You Don't Want To Know

Chapter 44


The search party reached the abandoned asylum just as the wind kicked up, driving the rain and whipping the ocean far below the rocky outcrop for which Sea Cliff had been named. On horseback, on foot with dogs, in four-wheel-drive vehicles and even helicopters, and with several sheriff’s department boats positioned in the bay should Reece decide to take a dive into the freezing tide, the cops surrounded the hospital.

“This time, he ain’t gettin’ away. Not on my watch!” Biggs had announced as the wind nearly tore his hat from his head and the surf pounded the shore. The group had gathered outside the walls of Sea Cliff where the sheriff intended to stay while the search party fanned out inside the complex. The sheriff’s department wasn’t alone. There were also troops from the Washington State Patrol and the Homicide Investigative Tracking System, over a dozen officers and Dern, all chasing the ghost of one man.

The sheriff had originally ordered that Dern was to stand down and wait on the outside, but since he’d come up with the theory of Reece’s location, knew the hospital, had found evidence of someone living within the walls, and had somehow come into possession of the “keys to the castle” as Biggs had called them, he was allowed inside. It didn’t hurt that he had been a cop and was still in the reserves.

“Just don’t get in the way,” Biggs had grumbled, his face red and raw with the cold, his jacket straining around his girth. “We got this.”

Dern held his tongue. If indeed Biggs’s team really did “get this,” then it had been a long time coming and not without Dern’s help. And, Dern suspected, if things went bad, the press would be all over this story, and he would be the fall guy.

This was Biggs’s show.

Denied his service weapon, Dern was given a protective vest and jacket that identified him as a cop, along with instructions to stay in the rear, as a deputy unlocked the gates and the search party broke into two groups. One started with the residences and outbuildings, the other, of which Dern was a part, began at the hospital.

“I heard you were Reece’s brother,” a female cop said as they approached the front entrance.

“Half. Never knew him.”

“Still.” She glanced up at him. “It sucks.”

Dern didn’t comment, and with four other armed cops, they searched the abandoned building. No one said a word as they passed through unused corridors and restrooms where rust was evident and spiders collected in the dark crevices. Up the stairs and down empty hallways and through individual rooms to the floor where Reece had been a resident, the room with a direct view of Neptune’s Gate.

No Reece, of course.

That would have been too damned easy.

They searched the roof.

Empty, the roofing material spotty, a few vents broken, a single smokestack knifing the dismal sky.

But no Reece.

That left the basement.

“If he was here, he probably already took off,” grumbled one of the male deputies, a burly guy with no neck.

“Damned wild-goose chase,” another said. He was short and wiry, with a ruddy complexion and small, suspicious eyes.

Burly snorted. “Biggs is going to shit little green apples if we don’t find him.”

“Shut up!” one of the women officers hissed.

Everyone quieted. Using high-powered flashlights, they searched the subterranean hallways. Narrow, dark, and labyrinthine, the tunnels connected all sections of the complex. In some areas, the concrete had cracked and water had puddled. Other areas were bone-dry and covered with dust that clogged Dern’s nostrils. The scratch of tiny nails indicated they weren’t alone, that rats or mice or God knew what else were keeping residence in the cobwebby bowels of the old institution, but they found no footprints or other evidence that a human being had walked these twisted corridors any time recently.

Nonetheless, the search was nerve-wracking and Dern’s pulse was elevated, his eyes straining, his muscles tight, and he wished to heaven that he’d been allowed his service pistol.

They reached a room Dern hadn’t been able to break into, and the female deputy, using Crispin Church’s keys, opened the door. It swung open noiselessly, and the minute they stepped into the large mechanical room, the temperature and smell of the area warned them that things had changed.

Dern noticed Burly draw his weapon from its holster, though he assumed the cop had enough brains not to fire the Glock if at all possible. Ricocheting bullets were far more dangerous than the killer.

The beams of their flashlights illuminated the area where huge heat ducts rose to the ceiling and heavy water pipes climbed up the wall. Electrical junction boxes were visible near huge waste bins, and several disabled furnaces stood next to what once had been an active incinerator, its iron doors black, the smokestack rising upward.

The place was quiet, not a sound as they fanned out, weapons drawn, nerves strung tight. Dern’s ears strained, but he heard nothing other than the other cops as they moved through the area and his own galloping heartbeat.

Carefully he stepped around a furnace. There, blocked by the huge firebox, was the heart of a camp, presumably Reece’s. Got you, you son of a bitch! He motioned to one of the deputies, who shined her light over the filth of a dirty sleeping bag, camp stove, clothes, and garbage scattered in one corner. A couple of pails, one with clean water, one fouled with waste.

But no Reece.

They combed the area.

“He’s gone.” A male cop sounded disgusted. “In the wind.”

“Looks recent,” another one said, shaking his head.

Dern touched the camp stove. “Still warm.”

“Where the hell could he go?” Another cop shined his flashlight over the walls. “Looks like only one way out of here.”

“Heat vents,” another said.

“They go straight up. He couldn’t climb up sheet metal, and they’re not big enough. Reece is over six feet.”

“Shit!”

Dern eyed the cavernlike room, looking up at the ceiling until finally his gaze landed on the incinerator. They’d already looked inside, of course, but something about it bothered him. The big firebox seemed out of place. And there were a few ashes on the outside floor. He opened the door again, but the bin was empty. Shining his flashlight upward, he noticed the interior ladder, used probably for cleaning the chimney.

“He’s on the roof!” Dern was already running for the exit.

“Hey!” Burly shouted after him. “We already checked up there.”

“I know, but he heard us and waited, then climbed into the incinerator and used the ladder. He’s on the friggin’ roof!” Rather than wait for the ensuing discussion, Dern flew up the stairs. He heard boots clattering behind him, even a curse or two, but he kept running, taking the steps two at a time and hoping that at least a couple of the cops climbed the incinerator ladder.

“He’ll be trapped up there!” someone behind him said as Dern reached the first floor.

“Unless he decides to take a flying leap!”

“Oh, Christ! Well, he wouldn’t survive. It would serve the bastard right and save the state a whole lotta money!”

Taking the steps two at a time, Dern flew by the second floor, passed the third, and reached the roof access. It was locked. Probably by Reece, from the other side. “Bastard!” he muttered.

Grabbing both handrails of the stairs, he swung his body and, using momentum and all the strength he could muster, kicked the door with his feet.

BAM!

Frame shattering, the door flew open, banging loudly as a rush of wind whistled down the stairwell. Hearing the thunder of footsteps from the group of cops behind him, Dern scrambled to his feet and flung himself onto the roof. Once again he wished he had his pistol as he walked slowly around the stairwell to the perimeter of the building, his eyes searching as he fought the screaming wind and heavy rain.

“What the f*ck?” someone behind him said.

Dern turned to see the disgust on Burly’s face.

“He’s not here! He’s flown the damned coop, I tell ya.” The deputy was already reaching for his phone to call the sheriff with the bad news. Dern turned and looked at Sea Cliff. From here, the widow’s walk of Neptune’s Gate was visible, and in his mind’s eye, he saw Ava, climbing down the damned fire escape.

Just like this damned place!

It all clicked. He’d spied the ladder on the south side of the island earlier. Now he raced across the soggy roof to the edge of the building where twin handles looped over the ledge to connect with the railing of the fire escape. Cautiously he peered over the edge.

Two floors down, clinging to the rusted railings for his life, his body battered by the gale-force winds buffeting the island, was Lester Friggin’ Reece. Sensing Dern, he looked upward for a frantic second.

“Hello, Brother,” Dern said, though the desperate man far below, staring up in panic, couldn’t hear him over the thunder of the surf and the scream of the wind.

Over his shoulder, Dern yelled, “Hey! Over here!”

Reece started scrambling downward.

Burly, lumbering over, two other deputies on his heels, shined the beam of his light down the dirty exterior walls and caught the killer’s face looking up again. Terror registered in Reece’s eyes. “You’d better be scared, you sum bitch,” Burly said. “We got your skinny ass now!”

He started to radio to the cops on the ground just as Dern climbed onto the fire escape. “Stop! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Burly demanded. “Hey!”

Dern didn’t listen to any lame-ass “this is police business” excuses as he lowered himself quickly on the slick rungs. He remembered Ava on the fire escape, how she’d climbed to a lower floor, and he wasn’t going to take the chance with Reece. What if the guy had an escape route, one the police would have trouble finding? He could slide inside through a window, take a back staircase, disappear again, or he might just take a chance on jumping.

Either way, Dern was on his heels.

“For the love of Christ!” he heard Burly say over the rumble of the ocean, and he felt the ladder shimmy a bit. He figured the big cop was giving chase, but he didn’t look up, just kept his eyes on Reece as he hurried rung by rung down the rusting ladder.

Reece squirreled down the escape. He was agile and quick, and the group of cops that Dern had expected to appear on the ground below once Burly had radioed them hadn’t arrived when Reece, at the end of the ladder, jumped to the ground.

“Shit!” Above him, Burly had witnessed Reece’s escape.

Dern hurried, hoping the damned cops and dogs would appear on that bit of lawn, but as he reached the first floor, no officer appeared and Reece took off down a slippery, weed-choked trail that forked. One path led to the fence and a gate that opened to the front of the building; the second fork angled toward the bay.

Reece, damn him, headed for the open sea.

“Great!” Dern grumbled, and using his hands and gravity, kicked his feet free and slid down the final rungs before dropping to the ground. He landed hard, his ankle twisting, but he was on his feet in a second, chasing the madman who was his brother. He couldn’t lose him now—not after all this time and his promises to Ava and his mother—and he wouldn’t let the cops shoot first and ask questions later. Faster and faster he raced, cold air burning through his lungs, his eyes trained on Reece’s head as they flew along the slick, weed-choked path that wound through rocks and patches of beach grass. Behind him, he heard shouts. The police finally arriving.

Where the hell were the dogs?

Dern expected the dogs to gallop past him, fast on the scent of their quarry, but so far, nothing. Probably locked on the other side of the fence or some other snafu.

Don’t worry about the damned dogs. Just get this sucker!

Reece, as slippery as the wet rocks of the headland, knew this area better than anyone. “You’re not getting away, you bastard,” Dern said, his eyes trained on the man he was chasing and silently cursing the sheriff for not allowing him a gun. At each dip and turn in the path, Reece disappeared for a second, and Dern feared that he would veer off, slither away in the beach grass, find a hidden cove, or take to the ocean.

“Police! Stop!” he heard from behind, and prayed that they wouldn’t shoot. His jacket identified him, but it wasn’t safe and he wanted Reece alive.

On he ran, boots sliding in the mud, his damned ankle beginning to throb. Still, he was slowly closing the gap. Reece was fifteen feet ahead of him, but slowing. Soon it was ten feet, then five.

He could hear the rasp of his brother’s breath as he slowed.

“Reece! Give it up!” he yelled, and his half brother looked furtively over his shoulder, his eyes wild. He muttered something unintelligible, dug into the pocket of his jeans, and kept running toward the damned ocean. Did he think he could swim away? Get lost in the sea before he drowned or hypothermia took him?

No effin’ way!

Police were shouting. A warning shot fired.

But Reece didn’t break stride. Only feet from the surging ocean’s edge, he looked about to dive in.

Gathering all his strength, Dern launched himself.

Reece spun.

A knife was in his hand. With a ghoulish smile twisting his narrow face, he actually grinned. “Come on, dick face, just come the hell on!” he said as Dern landed on him and the skinny man drove his blade into Dern’s chest. The air rushed out of Dern’s lungs as together they toppled into the sand. Reece tried to squirm away and sliced at Dern again and again, thrusting his knife hard. “Die, you f*cker! Die!”

Dern wrestled with the maniac, using all the tactics he’d learned on the force, but his half brother was slippery and hopped up on adrenaline, fighting for his life, his deadly blade ever in Dern’s view.

As one, they rolled toward the ocean, the rain pounding down, the sound of footsteps heavy, the voices of men shouting audible over the rush of the ocean.

Dern twisted and writhed, grabbing at the man’s arms and finally using his legs to turn Reece facedown while trying to avoid the deadly slash of the maniac’s blade.

An icy spray of sea foam splashed over them as they wrestled. Dern sputtered, salt water filling his nose and mouth. Slowly but surely, Dern forced Reece’s hand backward, farther and farther, until the older man was writhing in pain, still trying to strike. Another wave pummeled them.

Reece squealed like a stuck pig, sputtering, coughing, and spitting sand and salt water.

Dern gave another little twist. This time he felt sinews pop.

Howling in agony, Reece dropped the knife.

“I should kill you, you miserable piece of shit!” Dern said.

“We’ve got him!” Burly yelled.

Dern didn’t budge. He straddled the prisoner, not letting him go, feeling the arctic chill after another wave struck hard. Finally, four other cops arrived, weapons trained on Reece.

“I said, we’ve got him,” Burly repeated into his phone as he shoved Dern aside and cuffed the subdued, coughing prisoner.

“You sure do,” Dern said, freezing, with sand and salt water sticking to his skin, his hair plastered to his head, the flak jacket that had saved his life from Reece’s rabid knife thrusts hard against him. Shivering, he stared at the monster who had killed so many, a maniac with the same blood as Dern’s running through his veins.

Once he was cuffed and hauled to his feet, Reece, still spitting sand, zeroed in on Dern. His filthy jeans and jacket were two sizes too big and his once-blond hair, now wet and stringing to his shoulders, showed hints of gray. Dark eyes squinted a bit as if some memory tugged at his brain. “Who the f*ck are you?”

Dern didn’t respond, wouldn’t give the prick the satisfaction. Because this pathetic homicidal maniac, no matter what, was no brother to him. If Reece figured out who Dern was, fine. Surely he’d learn it from the cops, but Dern wouldn’t give the psycho the satisfaction of an answer.

“I said, who the hell are you?” Reece yelled, nearly frothing for the truth.

Burly snorted. “I think he is your worst nightmare, Reece. But then, that’s what you are to the rest of us.”

Dern, limping slightly, followed the officers and their prisoner up the trail to the hospital where Biggs and a bevy of other cops were waiting. All eyes followed the prisoner, and Dern could feel the sense of relief, even elation rippling through the sodden group. The dogs whined, a few cops told jokes, still others were on phones or smoking or texting.

Once he was shackled, the prisoner was prodded toward a waiting car. Biggs was already beaming. The most reviled man in Washington State history had been captured on his watch, and no doubt, the big man was already considering how to make political hay out of it. Not that it mattered. The man would be behind bars and his reign of terror cut short. Reba could rest easy.

Dern found his way to the sheriff and pushed his way past a few of the cops who were discussing their next move.

“Just a sec,” Biggs said to one of his deputies, cutting him off as he turned to Dern. Rain dripped off the brim of his hat, but he was grinning from ear to ear, obviously feeling as if he’d pulled off the collar of the century. “You need something?”

“Yeah. To talk to Reece.”

The sheriff laughed. “You and a million others.”

Standing in the pouring rain, nose to nose with Biggs, his ankle throbbing, his flesh nearly frozen, Dern wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “I need to speak with him. Without me, you wouldn’t have made this arrest. I led you here. Brought him down. I want to talk to him.”

“I realize you were integral in Reece’s capture, but I can’t—”

“Sure you can, Sheriff.” He’d almost suggested Biggs grow a pair but bit his tongue. However, he must’ve conveyed the message telepathically because Biggs snorted and seemed to have second thoughts. “Tell ya what. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, have the paramedics look at your ankle.”

“Screw my ankle! I need to talk to him now!”

Biggs’s smile fell away. “No way, son. Lots more important folks are standin’ in line. You had your chance out there when you were playing lone cowboy and gettin’ in the way of the officers.”

“I found him.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Biggs conceded, then added, “Look, you might get a chance later, at the sheriff’s office. But the feds will be there, so I can’t make any damned promises. That’s it. Take it or leave it.” And then he was off. Without so much as a “thanks.”

Bastard!

Seething, Dern ignored his throbbing ankle and decided he’d “take it” as he watched the vehicle carrying a cuffed and shackled Reece drive off. The prisoner would be driven back to the marina in Monroe, then shuttled by boat to the mainland.

“This way!” Burly said, coming up behind Dern and patting him on the back. “I’ll give ya a ride to the ER. See that you get your ankle tended to.”

“Just take me to the station.”

“But—”

“Let’s not argue, okay? It’s my damned ankle.”

“Do it, Orvin,” the female officer ordered, revealing Burly’s real name. “Least we can do.”

“Oh, f*ck. Biggs won’t be happy.”

“He never is,” the woman cop said, then motioned to a vehicle and said to Dern, “Well, what’re you waiting for? Get in!”

With Orvin settling behind the wheel of a county-issued Jeep and Connie, the woman deputy with whom he had spoken earlier riding shotgun, Dern was offered the backseat, a towel, and a blanket. He climbed inside and they, along with a convoy of other vehicles, headed to Monroe where the ferry was commandeered into making several trips to the mainland. Spirits were up, the officers regaling each other with their take on the capture as they waited to be ferried to the mainland.

Seated in the Jeep, waiting for the next ferry, Dern found his cell phone in his jacket pocket. Waterlogged and covered in sand, it wouldn’t so much as power up.

“Great.”

“It might dry out,” Connie said, spying Dern’s attempts to use the thing. “In the meantime, you can use mine.”

“You got Ava Church’s number?”

“Nah.” She shook her head. “But I’m sure we can find it once we get back to the station.”

“Never mind.”

Ava was probably still at the sheriff’s office, and he’d try to connect with her there. At least at the station, with Reece collared, Ava was safe. Surprisingly, he felt a sense of relief. Hopefully now she could find some peace. No more hallucinations about her boy, and no more jumping into the bay or climbing on the damned roof in the middle of the night. With Jewel-Anne’s gaslighting plot exposed and over and Reece in custody, Ava could finally get on with her life.

What the hell do you care? She’s still married to that prick. Right?

And that was a problem, a big problem. Whether he would ever admit it or not, he was in love with her. He stared out the foggy window of the Jeep and silently cursed himself as a dozen kinds of fool. Ava was married, had a history of mental problems, was obsessed with a kid who was probably dead, had once tried to commit suicide, believed in conspiracies, flirted with paranoia, and had a razor-sharp tongue when her temper exploded, which it did often enough.

Not exactly the poster girl for a love interest.

“Hey, here we go.” Connie pointed at a ferry chugging across the bay. “Won’t be long now.”

She was wrong. It took another hour and a half for their vehicle to arrive in Anchorville, where the news of Reece’s capture had raced like wildfire through the shops, restaurants, and offices. At the marina, a crowd had gathered, swapping stories, trying to get information from the police as the ferry docked and the government-issued vehicles wound their way up the narrow streets to the station house.

Despite the storm that was unleashing its fury on the area, the eager press was waiting. News vans, reporters, cameras, and satellite equipment was being set up near the steps of the offices of the sheriff’s department. A crowd of looky-loos had already collected and was growing, people bundled in rain jackets and hats, huddled under trees or in vehicles, hoping to catch a glimpse of the area’s most notorious criminal.

It was kind of a sick media circus, Dern thought, though he felt not a drop of empathy for the man in custody. Nor did he sense any latent brotherly connection. Reece was a convicted killer. End of story. And the sooner Dern got through all the red tape and found out what he knew, the sooner they could lock the bastard up and throw away the key for all he cared.

Joe Biggs, on the other had, was eating up the drama. All smiles, he emerged from his vehicle, and rather than going in the back door, he made his way to the top of the short flight of steps. Beaming, he’d given the reporters a quick interview and proudly said “We finally got him!” into more than one out-thrust microphone.

Despite the dismal weather, Sheriff Joe T. Biggs was definitely in his element. The crowd outside the station swelled. Dern, who had hurried into the building, had surveyed the production through rain-spattered windows. From a few quickly hurled questions, it seemed that most of the residents of Anchorville were disappointed that Reece hadn’t holed himself up and come out, guns blazing. Yes, Reece was a criminal, a murderer, but he’d also become part of the local color of the community, hated and revered all in one breath. While a great percentage of the citizens of this small town would rest easier now that they’ve captured the madman who’d wreaked gruesome havoc a few years back, there would be a handful of locals who would hate to see the mystery solved and the legend destroyed.

Dern was just glad it was over but antsy that he couldn’t see the man face-to-face. All he wanted was a few minutes alone with Reece, but Biggs announced that he was lucky to be allowed into the viewing room, able to watch the interrogation through a two-way mirror. It didn’t matter that Dern had spearheaded the hunt, come up with the information leading to Reece’s capture, was a reserve member of a police force, or even that he and Reece were related. Joe Biggs was standing firm. This was his department’s moment.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you get this close,” he’d said to Dern before returning to confer with the public information officer, where he’d asked if the governor had called to congratulate him.

Disgusted, Dern now stood in the dark, peering through the two-way glass, and all the while Lester Reece, on the other side of the mirror, was being interviewed by a woman detective Dern didn’t recognize. She’d introduced herself to Reece as Detective Kim. Not more than five-four, she was petite and tough-looking. With rimless glasses, short black hair, and a stubborn jaw that suggested she meant business, she started asking questions.

Reece was having none of it.

Though the cop was cool, Reece sat belligerently in his chair, arms wrapped around his chest, eyes glittering with hate.

“I’m telling you I didn’t do it,” he said for the fifth time. “I didn’t kill any of those women. Hell, I didn’t even know two of them! You’re just trying to pin them on me cuz it’s easier than finding the real killer!”

The detective was calm. Listening. Pretending to go along but persistent.

“You can ask me the same damned question a thousand times, and the answer isn’t going to change. I didn’t do any of ’em.” He was getting agitated now, his yellow teeth visible, his bloodless lips curled in a snarl beneath his graying beard. He stared into the mirror as if he knew Dern was watching.

“What about Noah Church?”

“Who?”

“The boy who went missing from the island a couple of years ago.”

“What about him?”

“You know what happened to the boy?”

“What? Are you f*ckin’ nuts? No, damn it! I had nothin’ to do with that. Nothin’!” Reece was vehement.

“What do you know about him?” the detective asked calmly.

“I told you, nothin’!”

“Are you his biological father?”

“What?” Stunned, he was shaking his head violently, his long, wild hair shimmying with his denial. “Shit, no! What the f*ck’s goin’ on here?”

“But you were involved with Jewel-Anne Church?”

“I knew her. Yeah, at the hospital. But I didn’t f*ck her. Big difference! Jesus H. Christ! You people are sick!”

“Why not?”

“What? Why didn’t I get into her pants? Hell, I didn’t want to, not there at the hospital. Her old man woulda killed me. Or worse.” Then his expression changed and he looked slyly at the mirror. “But, you know, she wanted it. Wanted me to f*ck her. Teased the hell out of me.” He was nodding now, eyes bright. “She flashed me a couple of times, let me see her tits. Nice ones, by the way.”

“But you didn’t—”

“I said no, damn it! What do ya need? A DNA test? Then let’s do it!” A muscle worked frantically beneath his beard. “I might be crazy, but I’m not that nuts!”

“Same diff.”

“Listen, bitch,” Reece said, his anger exploding as Dern and six others watched through the glass. “I did not kill those women, and I didn’t f*ck Jewel-Anne Church, and I’m sure as hell not that missing kid’s daddy! You got that? Don’t try to pin any of this on me.”

“And don’t you disrespect me. Got it?” She stared him down, then once the stiffness left Reece’s shoulders, asked, “Do you know where he is?”

“Who? What? You mean the kid? No!”

“Any ideas?”

“Probably dead by now. Who knows? What the hell is this?” Spittle had collected in the corners of his mouth, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Detective Kim didn’t let up. “Tell me about Jewel-Anne Church, your relationship with her.”

“I already told you, she came around when I was in the hospital. Fascinated by the killer-freak, I guess. I don’t know. Anyway, she hinted that she’d let me do her, you know?” He was nodding, making an obscene gesture with his hands. “She even went so far as to help me escape; she’d found her daddy’s keys, the ones he thought he’d lost.” His eyes glittered. “One of the reasons he got fired, y’know. Losing his keys and not botherin’ to change the f*ckin’ locks. She still has—had—’em.”

“So she helped you escape and you went where?”

“Where do ya think? She got me off the island, gave me some cash, and I took off. Open water to Canada.”

“Why’d you come back?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

“Come on, Reece, what is it? Things get too hot for you up north?” When the prisoner didn’t respond, Kim said, “If I call the Canadian authorities, am I gonna find out that some other women died suspiciously? Had their throats slit?”

“No!” Reece slammed his fist onto the table, making the recorder jump. His face was mottled with an anger he couldn’t quite suppress. He seemed on the verge of spilling his guts, battling an inner war. Just when Dern thought he would crack, Reece said, “I want a friggin’ lawyer!” Then, glaring past the detective’s shoulder, he stared at the mirror. “That’s right, you bastards,” he said to those hidden behind the glass. “You hear me? I know my rights, and I’m not saying anything more until you get me my lawyer. You remember him? C. Robert Cresswell? Get him!”

Everyone who knew anything about Reece recognized the name of the attorney who had helped Reece avoid prison by getting him committed to Sea Cliff instead.

Reece turned his attention back to the woman interrogating him and said, “So until Cresswell gets here, you all can sit tight. I’m not saying another f*ckin’ word.”