Part 3 (2/2)

”Please, Michael.”

”Don't call me that,” he said. The words came out a long, low hiss like a tire losing air.

Marchek preferred people use his surname. Or Mike. Never Michael. In the courtroom at his last trial, he literally flinched at the sound of his full name. His lawyer said it was what his father called him when he was about to get a beating, so the D.A.'s office used it as much as they could during his trial. The effect was that he appeared twitchy and strange to the jury. A point for the good guys.

She'd never asked why he didn't want to be called Michael. Something about his early home life, she suspected. Perhaps that was why she always used it. Maybe his mother was tough on him. Maybe his father was tough on her. Early in her career, Jamie had bucked the idea of the stereotypes. Bad home life, early exposure to violence-particularly on the part of the father-rapists were always tagged with the same psychological markers. Jamie had met rapists who had strong parents with successful marriages and successful careers. She'd met some that were like a list of every stereotype in the book. Truth was, more fit the stereotypes than didn't. Over the years, she found herself less interested in how they'd grown up and more focused on putting them away.

Aside from his first name, the other thing Michael hated was slovenliness. He was careful about his appearance. His curly dark hair covered him. It spilled out under the cuffs of his jacket and down the backs of his hands. The hair on his head was kept short. A number four cut if she were guessing. He was normally cleanly shaven but now, his jaw was covered in a dark shadow that suggested he could grow a beard in a few days. She wondered if the hair bothered him. He seemed like someone who might shave himself from head to toe to be rid of it. His eyes were dark. In certain light, she'd seen green in them. But usually, like now, they looked flat and brown. He narrowed them, scanned the room.

He wore bleached unders.h.i.+rts and work pants. At the moment, though, his carefully kept appearance was bedraggled. His s.h.i.+rt was dirty and untucked, his pants barely b.u.t.toned. He wasn't happy.

His home was like a technology-manufacturing clean room. The floors were hardwood. A small black tray at the door held his work shoes. In the bottom was a half inch of liquid bleach, which made the whole place stink. She had wondered how he slept with the smell. Surely, it couldn't be good for him. But it hadn't killed him yet. Unfortunately.

Marchek had few material possessions. No books or music, no TV, which seemed odd for a guy who worked in a video store. A small hobby bench sat in the center of the living room. From what she had seen, he built mostly small planes. She'd seen one floater plane, too.

In the bedroom closet, his clothes were folded and stacked on two shelves. A half-dozen pairs of pants and maybe ten s.h.i.+rts. Three were collared ones with the logo of the video store, Video Mania. They had a stack of their own. The others were white unders.h.i.+rts. Hanes. Medium. Underwear and socks shared a separate shelf. He owned only two coats-one of heavy wool that looked like it had come from an army surplus store and the light brown denim Carhartt work jacket he wore now. No shorts, no bathing suit, no robe. Not even pajamas. Marchek didn't seem to believe in surplus.

”This won't take long,” she told him.

”Then I leave.”

It wasn't a question, so she didn't answer it.

Marchek touched nothing. Instead, he used a foot to kick the chair out then turned to sit. Held his hands in his lap. He hadn't touched anything. He was a neat freak and the tendency not to touch anything could be part of that. But she also thought he was wary of leaving prints. Criminals tended to create wonderfully elaborate conspiracy theories about how police entrapped them. Even the guilty ones.

”It's amazing what science has done for forensics,” Was.h.i.+ngton said. ”Tests can show that two pieces of duct tape came from the same plant and how close in time. We can actually prove that two samples came from the same roll even if they're not successive pieces.”

She watched Marchek. A corner of his mouth turned up. A smile. She paused, let the information sink in a bit.

He lifted a hand, focused on his thumb. Ran a finger across it like he was petting a tiny animal.

”You're in trouble, Michael.”

One cheek bounced in and out like he was chewing on it.

She continued. ”This will be three strikes. No chance of parole next time.”

He ran his finger along the thumb more slowly as though considering an offer. Something about the motion was childlike.

She felt close to something, considered her options.

”It'll be easier if you cooperate with the investigation,” Was.h.i.+ngton added.

Marchek glanced at Was.h.i.+ngton. He turned his gaze to Jamie. ”I've been reading up on serial rapists.”

Was.h.i.+ngton raised a brow.

Jamie was silent.

He nodded. ”Since you seem to think I am one, I thought I'd brush up on how they work. All sorts of different ones, aren't there?”

She didn't respond.

Was.h.i.+ngton's phone buzzed on his hip and he left the room to answer it.

The motion didn't seem to disturb Marchek. He rubbed his finger more slowly. ”I've been reading about what they do to their victims. Modus operandi and signatures. Truly, you have an intriguing job, Inspector.” He drew out her t.i.tle.

”What kinds of things did you read about?” she asked.

Marchek smiled. Not the tight, fake smile, but a real one. Joy. He was genuinely happy.

Something rolled in her stomach.

The smile grew a little. He knew he was getting to her. She kept silent.

”I read about men who bite and then cut pieces of skin from their victims,” Marchek went on. ”And, of course, the ones who take things-mementos.”

”What kind are you?”

Marchek's smile vanished. His eyes stayed flat. He was playing. ”Silly inspector. I've already explained I have nothing to do with any of this.”

Was.h.i.+ngton returned to the room, frowning.

She nodded. ”Okay. If you were a rapist, Michael...”

”What type would I be?”

She nodded.

His finger moved more quickly across the knuckle. A smooth, repet.i.tive motion-up, back, up, back. Then it stopped. He rested his hands in his lap. ”The difference between your rapists and me is that they consider this an art.” He frowned. ”You and I, we see it as an atrocity, a crime.” He focused on the far wall. ”If I were a rapist, which, of course, I'm not, I'd have to be one of those people who saw it as art.”

”And if you saw it as art?”

He shrugged.

Jamie watched his expression. His eyes neither widened nor narrowed; his lips remained pa.s.sive in a flat line. ”It would be like one of your little models, Michael?”

His gaze s.h.i.+fted back to her. Nonplussed. Almost bored. ”If there's nothing else we need to discuss, Inspector, I really should be going. I work early tomorrow.”

”I'm going to catch you, Marchek.”

”You're making a mistake,” he whispered. His shoulders s.h.i.+fted up, his spine straightened. He focused on her.

She held his gaze. ”I don't make mistakes.”

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