Outside there were two Scarborough police cruisers and a trio of unmarked cars, one each from the Portland P.D., the South Portland P.D., and the Scarborough cops. A handful of people had gathered to watch the show. Merrick was facedown in the parking lot, his hands cuffed behind his back. He looked up at me as I approached. He didn’t appear angry. He just seemed disappointed. I saw O’Rourke nearby, leaning against a car. I nodded to him and made a call. Rebecca Clay answered. She was at the courthouse, and the judge was about to issue the temporary protection order against Merrick. I told her that we had him and that I’d be at Scarborough P.D. headquarters if she needed to contact me when she was done.
“Any problems?” I asked O’Rourke.
He shook his head.
“He walked right into it. Didn’t even open his mouth to ask what was going on.”
As we watched, Merrick was hauled to his feet and put in the back of one of the unmarked cars. He stared straight ahead as it pulled out.
“He looks old,” said O’Rourke. “He’s got something, though. I wouldn’t like to cross him. And I hate to tell you this, but I think you just have.”
“It didn’t seem like I had a whole lot of choice.”
“Well, at least we can hold him for a while and see what we get out of him.”
The length of time for which Merrick could be held would depend on the charges brought against him, if any. Stalking, defined as engaging in conduct that would cause a person to suffer intimidation, annoyance, or alarm, or to fear bodily injury, either to that person or a member of that person’s immediate family, was defined as a Class D crime. Similarly, terrorizing was a Class D, and harassment was a Class E. There was always the possibility of adding trespassing and criminal damage to the list, but taken altogether it meant that Merrick could be held only until the following Tuesday evening, assuming he didn’t get lawyered up, since D and E offenses allowed a suspect to be held for only forty-eight hours without charge, excluding weekends and holidays.
“You think your client will want to take this all the way?” asked O’Rourke.
“Do you want her to?”
“He’s a dangerous man. Seems kind of rude to lock him up for just sixty days, which is what he’ll get if the judge buys all the arguments in favor of putting him away. Might even be counterproductive, although if anyone asks, I didn’t say that.”
“You never struck me as the gambling type, you know that?”
“It’s not a gamble. It’s a calculated risk.”
“Based on what?”
“Based on Frankie’s reluctance to be jailed and your ability to protect your client.”
“So what’s the compromise?”
“We warn him off, make sure the order is ready to be served, and set him free. It’s a small city. He’s not going to disappear. We’ll arrange for someone to stick close to him for a while, and see what happens.”
It didn’t sound like the perfect plan. Nevertheless, it looked like I had just been given an extra ninety-six hours at most without Merrick to worry about. It was better than nothing.
“Let’s hear what he’s got to say for himself first,” I said. “You cleared it for me to watch?”
“Didn’t take much doing. Seems like you still have friends in Scarborough. You spot anything in what he says, then you let me know. You think he’ll call a lawyer?”
I thought about it. If he did decide to lawyer himself up, it would have to be through Eldritch, assuming the old man was licensed to practice in Maine, or had someone in the state who was prepared to do a little quid pro quo work when necessary. But I had a feeling that Eldritch’s support for Merrick had always been conditional, and Merrick’s recent actions might have forced the lawyer to reconsider his position.
“I don’t think he’s going to talk much anyway.”
O’Rourke shrugged. “We could hit him with a telephone book.”
“You could, but I’d have to report you to IA.”
“Yeah, there’s that. I’d have to lose the paperwork on myself. Still, it’s Scarborough’s turf. We can stand back and see how they handle it.”
He got in his car. The Scarborough cruisers were pulling away, the Portland cops close behind.
“You coming?” he asked.
“I’ll follow.”
He left, the crowd dispersed, and suddenly I was the only person in the parking lot. The cars rolled by on Route 1, and the neon Big 20 sign illuminated the lot, but behind me was the darkness of the marshes. I turned, gazing into it, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that, from its deepest reaches, something stared back at me. I walked to my car, started the engine, and tried to leave that sensation behind.
Merrick was seated in a small square room furnished with a white table bolted to the floor. There were three blue chairs around it, and Merrick sat in the one facing the door, the two empty chairs across from him. A wipe-clean board was attached to one wall, its surface covered with children’s doodles. There was a phone beside the door and, high in one corner, a video camera. The room was also wired for sound recording.
Merrick’s hands had been cuffed, and the cuffs had in turn been chained through a D-ring on the table. He had been given a soda to drink from the machine beside the evidence technician’s office, but he hadn’t touched it. While the room didn’t have a two-way mirror, we were able to watch him on the computer monitor in a partitioned office close by the interview room. We weren’t alone. Although the alcove was big enough for four people at best, almost three times that number were crowded around the screen, trying to catch a glimpse of their new guest. Detective Sergeant Wallace MacArthur was one of them. I knew him from way back. Through Rachel, I’d introduced him to his wife, Mary. In a way, I had nearly been responsible for her death, too, but Wallace had never held that against me, which was pretty Christian of him, all things considered.
“Not often we get a living legend in here,” he said. “Even the Feds have joined us.”
He jerked a thumb in the direction of the door, where Pender, the new SAC of the small Portland field office, was talking with a man whom I didn’t recognize but whom I took to be another agent. I had been introduced to Pender once at some policeman’s benefit in Portland. As far as the Feds went, he seemed okay. Pender nodded to me. I nodded back. At least he hadn’t tried to have me thrown out, which was reason to be thankful.
MacArthur shook his head in something like admiration. “Merrick’s old school,” he said. “They don’t make ’em like him anymore.”
O’Rourke grinned emptily. “Yeah, what have we come to when we can look at someone like him and think, hell, he’s not so bad? He just popped them, neatly and cleanly. No torture. No women. No kids. Just men that somebody figured had it coming.”
Merrick kept his head down. He did not look up at the camera even though he must have known that we were watching him.
Two Scarborough detectives entered the room, a beefy guy named Conlough and a woman named Frederickson, who had made the formal arrest at the Big 20. As soon as they began to question him, Merrick, contrary to expectations, looked up and answered them in soft, civil tones. It was almost as though he felt the need to justify and defend himself. Perhaps he was right. He had lost his daughter. He had the right to ask where she might be.