The Corruptible by Mark Mynheir

Author:Mark Mynheir [Mynheir, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-60142-286-6
Publisher: The Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2011-04-05T00:00:00+00:00

28

IT’S ALWAYS HARDER to ask for permission than it is to beg for forgiveness. A truism that worked in areas other than law enforcement. I hoped it continued to be accurate, especially since I’d called a friend at Lakeview and set up an appointment to talk with Nikki—without her lawyer’s permission.

Lakeview provided Orange County with emergency mental health needs—such as the Baker Act for suicidal people. Like many things in life, I had one impression of the place—a lunatic asylum—until I actually spent time there myself. My attitude toned down a bit after that, since they helped me through some dark days.

An African American female orderly opened the door to the visitation room and held it for Nikki. She shuffled in wearing light blue scrubs, sandals, and bright red socks. A medical bracelet clearly identified her as a resident, not a guest. The kinks and knots had been combed out of her hair, and she didn’t give me much attitude as she eased into the chair next to the couch I sat on.

“Call me when you’re finished,” the orderly said.

The soft glow of the lights and the feng shui of the room made it feel like I was doing an interview on Oprah’s couch, but the mental health facility wasn’t exactly decked out for police interviews. Maybe that was a good thing. The trauma we put her through in the interview room would still be fresh in her mind. A different environment would be good for this talk.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again.” She brushed her hair behind her ears and crossed her legs.

“I want to clarify some things.” I kept my tone soft and monotone, like I imagined her counselor’s would be. “Do you think you can talk to me?”

“My lawyer told me not to talk to the cops.”

“I’m a private investigator.” Swinging in and out of the cop thing could be useful at times. I used it to my advantage. “I just want to ask some more detailed questions. I believe you didn’t kill Logan, but I think you might have seen or heard something while you were there that can help find who did.”

“But I did kill him … at least I think I did. Now my lawyer and everyone else says I didn’t.” She spoke more slowly and softly than she had when I interviewed her last. “I don’t understand. I told you and the other cops everything. Maybe I am crazy. It was all a blur.”

The medication she was on must have been working, because she was more lucid than at our last visit. She’d had a couple of days to detox off of whatever street drugs she’d been taking too.

“I’m not reading you your rights,” I said, “because I’m not going to use anything you tell me against you. I think you can help me figure out what happened to Logan that night.”

She folded her arms and sat back, gazing at me for a few moments. In this environment, she seemed almost normal, not a woman who’d done time for beating one boyfriend and stabbing another—albeit dead—boyfriend.

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