Page 14 of Sinful Reality

“Colorful analogy.” I steeple my fingers and flick my thumbs. “So this guy…? What’s his name?”

“Theodore Bukowski. T,” he rolls his eyes. “Then Buke, when I let him know I’m the only T in that cell.” His bright blue eyes search mine. “I saw him on the news awhile back, ‘cos his girlfriend went missing, and everyone figured he was probably the one who did it. Saw you on the news too,” he adds dryly. “Lead detectives. But you couldn’t find the body, and the evidence wasn’t there to nab him for it.”

“His alibi was tight,” Fletch counters. “Worked at the steelyard, punched in at his normal starting time, punched out again eight hours later. Danika went missing during those hours, and, if not for her parents’ insistence, one could wonder if she just up and ran away. Maybe she didn’t wanna be found.”

“But her parents have been on the news too,” he reasons. “They’ve cried for her and begged for something more than ‘we have no clue where she is.’ It’s been over a year since her disappearance, and Buke has been in here for half of that, so if she was running away just to get away, you’d think she’d call home to let them know she’s okay.”

“We can think things all we want,” I argue. “But without proof, all we’re doing here is hypothesizing. Do you have something new for us, or did you just want to bring her file back to the top of our piles to get more eyes on her?”

“Why’d you put Buke in the medical wing?” Fletch’s eyes drop to Tarran’s scabbing knuckles. “What beef did you have?”

“Except for the fact he was annoying as fuck?” He picks up his water and takes a slow sip. “We had no beef. I didn’t even realize he was the guy from the news at first. He was just another face in a sea of faces in here. Just another dude screaming about how he didn’t do nothing, and the cops set him up. Aggravated assault or some shit.” He lowers his water and shrugs. “I dunno. It’s hard to take the word of weasels like that, but according to him, he and his pal had a disagreement that ended with him putting the guy in the hospital. Buke was innocent, of course, and on the way outta town when the cops pulled him in. They had proof this time, so they tossed him in here. Still waiting for final sentencing.”

“And then you just…” I drop my head to the side. “Shattered his skull for fun?”

“No permanent damage to his head.” He spins the cup between his fingers. “I left him coherent enough to form thoughts and make a statement for when you needed it. But I fixed him up, for sure.” Proud, just like he was in his own trial, his lips curl into a soft smirk. “He’s the type of guy whose parents probably gave him a ribbon for coming last and argued with the teachers over every bad grade. Like their baby boy could do no wrong. So even though he was in here and claiming he was innocent of the assault on his friend, the nights can get pretty long, and I don’t talk much at all. So I guess he figured I wanted to listen.”

I sit tall again and snag my notepad and book. “What did he tell you?”

“About a girl he used to date.” His jaw clenches, the muscles rippling in his cheeks and rolling beneath short stubble. “This chick he’d seen maybe two or three times before. She hadn’t jumped into bed with him yet, so he called it Pussy Power.” His smirk drops away to disgust. “Like her not giving it up on the first date was some kind of fuckin’ challenge. He put on his best face and wooed her for a couple of weeks, picked her up for their latest date, and then he took her to a hotel room and fucked her brains out.”

“Which hotel?” I tap the end of my pen against the paper. “Did he say?”

“Yeah. Sundowner, out by the interchange. Room three-three-seven. He gloated because she wasn’t all that keen on banging yet, but he kept plowing her with alcohol during dinner, and I guess he got her to agree to something. Took her to the room, did whatever he did, with or without her consent?—”

“Did he say it was consensual? Or not consensual?”

Tarran shrugs. “His story kept changing. Kinda gloating about how he convinced her she wanted it, but also told me about how he dropped some shit into her drinks. He said she was into it in the room, begging to suck his dick, but also told me how she wasn’t eager, and they played a game oftie me up, strap me down.”

My hand moves furiously fast, jotting down every detail he feeds me.

“What else did he tell you?”

“He said how they fucked for hours and hours and hours, even though she wasn’t conscious for most of it. He joked that he’s fucked acorpse before, as in,” he firms his lips when I glance up, “her. But when I asked him point-blank if he stuck his dick in her while she was dead, he didn’t really commit.”

“Did he say that he killed her?” Fletch questions. “Specifically?”

“Yeah.” He chews on the inside of his cheek, rage bubbling in his eyes. “He said he tied her up and put a rope around her neck. Thought he was some kind of king, like he’s the leader of bondage or some shit. Sometimes, he said she wanted it; other times he said how he took charge and made her do it. Wrapped her up nice and tight, basically put her in a fuckin’ noose, and went wild every time she blacked out. Eventually, she didn’t wake up again, and that’s when he realized what had happened.”

“He said all this?” I demand. “The ropes? The room. The fact he tied her up, and eventually, she didn’t wake again? He said those words?”

“Yep. He made her his fuck doll while her skin was cold. Literally disrespecting a corpse. Then he left her there on the bed and took a shower. He slept beside her. Woke up, fucked her again. Went out and got breakfast. Fucked her again.” His cheeks turn a sickly shade of green. “He knew what he was doing, and he was getting off on the fact she couldn’t say no. He was hard because he’d killed her, and that felt really fucking good.”

Shower. Sleep. Breakfast. I write my notes, though everything Tarran says contradicts the alibi Bukowski still has. The time cards are pretty damn hard to dispute, so…

“Did he say what he did with her body after all this happened?” Fletch’s shoulders bunch with adrenaline, the stretch of his holster an audible crackle that lets me know he’s pissed. “Dumped her somewhere, obviously.”

“Yeah. He buried her a little bit outside the city. He said he wrapped her in the bedsheets, then in the shower curtain. Put her in his pickup, swung by his place to get a shovel, drove her out of the city, and dumped her near a bunch of trees. Then he came back and went to work.”

“So he told you all this just… because he could?” Fletch confirms. “Because he was bored?”

“It started ‘cos he was bored.” His smug smirk slides back into place. “It kept going because, for the first time in six months, I was actually paying attention to him. I asked questions. I was fuckin’ rapt in every word he spoke. He felt like a god because I let him talk, and I absorbed every detail. It only took me a minute to realize who he was talking about, and then for me to realize he was never gonna volunteer this information to the cops. But he wantedmeto know because he knew I was in for killing someone, too. Like it was a fuckin’ bonding experience. I knew I had one shot to get all the details, so I asked about the hotel and the room and the girl. I asked about the ropes and how many times he got to fuck her. I asked him to describe where he dumped her, and I nodded and called him a fuckin’ genius when he told me how he had his buddy at work time him in and out like usual.”

Fuck me. I write that down, too.

“Buke’s alibi was tied up in his work schedule. He bragged about it. I knew you’d need it to solve this case, so I crossed my t’s and dotted my i’s. Lied and told him how I used to hang out just outside the city limits with my pals. Ride motorcycles and shit on the old dirt tracks out there, and that’s how I got him to tell me where she is. And then…” He opens his hands and sits back again.

“And then what?” I search his eyes. “What?”

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