Page 27 of The Grave Between Us
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ingram said to his back.
Chapter Eight
EIGHT YEARS EARLIER
Cole waitedin the interrogation room the next morning, drinking a large Starbucks coffee and tapping his foot in the air as he waited for the marshals to escort Ingram in, sit him in his chair, and secure his shackles. If Ingram wanted to, he’d be able to stand and charge at Cole, but he’d be hobbled with a chair clinging to his back like a turtle’s shell. He wouldn’t be moving quickly, either, not with his ankles shackled together. Couldn’t reach for much with his hands cuffed and chained to his waist.
Hillary had asked whether Cole wanted the table brought back in so Cole could take notes, but he’d said no. Most interrogators used the table as a shield between themselves and the suspect. A wall that provided physical and psychological security, as well as a cover for nervous foot tapping or revulsion that caused a flinch. But tables also hid suspects’ reactions, concealing important information Cole needed. When did Ingram clench his hands into fists? When did he get erections? How still did he go when he dropped into those dark, midnight spaces?
Ingram looked well rested for a serial killer in an isolation cell at a maximum-security prison. Most narcissists struggled to adapt to prison life, but there was no evidence of that in Ingram so far. Why? Another question that needed answers.
Settled into his seat, Ingram watched him, brown eyes bright and intense, flicking over Cole and taking him in as thoroughly as Cole was doing in return. Ingram had a small smile on his face, almost like a default expression. The mask he showed the world? Or was this the self-satisfied look of a man who didn’t need to pretend anymore and could simply be content in who and what he was?
Interrogations were races for rapport. Everyone else who had tried with Ingram had failed, and even Cole only had the thinnest spider’s silk of a connection. Ingram hadn’t responded like other predators. He hadn’t given a single shit about the other agents’ attempts to provide him with empathy and understanding.
No, that’s not what he was about. Even in prison, even in shackles, he still wanted to dominate. But the game of domination only worked when the victim provided some kind of challenge. Agents who rolled over and showed their bellies, who offered up the sun and the moon if only he’d talk, didn’t interest him.
Keeping up the challenge, Cole had brought nothing for Ingram. Not a cup of coffee, not a newspaper, not a candy bar or a bag of chips or a soda. He sipped his own coffee, savored it, made a show out of it. Ingram’s dimple appeared for a moment, then vanished.
There was nothing at all in the world, except for the two of them.
“Tell me about Nelson Miller.”
No preamble. No warm-up. NoHow are you doing,how was your night, did you sleep well.
“Who?”
“You know who he is. You know who all your victims are. His name is on the search history on your phone. You were reading the news and checking to see if he’d been reported missing.”
“Oh. Him.” Ingram grinned. His eyes never left Cole’s.
Nelson Miller, the man who was found in the back of Ingram’s truck. Nelson Miller: father, husband, son, brother, friend. There was a family desperate for answers, and all the FBI could give them, so far, was that Nelson wasn’t coming home.
“Where were you taking him?”
“Someplace I could get rid of the body. I was done with him.”
“Someplace. Where is someplace?”
Silence.
“Why was he naked?”
Ingram’s eyebrow arched. “You don’t need a doctorate for that.”
“Where are his clothes? Where are his belongings? His car. His wallet. His cell phone.”
“The car is in an isolated campground, far off the beaten path. His clothes? Belongings? Ash.”
“You burned everything?”
“I always do.”
Recovered bodies will be nude. No belongings in any graves.Cole sipped his coffee. Pursed his lips. “Tell me about him. There’s a family that would like some closure.”
“I’ve given you a few tidbits already. Shouldn’t that be enough? Won’t that get the beehive of the FBI buzzing for days?”
“Sure.” He shrugged, casual indifference. “We can track all that down. That’s not a problem. One of the great strengths of the FBI is, for every one of you, there’s fifty of us. Fifty agents can outthink you, Ingram. They can outmaneuver you, too. Fifty agents can scour fifty campgrounds a day until they find your hiding places.”
