“You see, Dennis, I don’t want you to talk because I don’t need a confession. I have everything I need right here. That minivan there?” I pointed to the screen and checked to see that he was watching the video. “That’s Pippa Stafford’s minivan. And that’s you getting out of the driver’s side. I guess you needed some gas, huh.”
Orton’s eyes began to grow large, and his bottom lip took on a slight quiver. We watched as he pumped gas into the gas tank of the minivan.
“Dennis,” I said in a soft voice. “You know what happens next. Pippa is dead in the back seat. You choked her to death. You crushed her larynx. Did you know that? It takes a bit of force to crush a larynx—the kind of force that comes with rage.”
Tears welled up in his eyes, soaking into the gauze bandages covering his face.
Interviewing technique 101: First, make the suspect believe you know everything.
“And there you go,” I said sitting up and pointing at the screen again. “You’re pouring gasoline directly into the back seat. You’re dousing your dead girlfriend’s body. You probably thought it was a perfect plan, but you’re really bad at this. You’re a complete dunce when it comes to committing murder. You couldn’t have made it easier for us if you tried.”
Orton watched the video and saw himself return the nozzle to the pump, get into the driver’s seat, and drive away.
“You see, Dennis, gasoline is a . . . well it’s a gas. A fume. When you got back into that vehicle, you were dousing yourself with gasoline too. You just didn’t know it. You were done-for the second you lit that lighter.”
Second, make the suspect believe you sympathize—that you are on his side.
“And that’s why I know you’re not an evil man, Dennis. You were just reacting. You didn’t plan all of this, I can see that. I don’t know what happened between you and Pippa—and I don’t want to know. Things get out of hand sometimes. We all do stuff we don’t mean to do. I get that. All we can do is try and do the right thing going forward.”
He was in a full-blown cry now, the flush of tears filling his eyes and spilling over in rivulets, spit collecting in the corners of his lips, and snot seeping from his nose.
“You want to see it again?” I asked.
“No. Please, don’t.”
“Like I said, Dennis, I’m not here to get a confession. I don’t need one. Hell, we have video.”
I pulled the digital recorder from my pocket, turned it on, and placed it on the edge of the bed. Then I lifted the laptop from his stomach and click on the Burn Unit footage.
“But, Dennis, I do have a problem you might be able to help me with. Has nothing to do with Pippa, but I could really use your help.”
“Help with what?”
“Yesterday, you and I had a little chat about what happened to Pippa. That’s when you told me that cock-and-bull story about the gangs. Now, I don’t want to rehash all that. I don’t want you to say a word about that. Am I clear?”
He nodded.
“We’re agreed about that, Dennis?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this morning I came back to chat some more and all of a sudden you wanted a lawyer. And that’s just fine. You’re entitled to have one. But what concerns me is why you changed your mind. Who told you to get a lawyer?”
With that, Orton’s eyes sharpened and he stopped crying.
“You see, I know who it was.” That was true. “And I know what he said.” That was not true.
I put the laptop back onto Orton’s stomach, being careful not to irritate his injured skin. I showed him the man on the screen. “I just want to understand why Lieutenant Emil Briggs would come all the way over here to tell you to lawyer up.”
Orton looked at the face on the screen, the picture zoomed in to its clearest resolution. There was no mistaking Briggs. Orton’s eyes danced back and forth between the screen and my face.
“And, Dennis, I need the truth about this. You already know you’re a terrible liar. So tell me—what is your connection to Briggs?”
Orton looked at the ceiling and didn’t answer.
“Dennis, I said a bit ago that I don’t think you’re an evil man. I meant it. But this . . . this thing with Briggs . . .”
“I know I’m going to prison,” he said, somewhat out of the blue. I let that statement hang in the air while Orton gathered his thoughts. “And when they take these bandages off of me, I’ll see the scars of what I did. My face will be the face of a murderer. Every day, when I look in the mirror, I’ll see the reminder of what I did, what I am. I’ve had to live with guilt before, Detective, and I know that I’m no good at it. I can’t live with this.”
“What’s that got to do with Briggs?”
Orton closed his eyes, as if pulling up a memory before he spoke. Then in a low whisper, he said, “Emil Briggs and I met in college. We were in the same fraternity. I was a couple years ahead of him, so we didn’t hang out all that much. To be honest, I thought he was a bit of a douche.”
Orton smiled, and I wanted to tell him how accurate his assessment had been, but I held my tongue.
“After I graduated, I didn’t give him much thought. Never figured on seeing him again. Then, about six years ago, right after I got the job as the deputy chief of staff to the mayor, Briggs shows up at my door. Wants to grab a beer. I thought, what the hell. We’d do a little catching up, tell some stories about the good ol’ days. I figured that would be that.”
“I take it that wasn’t that?”
“No, it wasn’t. As the evening wore on, he got weirdly serious and asked me where I saw myself in ten years. I told him that I would like to be on the city council down the road, and, who knows, maybe even run for mayor one day. Then he tells me about how he wants to move up through the ranks and become the chief of police. This is a guy still wearing a patrol uniform and talking about becoming the chief of police. I think, well, it’s okay to dream, right?”
“But this isn’t just some idle dream for Briggs, is it?”
“No. It’s not. He had this whole plan worked out. You see, getting elected to the city council is a shoo-in if you have the chief of police on your side. He said that if he was the chief, he’d back me up. In turn, I needed to use my influence with the mayor to move him up the ladder.”
“That’s quite ambitious,” I said. “Lots of variables. Lots of things could go wrong.”
“But it was working. Briggs may be a douche, but he knows how to maneuver. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Orton gave a half smile and turned to look at me. “He was particularly worried about you, Detective. He said that if you ever wanted to challenge him, he’d have trouble.”
“He worried for nothing,” I said.
“That was Briggs, though. Always thinking six moves ahead.”
“And this morning, what exactly did he say to you?”
“He told me not to talk to you until he figured out how bad it was. He wanted to help me. He told me to sit tight and not give you any more rope. You see, Briggs owed me a favor—a big one. He came here to pay off that debt.”
“What kind of debt are we talking about?”
Orton looked away from me again, as if ashamed by what he was about to tell me. “You see, five years ago he invited me to go to WE Fest with him—his dime.”