.
Grunting in time with his piston-like pumping, Volk thought of Project Griffin and his hunger for women.
Real women in the wild.
Over the years, he’d refined his methodology. Each time he entered a home on a call, he scoped it for opportunities, absorbing photos, personal information left out, like bills, bank statements. He’d eavesdrop on conversations, read notes on kitchen calendars, such as birthdays and appointments.
And book club meetings.
Jennifer Griffin was one of his more enjoyable projects.
He’d practiced with others but had only gone so far with the work. When he first saw Jennifer Griffin, he knew she was the one. He’d selected her to be his first completed project, observing her for months, learning everything about her, until the night when he’d moved one step closer to going fully operational for the first time.
It was her book club night and he’d gone to Ripplewood, waited unseen before following her, even daring to walk into the Korner Fast where she’d stopped.
Oh the thrill of getting so close to her.
If she recognized him, he’d play it as a coincidence.
After he’d spotted her leaving the store, he was emboldened to continue. He followed her in that Corolla into the night, recording with his dashcam. This was going to happen. Driving behind her down that remote curving stretch of the boulevard, his heart bursting with anticipation when...
Someone knocked hard on his holding room door.
Volk stopped the push-ups and got his shirt.
His attorney had arrived.
Volk was handcuffed and escorted from his cell.
* * *
Robert J. Storemer wore a navy sport coat over a blue button-down dress shirt, a five o’clock shadow, and round, frameless glasses.
He was stone-cold serious.
Storemer had once worked for Volk’s uncle, who told him: “Zoran, if ever you get into trouble, you call R. J. Storemer. He’s the best GD lawyer in town. That should be on his business card.”
This evening’s after-hours visit was costing Volk $1,500.
They talked in the same interview room where the investigators had questioned Volk. Again, he was handcuffed to the table as he watched Storemer go over the notes he’d made on his yellow legal pad after first talking with Kozak and Carillo.
“The evidence against you is compelling,” Storemer said. “They’re not required to reveal at this point how they got on to you. I suspect it arose from a complaint, or you made a mistake along the line.”
Volk grinned.
Storemer looked at him, sighing with exasperation.
“Zoran, they have your setup with chains at the cabin, and thanks to your video collection, they have you in her house. They have you stalking her at the mall and other places. They have you following her into and out of the Korner Fast. You are the last person to see her. It’s significantly damning.”
Volk shook his head slowly.
“After she was reported missing,” Volk said, “I watched all the news reports. I see mistakes the cops made. I knew something like this could happen to me, so I took precautions, and you’re going to get me out of here.”
“I don’t think that’s achievable. You’re not appreciating the gravity of your situation.” Storemer looked at his notes. “The best we could do is a plea and confession.”
Volk slammed his palms on the table.
“You’re not listening. I told you I took precautions.”
“What precautions?”