He said to me, “Pretend he’s David Berkowitz. Pretend he’s Lee Harvey Oswald.”

The observation room behind the two-way mirror was packed with brass: Brady, Meile, and Penny were there, and a few guys from the top floor I didn’t know.

I brought coffee for three into the interrogation room, apologized again to Randall for the one-thirty wakeup call with drawn guns as well as the solitary two-hour wait in the box.

He said, “Look. I’m innocent of any crime. Do your job, but let’s speed it up, okay? My wife and kids are in hell right now. And I’m about two minutes away from turning in my badge and telling all of you to take a flying leap.”

What had we done by bringing Randall in?

What could we possibly accomplish?

We had no witness, no evidence, just a career cop who’d been asleep in his undershorts when we crashed into his house.

Had Sergeant William Randall killed six people in seven days? Did we have a committed spree killer under lock and key? No pressure at all. With the top floor watching from behind the glass, Conklin and I had to ask the right questions and either clear Randall — or get him to confess.

Chapter 91

Chapter 91

RANDALL LOOKED TIRED and irritated. Conklin and I pulled out chairs and sat across from a man who might have set a new record for murders by a cop.

I pushed a container of coffee toward him, waited for him to stir in his sugar, then said, “The more you cooperate, the faster this will go, Sergeant. Where were you for the last eight hours?”

“I arrived home after my shift at approximately six o’clock p.m. I was home all night, as my wife told you.”

“Do you have another car, Sergeant Randall?”

“No. My wife has a car.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“Department issue only. I don’t want guns in a house with kids and a father-in-law who has no short-term memory.”

“Did you drive your wife’s car or any car between the hours of six last night and one this morning?”

“No, I did not.”

“Did you fire a weapon in the last week?”

“I like how you ask me that with a straight face.”

“Did you?”

“Hell no. You tested my hands, Sergeant. Negative for GSR.”

That was true.

Randall’s hands had been negative for gunshot residue, although he could have washed up and probably had. We had had no warrant to search his house or bring in his clothes for analysis. I got up, walked around the room, came back to my chair, and leaned across the table.

“We have a witness who saw you at Zeus.”

“I guess he failed to identify me in the lineup.”