“Erickson was positive he saw her shoot the guy in the face?” I asked.
“What he said. Said he was driving home from the hospital—”
“What was he doing at the hospital?”
“His niece just had her first baby—”
“You verify that?”
“Yep. Said he saw someone in the woods, verbatim ‘lurking under a lamppost.’ Struck him as odd considering it was midnight, so he turned into the park. That’s when he saw Sunny Harper with Julian in a bear hold, with a gun to his head. According to his statement, he then pulled into a parking spot, called us and heard two gunshots. He grabbed his gun—idiot—and approached the scene. Said there was a dead body at Harper’s feet when he walked up. He pulled his gun on Sunny and threatened her until we got there minutes later.”
I shook my head. It was unbelievable how many times well-meaning assholes inserted themselves into dangerous situations in an effort to help when what they should have done was haul ass out and leave it to us.
The fact that Sunny Harper had overpowered Julian Griggs, almost double her weight, was nothing less than shocking. I’d been on the receiving end of her strength and while it was nothing short of impressive, combining that with the fact she’d been carrying a nine millimeter and her refusal to talk, and something just wasn’t adding up.
“Wanna take a bet on self-defense or murder?” Colson asked.
“A hundred bucks on self-defense.”
“I’ll take that bet. The woman was in the park with a gun at midnight, got the drop on the vic, then shot him twice in the head… and she’s just weird on top that. I’m going with murder, with jilted ex-girlfriend.”
We shook on it.
Colson gazed at the closed door of the conference room. “Would be interesting to know if either Julian or Sunny Harper believed in voodoo.”
It was one of the first thoughts that crossed my mind while processing the scene. What were the odds that a man had been shot yards from the newly-discovered “Voodoo Tree,” and the evening of Lieutenant Seagrave’s funeral? Coincidence?
Just then—
“Hope you brought a string of garlic.”
Colson and I turned to see Officer Haddix striding down the hall.
“Huh?”
“Wards off evil spirits, ’cording to the wife, anyway.” Haddix jerked his chin to the conference room. “Chick’s notorious around here. Y’all don’t know?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sunny Harper. Been pulled over seven times in the last six months for traffic violations. Speeding, running red lights. Got out of every ticket. Every single one. Not even a warning.”
“How?”
“Shows a tit, hell, I don’t know. Proud to say I wrote Miss Harper her first ticket a few weeks ago. Know what happened next? The woman convinced Judge Carter to throw it out. Chick’s got some sort of power over men. Saw her at Frank’s a few times. Never pays for a single drink or food, but always leaves alone. Dick tease.”
“She ever with anyone?” I asked.
“Don’t think so. Rumor is she’s some sort of loner. A hermit. Lives in a cabin in the middle of the woods.” He snorted. “That she probably got for free. Same goes at the coffee shop she frequents, by the way. Dax, the owner, told me she hasn’t paid for a single coffee. Gets one of those nasty skim milk drinks every time.”
“Sound like you sure keep tabs on the woman.” I said.
“Naw. Not me. Can’t stand women like that. Breezes through life on nothing more than a wink.” He scowled. “And what’s with those eyes, anyway? Gold specks in green eyes so bright they look like they’re plugged into an electrical socket. Has to be contacts. She always wears those low cut shirts too. Anyway.” He shrugged.
Colson and I exchanged a glance.
“How do I not know about this? The tickets?” Colson asked.
“You think anyone wants to admit to having their balls handed to them?”
Someone yelled Colson’s name from the end of the hall. He shook his head. “Whatever, dude.” He glanced at the clock. “I’ve got to figure out who the hell to call to verify Julian Griggs’ body.”
“Darby’s on research work now.” I said. “Go find him.”
He grunted, turned, and started down the hall. Haddix followed suit.
“Colson,” I hollered after him. “What are you going to do with her?”
Without looking over his shoulder, he threw his hands up. “She needs to be interviewed right now. You’re best around. Go see what you can get out of her.”
9
Jagg
I slipped into the eight-by-five room the chief had built onto the conference room, or “interview room one.” The small space had two chairs, a speaker with a feed that led into the room, a notebook and pen, and a two-way mirror that overlooked the conference table.
It’s no secret I wasn’t a fan of the chief, but adding an observation room to the station had given BSPD a huge leg up in interviews. Well, for me, anyway. While I’d never seen anyone use it for anything other than a nap, I’d used it at least a dozen times. I always took time to observe whoever I was about to interview.
There’s a lot of debate surrounding the validity of nonverbal behavior when it comes to distinguishing lies from truth. I happen to believe you can learn a hell of a lot more about someone by paying attention to their nonverbal, rather than listening to the words that come out of their mouths. Unfortunately, nonverbal cues don’t hold up in court. Damn shame, in my opinion.
During my door kicking days, I was trained in multiple interrogation tactics. Not only with me as the interrogator, but how to resist an interrogation in the event I found myself on the receiving end of a cloth and bucket of water. SERE training, it was called. Survival, evasion, resistance and escape. Most SEALs excelled at survival and escape, mainly because if you were one of the twenty percent who made it through BUD/S and actually became a SEAL, chances were you had that God-given grit and instinct when it came to survival. Resistance training was challenging because it targeted the most powerful part of any man, his mind.
Torture and interrogations have evolved over the years, but one thing remains true—your goal is to find the person’s weakness and exploit it. We all have weaknesses. Good soldiers, good interrogators, good detectives each have their own unique ways of finding whatever that weakness is and not letting up until one of two things is obtained: Enough actionable intel to advance whatever the end goal of the interview was, or two, to get that rare, coveted confession. Some detectives went their entire careers without hearing those three sweet little words. I’d already heard them six times in my life. How I got there, though, was questionable at best and I wondered if all my red-tape cutting was finally catching up to me. Times were changing. I wasn’t. I still used tactics behind closed doors, behind prying eyes, behind the law. I would until they kicked me out, which according to Colson, wouldn’t be too far away.
At the end of the day, though, I believed in my gut instinct. Educate, educate, educate, then fall back on your gut. Know your facts, the intel, but ultimately trust your gut.