The Soul Hunter by Melanie Wells

Author:Melanie Wells [Wells, Melanie]
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-307-56257-9
Publisher: The Doubleday Religious Publishing Group
Published: 2010-11-09T16:00:00+00:00

20

I spent the next hour or so dissecting the video with officers Jackson, McKnight, and Martinez. As the tape began to roll, we stared at the dusty screen in silence, the grim, grainy images gripping us just as they had in real time.

Pryne started the interview like any other offender. Innocent. Wide-eyed shrugs, a studied look of bewilderment, and emphatic, unequivocal denials.

He didn’t know anyone named Drew Sturdivant. He’d never been to Caligula. Okay, maybe once or twice, but everyone goes to strip joints, you guys know how it is, and that don’t make you guilty of murder. That Arlington rap was a frame. He never broke into no apartment and he never raped no one. Some other dude must look just like him.

“The evidence,” McKnight reminded him, “all points to you, Gordon. We got fibers. We got footprints at the scene in your shoe size. You wear a size ten shoe? ’Cause unless I’m missing something, you got a size ten foot. I can see ’em right there.” McKnight pointed at Pryne’s orange jail shoes. “Am I right? Want me to take a look at the size for ya?”

Pryne scooted his feet farther under his chair.

“You wear lug-sole boots, Gordon? ’Cause we got people tearing up your place right now looking for ’em,” Jackson said.

“We got a witness that puts you with Drew Sturdivant right before she was killed.” McKnight put his hands on the table and stared into Pryne’s eyes. “You were the last person seen with her before she died, Gordon.”

“That’s probably just a coincidence, huh?” Jackson said.

A frame. Somebody was always trying to frame him. He’d never done anything like that in his whole life. Not in his whole life.

“You were convicted of rape six years ago,” Jackson reminded him.

A frame. He was never there. That woman made that whole thing up. Women are always trying to trap you. You have to watch out for women. All they want is to trap you. Everyone knows that.

He didn’t own an ax. He wasn’t on Harry Hines that night. He hardly ever went down to Harry Hines. And he never killed no one.

Denials, lined up and ready to go. Prefab, packaged up, and portable.

The buzz of the coffee maker and the pall of the greenish flat lighting squeezed in on me as I watched the tape. I’d never seen a criminal interrogation before. It was more mundane than on television, of course, but also more depressing because it was real. I pressed my fingers into my temples to keep the headache out of my brain and tried to fight back the urge to give up entirely on any remnant of hope I held for humanity.

It was Martinez who pointed out the first sign of change in Pryne. He paused the tape about fifteen minutes into the interview.

“Anyone notice that?” he asked.

“I did,” I said.

“What did you see, Dr. Foster?” Jackson asked.

“He’s getting agitated.” I turned to McKnight. “What was the last question again?”

He rewound.

“Watch his hands,” I said.

Jackson’s voice came through the speaker.

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