The Third Law - 5
Previous Part
The following afternoon found Lassiter sitting bolt upright at his desk, in stubborn defiance of the overwhelming exhaustion which had overtaken him during the case. He glared at his computer screen, wishing the cool blue background of the Word document could somehow wipe the angry, blackened thoughts from his mind.
Against his better judgment, he had finally gone down to the observation area outside the interrogation room which had become McKinney's home away from jail. Because he still had not retained counsel, the detectives were free to question him as often as they liked - though 'liked' was probably the wrong word, considering the palpable distress which rolled in waves from O'Hara every time she left that room. McKinney remained perfectly polite, answering O'Hara's various attempts to elicit the truth with quiet, inoffensive evasions or smiling protests. Lassiter couldn't help dwelling on the particular conversation he'd witnessed, gritting his teeth until they hurt.
It had been one of O'Hara's more direct efforts. "Mr. McKinney, we have all of the evidence we need. We have a knife covered in your prints which matches the wounds on the victim." She could only rarely bring herself to say Spencer's name, Lassiter had been told. "We have video of the whole encounter, as well as our head detective's eyewitness account. The victim has even given a statement declaring rape. The only reason we want you to confess is to keep the paperwork down, because a trial will undoubtedly end in your conviction anyway and we don't really have a lot of time to waste around here, understand?"
With some concern, Lassiter saw that her control was slipping. Though still tight enough to allow continued questioning, her stress was showing in the too-abrupt hand movements, the grim set to her mouth.
McKinney's reply, though, helped Lassiter understand O'Hara's situation. "Miss," he started, his expression grave and sympathetic, "I realize that you must be under a lot of pressure from your superiors, considering that string of unsolved murders. All I can do is promise you, once again, that - what did you say his name was? Shawn? I can't help but think of him as Jason," he said, with a small smile. Lassiter's hands fisted at his sides. "Well, anyway - I promise that Jason asked me to do everything you saw on that tape. We were going to send it in to the website you keep asking me about, since it seemed right up their alley."
O'Hara crossed her arms, raising a cool eyebrow. Lassiter assumed she was doing an impression of the Chief. Not a bad tactic, but one he could see did nothing to impress McKinney. "You still haven't convinced me that you didn't post the other four videos from that site."
"Again, many people subscribe to the journal. Any one of them could have sent in the videos." He folded his hands together, resting them easily upon the metal table and looking completely earnest. "Jason said he liked that kind of thing," he continued, with a trace of embarrassment. "He liked the idea of other people watching. I went along with it, since he seemed so eager to act it out."
Behind the window, Lassiter flashed back to the video feed of Spencer's face. He hadn't cried, though the sounds torn deep from his chest sounded like more like sobs than anything. The expression in his eyes, of revulsion and blank, abject fear, made Lassiter's own breath stutter and made him wish he dared go into the little interrogation room and beat a confession out of the bastard.
McKinney's final sentence, before neither O'Hara or Lassiter could take any more, was worse, almost, than anything he'd yet said. "I'm so disappointed in Jason," he said, looking sad. He offered O'Hara another small smile. "I can't believe he'd lie about me like this, after I was so good to him. I guess you can't trust just anybody, can you?"
Lassiter blinked, coming back to the present. The IT department hadn't yet discovered the IP address from which the posts on the website had been made, saying that something (or someone) had scrambled the information necessary to determine it. Until they had that, they couldn't truly pin the other murders on McKinney, not without the all-important confession.
He stared through the monitor on his desk, part of him watching the blinking cursor marking the final sentences of his report while most of the rest of him daydreamed bloody prison scenarios for one William McKinney.
Some remnant of his consciousness finally jabbed him into awareness when the clamoring on the edge of his hearing became too loud to ignore. When a loud "Geez, Buzz, that's super-cool of you!" echoed across the floor, Lassiter stood up so fast his chair flew out behind him, rolling with a bang into the desk behind his. He'd forgotten that today was Spencer's scheduled meeting. He'd halfway assumed that either the amateur detective wouldn't show up, or that he'd come in hours after his scheduled time. That was just what Spencer did, wasn't it?
Spencer finally hove into sight, trailing an entourage of concerned but well-meaning friends and colleagues. Guster was one step behind him, somehow looking simultaneously calmer and more agitated than the day before, when he'd left Lassiter. The detective supposed that the knowledge of what had happened to his best friend was better than not knowing - but only by a touch.
When he finally brought himself to look back to Spencer, the fake psychic was giving him a knowing grin. He appeared completely unfazed by the way passers-by in the police station stared. Lassiter doubted he was unaware of the attention.
"Well, Lassie-face, how is my favorite head detective not on television?" he said brightly. When Guster turned and gave the few remaining well-wishers a dark look, they scattered.
"I didn't expect you'd actually show up, Spencer. Police procedure is so often beneath you."
For some reason, Guster's expression relaxed at his brusque tone. He filed that away for later examination, for Spencer remained obscenely cheerful in front of him. He got a shrug in response to the scathing remark - par for the course.
"Come on, Detective. I gotta keep you guessing somehow. I mean, I wouldn't want you to think I was predictable."
"The only predictable thing about you, Spencer," Lassiter retorted, while Guster rolled his eyes, "is your never-ending ability to get on my nerves."
Spencer grinned again, clapping Lassiter's shoulder with overdone camaraderie. He was wearing a grey, clingy sweater, with sleeves that came down almost to his fingertips, over a tight green t-shirt. Lassiter wondered if his boxers matched the t-shirt, as before, but clamped down on the thought with near-panic when Spencer's eyes sharpened, flicking over his face almost more quickly than he could notice.
Guster broke the brief silence. "So do you have that description for Shawn to sign, or what? I gotta get back to my route," he said, giving Spencer an annoyed look.
"Dude, come on! I thought we were gonna go mini-golfing after this!"
"Are you serious, Shawn? It's one o'clock on a Tuesday. You know I have meetings. The only reason I'm doing this is that you left your bike here again, and you refuse to borrow your dad's truck even when you know I have more important things to do than chauffeur you around."
Lassiter rolled his eyes. Clearly, Guster, like Lassiter and Spencer's father, was determined to treat Shawn as normally as was possible. "Can I cut in for a moment? I have to print out the report and let the Chief look it over before you sign." Guster frowned, but Spencer cut off any protest with just a look at his friend. "Listen carefully. Stay here, and try not to do anything too asinine."
Spencer grinned. As he left to wait by the printer, Lassiter got the odd feeling that the kid was almost trying to bait him - but into what?
A few minutes later, he was sitting in the Chief's closed-off office, blinds down and doors shut tight. She read his description with a light frown. He was impressed with her professionalism. He hadn't let O'Hara near the videos, certain that should she see Spencer being violated she would either cry or attempt to murder McKinney - while he was sympathetic to both courses, neither were appropriate for a detective in the SBPD. If this were Los Angeles or San Francisco, on the other hand… he allowed himself a tight, mostly humorless smile. It was funny - he'd never had any sympathy for Dirty Harry or John McClane until this case.
Chief Vick gave him a censorious look over the top of his report, then dropped it to her desk.
"Everything appears to be in order, Detective," she said, cool. He inclined his head. "I'll have Officer McNab bring Mr. Spencer in to sign it, and then we can get it over to the DA's office.
"I told you they're looking for four counts of first degree?" she continued, after hanging up her phone.
"So the DA is willing to run with Spencer's statement?"
She nodded. "Even if the murder charges don't fly, we can get him for kidnapping and sexual assault. It'll mean putting Mr. Spencer on the stand."
Lassiter paused, thinking about the implications. In theory, Spencer wouldn't lie on the stand - which meant either the district attorney or the defense could ask him anything they liked, as long as it was relevant. Would asking about his psychic powers be relevant? On the one hand, Lassiter thought, it would finally be an answer to the curiosity that had plagued the detective since Spencer's first closed case. On the other, it would mean legal retribution on a scale Lassiter could barely imagine. He was surprised the Chief would allow that - if Spencer was forced to admit to conning the department, it could mean her job, as well as a taint to the record of the whole force.
His increasingly concerned musings were interrupted by the entrance of McNab.
"Um, Chief, I can't find Shawn anywhere," he said, looking embarrassed. He hovered in the doorway, gawkiness accentuated by his uncertainty. "Are you sure he's in the station, sir?" he continued, looking to Lassiter.
"Gee, that's a surprise - he isn't where he's supposed to be," Lassiter answered, with a pointed look at Chief Vick. She didn't rise to it, keeping her attention on McNab.
"I'm sure he hasn't left the station," she said, with a warm confidence in Spencer that Lassiter had never felt warranted.
McNab gave her a pale version of his toothy smile, ducking back out. Almost immediately, the superior officers overheard him hailing Guster.
"Hi, Gus! Is Shawn around?"
"He was over by Juliet's desk - what, is something missing?" came the reply, with what seemed to Lassiter like forced jocularity. The detective stood, with a sudden odd feeling.
"Guster!" he said, sharp. Spencer's sidekick stepped into the Chief's office, followed closely by McNab. Lassiter waved the inexperienced officer away, to stand just inside the door. "I thought I told you two to wait by my desk."
"He conned me into ordering Chinese for lunch. I left my phone in the car." Guster glanced between Lassiter and Chief Vick, with a growing frown. "Where'd he go?"
Officer Martinez knocked on the door, calling their attention. "Hey, Chief, I was just wondering if I could get you to sign…" He trailed off at their stares. "It can wait," he offered, glancing between them.
Unexpectedly, the Chief beckoned him inside. "I can sign it now," she said, pen already in hand. She continued in a calm, offhanded tone, head bent over the document. "Have you talked to Mr. Spencer yet today, Martinez?"
The officer looked suddenly embarrassed, as though he'd been caught at something. "Um… yeah, Chief. He was talking to me a few minutes ago."
"About what?" Lassiter asked, trying not to sound too irritated. Guster planted his hands on his hips, looking confused.
"Well…" Martinez dithered, looking to McNab for direction. Never a good move, Lassiter thought - the force's tallest and most theoretically imposing officer couldn't give direction to a rabbit during mating season. "We talked a little bit about Dexy's Midnight Runners and that place on State Street that does the good jerk chicken." Guster nodded, as though he followed this foolishness. "And…"
"Yes?" said the Chief, voice gone hard.
Martinez' shoulders slumped. There was little mistaking her tone. "Well, he asked me what McKinney was charged with, and I told him so far it was just the stuff he did to him - to Shawn, I mean. Shawn asked me why he wasn't charged with the other murders, yet, and I told him how McKinney hasn't really confessed to anything. He kind of looked at me funny, and I thought maybe he was having some kind of psychic thing, 'cause his face got a little weird, but then he just said he was going to go talk to Juliet. So I got back to work," he ended, trying to look virtuous.
With a sudden, horrible thought, Lassiter scrambled for his cell, quickly calling his partner.
"Detective O'Hara."
"Where are you right now?" he demanded. The Chief was standing now, as well.
"I just went out to be by myself. He's really getting to me," she said, meaning McKinney.
"He's still in interrogation?"
"Yes - why? What's wrong?"
Lassiter met the Chief's eyes. "Get back there right away."
He turned as soon as he disconnected, shouting once again for McNab. As he walked out of the office, he met the other man coming back. "Yes, sir? I was just on my way back down to the interrogation room."
"You were the one watching the hall?" Lassiter asked. He heard a quick intake of air behind him, and the Chief was suddenly out from behind her desk, at their side.
"Who's there now?" she demanded.
McNab looked confused. "Well, no one - I mean, Detective O'Hara was just leaving there when I left, when you called me -"
Later, Lassiter would take a long time to piece together exactly how he made it from the Chief's office to the cool cement hall of interrogation. One moment, he was looking into McNab's honest, foolish face, and the next he was racing across the tiled floors of the station, almost slipping on the stairs. Guster was only a few feet behind him, having come to the same horrible realization Lassiter had, though a few seconds later. The guy really wasn't too bad of a detective, Lassiter thought distractedly, throwing open the metal door to the interrogation area - but if he could still be manipulated so obviously by Shawn Spencer, he had a ways to go. They all did.
Lassiter arrived at the observation window, breath lost. Spencer, that idiot, was in the room with McKinney.
He blinked, train of thought racing faster than he could control it: if Spencer hurt McKinney somehow, that was it, all of their questioning would have been for nothing, it would be torture, coerced, McKinney would go free, the killer, the rapist, the man who had assaulted all of these people - he wouldn't go to prison, and it would be over, the department would be ruined, Vick would be dismissed, Lassiter would be demoted, O'Hara or McNab could lose their jobs, and Spencer would never be the same again. The department's record would go down the toilet, and Henry would never speak to him - everything would go wrong, back to the old way of sometimes catching the right guy, if they were lucky…
A clatter behind him announced the arrival of Guster, followed quickly by O'Hara and McNab.
"Out of the way!" he shouted, peeling around the corner to shove open the door - but it didn't budge under his weight, the handle didn’t turn.
"What's going on?" O'Hara asked. He barely heard it, unable to comprehend the immovable door, the dull font of 'Interview Room B' the only thing on which he could focus.
He came back around the corner, where Guster was slamming the intercom button and shouting, "Shawn! Get the hell out of there! What do you think you're doing?"
Lassiter got some minor hold on himself and motioned to McNab, who started drawing Guster away from the window. The men inside hadn't even flinched at Guster's yelling - O'Hara was bent over the panel where the microphone nested. Lassiter could see the cut wires.
Abruptly, he realized that Spencer and McKinney were talking - and he could hear it. The internal microphones and speakers to the outer room were still functioning.
"…looking good, Bill," Spencer was saying. He was standing to the side of the table, so Lassiter could see his profile. McKinney was still sitting in his chair, on the far side.
"Jason…" McKinney said. Guster made a noise as though someone had punched him. Lassiter, too, was surprised at the gentle warmth of McKinney's voice, even despite all he'd heard from the man in the past few days. "The detectives will be back soon, you know. They'll figure out how you jammed the door."
"That's okay, man," Spencer replied. He was using a voice halfway between his own and the Jason Stone persona he'd shown off to Lassiter. "We've got time."
Lassiter's stomach turned over.
McKinney didn't make a move beyond flattening both hands on the metal table. He gazed steadily at Spencer, acting as though there was nothing strange about the situation - an attitude marred by the orange jumpsuit and the dark bruise on his scalp.
"Why haven't you confessed, Bill?" Spencer asked, sliding his hands into his pockets. Lassiter didn't miss the way McKinney's eyes followed the movement, expression almost possessive.
"I don't have anything to confess to, Jason," McKinney said. He sounded disappointed. "You don't believe what they've been saying about me, do you? You know I wouldn't hurt anyone - unless they wanted it, that is."
O'Hara hissed in a breath beside Lassiter. "Son of a bitch," she breathed, with uncharacteristic venom. The men in the room all gave her a startled look, but then Spencer replied.
"I don't know," he said slowly. He paused, but Lassiter couldn't tell what he was thinking from the expression on his face. McKinney didn't say anything, still just looking at Spencer. It was almost like he was drinking in every second of his presence - his eyes kept flicking up and down, at Spencer's face and chest, and below.
"I never told you I had another job, did I?" Spencer continued. "Don't laugh," he said, slipping further into Jason's breathy voice, "but, besides bartending, I'm also a psychic. I get visions."
McKinney frowned, for the first time. "Psychic," he stated. "So you… read people's minds?"
He didn't sound as dubious as Lassiter would have thought. Then again, Lassiter tended to have more faith in people's skepticism than was usually warranted.
"Not exactly," Spencer went on. "I get more… feelings. I can sense the truth. Sometimes I can see the past, or the future. I just - well, I just know things."
A flicker of… something passed across McKinney's face. Lassiter reached out without looking and seized McNab's arm, hauling him close. "Get someone who can open that door," he said, keeping his eyes on the two men in the interview room. He saw McNab nod in his peripheral vision, then disappear.
"I had a vision about you, Bill." One of Spencer's hands rose to hover delicately at his right temple, where a bruise had gone green-blue under the tanned skin. McKinney's frown deepened.
Spencer's eyes slipped shut. "There's a girl," he said, more quietly than he usually did during a 'vision'. Guster stepped forward, one hand rising to rest against the window without any apparent intent on Guster's part. "She's really pretty, like she could be a model, or something. She's… really tan, but with blonde hair, like she lives on the beach. She has -" and here Spencer's eyes opened, and he looked at McKinney directly. "She has green eyes, like me."
McKinney looked stunned, and he turned slightly away from Spencer. O'Hara took in a long, shuddery breath. Lassiter was acutely aware of the stillness in his body, of the way he and Guster and O'Hara were all paralyzed, forced to witness this bizarre scene as it played out in the room opposite.
"And you loved her, you guys had this really special thing going."
McKinney stared down at the table. Spencer flinched, both hands going to his head as though in pain. "But… she left. She's gone. It was - it was quick, you didn't expect it, and it hurt so bad."
How did he know this time? Lassiter wondered, watching as raw grief ripped across McKinney's face. What was the angle? Spencer remained hunched, eyes clenched tight against the vision.
"That's so sad, man," Spencer whispered, quiet enough that the microphones almost didn't pick it up. Lassiter heard genuine sympathy - or pity - in his voice.
McKinney visibly tried to get hold of himself, shoulders straightening as he smoothed one hand across his bare scalp, over the bruise and down the back of his neck. "She was in a car accident," he said, matter-of-fact. "A year ago next month. I don't like to talk about it."
"I understand," said Spencer. His head lifted and Lassiter could see that he was staring right into McKinney's eyes, the expression on his face open and serious. "But there's something else.
"You two used to… experiment, didn't you? I'm getting that - that you liked to try new stuff. She kind of liked pain if it was you doing the hurting."
"Yes," McKinney said, unblinking. O'Hara made a disbelieving noise, hands clenching against the smooth grey of her jacket. Lassiter's own hands were in fists at his sides. He wanted desperately to do something, to shout, to pull his gun, to charge into that room and beat McKinney to death - but he had to watch this, had to know.
"Because it wasn't really about the pain, was it? It was about trust, and how much you cared about each other. Even if she couldn't see you, or couldn't talk, she knew that you'd never go too far. She could be as vulnerable as she needed to be, and you'd be there to catch her."
It might have been the fluorescent light, but Lassiter could swear he saw an extra, mortifying glimmer in McKinney's eye. "Yes," he repeated, still staring back at Spencer. They seemed locked together, each unable to look away.
"After she was gone, you were devastated. Nothing had ever hurt that bad." Spencer took a step forward, thighs hitting the table. McKinney didn't move. "You looked for ways to fill up that space inside, but when someone that important goes away… it's hard. Seems pretty much impossible to feel right again."
This time, it was Guster who broke their silence. "Stop it, Shawn," he said, loud, as though his friend was capable of hearing, or would have obeyed if he could. Only then did Lassiter notice that Spencer had completely dropped the Jason persona - that low, urgent voice was his, devoid of humor or falsity.
Spencer, of course, went on despite Guster's interruption. "There were other women, but no one who could match her. No one that beautiful, or that smart, or sweet, or trusting. That was why you stopped trying so hard to make yourself fall in love with them."
"They were nothing like Laurie."
"I know, man." He stood still, now, hands loose at his sides, a look of odd knowing on his face that Lassiter couldn't decipher. "That's why you stopped looking for someone else, and started trying to find her in other people."
Somewhere, Lassiter heard a din of people coming down the stairs, entering the hallway - McNab's voice, higher than normal, telling someone else that the door wouldn't open, that Shawn was in danger.
"There was someone with her hair, with her smile, someone who laughed like she did, someone who loved the beach. Someone with her eyes." McKinney shook his head at the last, making Spencer take a step back.
"I get what you're trying to do, but I didn't kill those women." His voice was unexpectedly firm. Spencer walked around the table, to stand at McKinney's side. He didn't meet Spencer's eyes, staring instead at the table.
"I don't think you wanted to," Spencer said, quiet. "You and Laurie had that blog, where you shared ideas with other people… and your Internet friends wanted to know what had happened, why you weren't posting anymore, and you thought, maybe this will help. If you just pretended, maybe it wouldn't feel as bad."
Lassiter heard the high, tortured buzz of a drill from the hall - they'd be in the room, soon. He wondered, for a horrible second, if he should slow down McNab's crew. Spencer seemed to be getting deeper behind McKinney's shields in five minutes than O'Hara had managed in four days. He watched, stomach in knots, as Spencer knelt beside McKinney's chair, startling the other man into looking at him.
"You can't pretend anymore, Bill. Those other girls, Jessica and Stacy and the others, they weren't Laurie. They didn't ask you to hurt them." McKinney's head lowered. He didn't quite muster another objection before Spencer moved on - he was getting through, Lassiter thought, with almost no surprise. "I didn't either, man. It hurt a lot."
One of Spencer's hands crept up, landing on McKinney's bare forearm. He gave McKinney a faint smile, and Guster took a quick step back from the window.
"Shawn," he muttered. There was a kind of sick horror in his voice, his face, like he'd realized something Lassiter hadn't.
"...all the evidence is on their side," Spencer was saying. "It will go easier on you if you confess. Not much, but - it might help."
"I can't confess, Jason," McKinney said. His eyes didn't leave Spencer's face.
Spencer didn't pause. "What if I give you something? Something you won't ever have again."
McKinney frowned. "What?"
The hand on McKinney's forearm pushed higher, sliding up to circle one bicep. O'Hara took in a deep breath, next to Lassiter, and didn't let it out.
"You can have me. Right now."
Lassiter saw Guster's eyes squeeze shut.
"What are you talking about?" McKinney demanded.
"The cops are right outside the door," Spencer said, quickly. "They're using a drill to get it open. We don't have a lot of time - but we can make a deal, right now.
"Just… You're gonna go to jail, you know? For a really long time, probably." He inched closer on his knees, the other hand pushing at McKinney's thigh, forcing him to turn more toward Spencer. The man simply spun on his chair, putting up no resistance. Then both of Spencer's hands were on McKinney's arms, his expression intent. "You might even - well, no, this is California. But you aren't going to get another chance to look for her. Are you hearing me? You got little glimpses of Laurie in lots of different people and places, but I bet prison isn't gonna be one of them."
Lassiter frowned. It wasn't the most cogent argument he'd ever heard, but perhaps that didn't matter; McKinney's attention was completely locked on Spencer. Even the increasingly loud noises from the crew at the door didn't break their concentration.
Spencer's hands were still on McKinney's bare skin. "I can see her face, Bill. Look at me, in my eyes." They were frozen, a tableau done in amazingly vivid colors - green, orange, white, the purple of bruises on each man and the bright color flooding across McKinney's face. Spencer's voice had gone softer, quiet. "I'll give you one last time. A few more minutes. This is your last chance."
Even knowing Spencer's persuasive ability, Lassiter was surprised when McKinney stood up. He looked down at Spencer, still motionless on his knees, for a moment, apparently thinking - then put out a hand. Spencer didn't hesitate, allowing the other man to draw him to his feet. Beside Lassiter, Guster seemed torn between horror and shock. "Shawn," he muttered.
McKinney's hands rose, slow, fingertips settling on Spencer's jaw for a moment before sliding back into his hair. Lassiter's stomach roiled again, as O'Hara made a high, hurt noise and McKinney turned, gently crowding Spencer back against the table. Suddenly, Lassiter became aware of the position they'd allowed Spencer to put himself in - they were letting him do this, in hope that he'd succeed as he so often did. Now he wished he'd sent McNab for the rescue team much earlier.
He must have known they had only a few minutes, but McKinney appeared to be taking his time. They stood thigh to thigh, hip to hip; McKinney's thumb brushed over Spencer's cheek, making him blink. "Bill," he said, voice unexpectedly throaty. He held McKinney's eyes, looking - just for a moment - unsure. "You've got to promise you'll confess."
McKinney face softened into a small smile. "Don't worry," he said - and then his mouth descended on Spencer's, and Lassiter couldn't not look, because it would have been a betrayal in some way he couldn't quite define, but it was atrocious, gut-wrenching, frightening in its intensity and wrong. Spencer made a muffled noise, sounding just like he had when Lassiter had crouched behind that stupid door in an agony of ignorance - and it was worse now, because he could actually see what was happening, this time, and no one was doing anything about it. Guster had vanished, probably to vomit, and O'Hara's eyes were shut tight, but Spencer's hands were loose at his sides, his posture relaxed and open, not flinching when McKinney pressed even closer, his greater height letting him bend Spencer slightly backwards, one hand visibly tightening in his hair while the other slipped down, landing on the small of his back. Lassiter could see it when McKinney opened his mouth: Spencer's simply parted under his, offering no resistance whatsoever - and why did that little detail make it even worse?
When McKinney finally pulled back, Lassiter actually heard the soft smacking sound as their lips separated. One hand stroked across Spencer's jaw, sliding to the back of his neck when Spencer's head ducked, tucking under McKinney's chin.
"Thank you," McKinney said, quiet. His hand moved, dropped to join the other at Spencer's waist and hold him close for a moment. Spencer's breathing was harsh, panting against McKinney's chest - he'd turned enough that his expression wasn't visible from the observation window.
All of a sudden, the voices from the hall spiked in intensity - McNab's "one, two -" coincided with McKinney tilting Spencer's chin up with two fingers and pressing a soft kiss to his temple. The cops burst into the room.
Too late, Lassiter thought.
"I'll confess," McKinney said, over the din of the younger officers shouting for him to step away from Spencer. Not one of them grabbed him or tried to pull Spencer out of his arms. O'Hara pulled her hands away from her eyes, snapping back from whichever plane she'd been visiting. "Get me some paper. I'll write it down."
Something about the calm in his voice, the contentment, as though he stood not in police custody but on the beach, holding a loved one in his arms - it forced Lassiter around the corner, through the press of cops who still hovered at the door and into the little room.
McKinney's back was to him, still. From this angle, you almost couldn't see Spencer.
"I have pen and paper right here, Mr. McKinney," O'Hara said, appearing next to Lassiter. She slapped the items down on the table, the flat smack of them loud in the crowded room.
McKinney turned. Spencer moved with him, almost in sync. They rotated to face the detectives squarely, Spencer a little in front and to the left of McKinney, so that the murderer looked like a bodyguard. One of his hands was still resting on the small of Spencer's back.
From God-knew-where, McNab found the initiative to begin urging his colleagues out the door, pushing them down the hallway. McKinney gave Lassiter a nod, then took a full step backwards, away from Spencer - whose shoulders slumped, as though some vital string had been cut.
"You think you could go find your partner and get out of here, Spencer?" Lassiter said, not pausing to think. Spencer's head jerked up. "Guster's probably gotten lost by now, and we'll need to focus on finishing up your case, not sending out search parties."
O'Hara gave him a shocked look, but Spencer's face lit up in a smirk, right on cue, as Lassiter knew it would.
"Fine, Lassie," he said, body straightening as he walked around the table. He cocked his head, eyes sharp. "Anything you want. Jeez, I have to do everything around here. See ya, Jules," he finished, smirk morphing into a smile for the other detective before he left the room, saunter restored like magic.
Lassiter returned his attention to McKinney in time to see an expression of loss fade from the criminal's face. This had to be quick. He took a step forward. "Do you admit to the kidnapping, rape, and murder of Jane Manning?"
McKinney nodded. "I do."
Lassiter took a startled breath. He'd expected the man to lie.
"Do you admit to the kidnapping, rape, and murder of Stacy Garcia?"
"Yes."
"Of Jessica White and Meagan Goldberg?"
"Yes."
"Do you admit to holding Shawn Spencer against his will, to torturing him, and raping him?"
McKinney sighed, dropping into his seat at the table. "Yes."
"Will you write a statement to that effect, of your own free will?" O'Hara continued, with no hint of hesitation. Lassiter felt a swell of immense, paternal pride.
"Yes, I will," said McKinney. He reached for the paper and pen without needing to be told.
Lassiter stood firm, arms crossed over his chest, watching carefully while McKinney wrote out his confession. O'Hara waited with him. Lassiter was impressed with her composure until he noticed that she'd clasped her hands behind her back to hide their shaking. It made his mind flash back to the look on Spencer's face, despite that he'd been doing his best not to think of exactly that. He didn't ask his partner to leave, because it was important that they were both here to witness this: a confession with no coercion, with two respected detectives able to say the accused had accepted blame of his own free will.
By the time he finished, McKinney had covered ten pages with a neatly arranged accounting of his crimes. He laid down the pen with a sigh. "It's all yours," he said, voice unstrained.
O'Hara collected the sheaf of papers, tapping them into order against the table. "You'll be returned to jail until your trial," Lassiter started - then he paused, wondering if Spencer had managed to deactivate the auto-record feature in the room's electronic equipment. Then, looking at McKinney's unconcerned and smooth face, he decided that he didn't give a damn. "Do you feel any guilt, at all?" he demanded.
His partner gave him a startled look, but McKinney returned his stare with a gaze gone steady and calm. "There's no point in lying anymore, Detective," he said. His eyes flicked over to O'Hara for a moment. "Those women did die, and for that… I suppose I am sorry." His head bowed, then. "I'm not sorry for the rest of it."
O'Hara sucked in a breath. "None of it?"
"No," McKinney replied. A thick feeling of disgust rose in Lassiter's throat.
Then, McKinney's mouth curved into a small smile, his fingers rising to touch his lips. "You could give Jason my thanks, though," he added. Lassiter's mind went blank, for a moment. He couldn't possibly…
"Or is it Shawn?" McKinney went on. He licked his lips, then shrugged. "It doesn't matter. He's beautiful either way." He met Lassiter's eyes, and the detective was appalled at the lack of emotion there.
"So help me," Lassiter heard himself saying. McKinney blinked at him. "You are going to go to prison for the rest of your life. God, I hope it's a long one."
McKinney frowned, but Lassiter spun around and left before the bastard could reply.
Distantly, he heard O'Hara following, heels clicking a few steps behind him, her terse orders to McNab and some of the other junior officers coming into Lassiter's awareness as through a fog. He couldn't get the image of Spencer's submission to his attacker out of his head. He'd glanced at the door as he left - the handle had been broken quite efficiently, a long pocketknife stabbed into the locking mechanism in the perfect method to prevent the police's entry. Spencer had known exactly what he was he doing, had known that if something went wrong rescue would have been a long time coming - but he did it anyway, because they had to get a confession.
He sat in a chair to one side of the Chief's desk while O'Hara explained. Vick was appropriately appalled, asking how the psychic could have managed to slip through all of their defenses. Lassiter almost smiled - apparently no one had defenses good enough to repel Spencer. Not the SBPD, not McKinney, and certainly not Lassiter.
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