Thicker Than Blood - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги онлайн TXT) 📗
The woman who had wanted to do the interview stood beside the cameraman in a conservative yellow suit. She reeked of poignant questions, a zombie for her network. Though one of the top journalists in the nation, intelligent and savvy, she was utterly incapable. When I agreed to do an interview with the network, I had one condition. Dr. Goldston, a former FBI agent in the Behavioral Sciences Division, would conduct the interview. Regarded by his peers and colleagues as the sharpest, most qualified criminologist in the country, he'd dedicated his life to understanding and tracking serial killers, not to becoming a media whore. I respected that, and I respected his books. I wanted to meet him and feel his probing intellect.
Goldston laid a bulging, cream folder on the table and opened it. It was full of crime scene photographs, forensic reports, and several documents I'd never seen before.
He looked back at the woman and her cameraman. "You ready, Laura?" Goldston asked.
"Yes, we can start now," she said.
Goldston lifted a tape recorder off the floor and set it on the table. "I’m recording this for my file, too. Is that all right with you, Andy?"
"It’s fine," I said.
He pushed the record button and holding up one finger, spoke into the air: "August 17th, 2003. Eight p.m. Montana State Prison. Deer Lodge, Montana. Subject: Andrew Thomas." He cleared his throat and withdrew a sheet of paper from the folder covered in indecipherable cursive. Goldston looked up from his notes and smiled. He didn’t fear me.
"I want to first thank you for doing this. I appreciate the opportunity to talk with you."
"Certainly," I said. I was nervous about the cameras and kept looking directly into them.
"When we spoke on the phone, I asked if anything was off limits, and you said there wasn’t. Is that still the way you feel?" he asked, and I nodded.
"This is the first interview you’ve agreed to do since your incarceration in 96'. You’ve remained silent, refusing to speak even at your own trial. Why have you waited until now?"
"I’ve been dealing with things. Privately."
"Are you responsible for the killings at the Blue Sky Motel?" he asked. There was no emotion in his voice. He was interested solely in obtaining information, not judging or condemning me. He put me at ease, and I could see why he was so well-respected.
"No."
"The Washington boxes?"
"No."
"Are you responsible for the bodies found at your cabin in the Wyoming desert or at your lake house north of Charlotte?"
"No."
In the thick silence, Goldston swallowed. "You consider yourself innocent?" he asked.
"I do."
Goldston reached into his briefcase and took out a small tape player. "I want to play something for you," he said, setting the tape player on the table. He pushed play and for several seconds the speakers crackled. Then, through the softer static, I heard his voice:
"Barry Johnson’s in the trunk of my car you prick… I don’t think you wanna take the credit for kidnapping that police officer… I killed him, too… … … You stay right there… Want the car keys? So you can get that smelly body out of my trunk. I waive my rights… Take them out slowly [Door Slams]… … … … Andy… What?… Now I’ve gotta let you in on something… Oh God… … … … [Door Slams] Where’s Officer Johnson’s car, Orson? Where is his car? Oh, you don’t want to talk to me now. Piece of shit… Where’d he go?… Where did who go?… My brother… What the fuck are you talking about?… Shit. Oh, shit… Where’s the car, Orson?… Oh God… Tough man doesn’t wanna talk now. Well, that’s okay, cause you’re fucked. Why are you crying, Orson? Huh?… That’s not my name. Where is he?… Who are you talking about?… The man I came in with. Where’d he go?… You’re out of your fuckin’ mind… Where’d he go?… Calm down… Where is my fucking brother?!!!"
Goldston stopped the tape. My hands shook, and I felt very cold. He could sense my discomfort, so he remained quiet for a moment, allowing me to regain my composure. I took deep breaths and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I looked around the room, at the guards, the cameras in front and behind me, at Laura Webber, and then back to Goldston.
"Andy, I’ve literally spent hours going over what I just played for you. I’ve probably listened to that tape a hundred times, and for the life of me I can’t figure out what happened in that room. I even had several psychologists listen, and they were baffled. I interviewed the detective who questioned you. He said you were a different person when he came back into the interrogation room." Goldston removed his glasses. "What’d you feel hearing that tape?"
I stared at the table, my heart racing. "I don’t know. That was a really fucked-up day."
"How many people were in that room after the detective left?" Goldston asked.
I looked up from the table. "You won’t believe me," I said. "It’ll seem like I’m crazy, like I’m grasping to save my life, and I’m not. I know they won’t ever let me out of this place."
"How many?"
"Two."
"One physical person walked into that police station, Andy. There’s a videotape of it."
"I know."
"Who’s Orson?" he said, but I shook my head. "You don’t know?"
"I don’t know what he is anymore."
"Is he in your head?"
"No."
"Then you actually see him?"
"Not since Choteau."
"What does he look like?"
"Like me. He’s my twin."
I felt a cool breath on the back of my neck. "Hey, big boy," he whispered, and I shivered.
"What?" Goldston said. "What'd you say?"
Orson walked around the table behind the guards. He stepped over the mass of cords that linked the microphones and cameras to the outlets and leaned against the wall. He smiled, wearing jeans and a dirty tee-shirt. His hair was buzzed like mine, and he had a two-day beard.
"What’s wrong?" Goldston asked. "Andy, you’re trembling."
"I’m staring at Orson right now," I said, watching my brother walk to the table.
"Andy, you’re looking at me," Goldston said. "You’re looking directly into my eyes."
"No, I’m looking at you," Orson said, standing beside me, his dirty hands on the table.
"Orson," I said, "listen to me…"
"Dr. Goldston, I’m Orson Thomas."
"It’s nice to meet you, Orson," Goldston said hesitantly. "Where’s Andy?"
"Right here," I said. "Watching you talk to Orson. He's beside me. I'm looking at him."
"No," Goldston said, "you’re looking at me."
"Who the fuck cares?" Orson said. "You wanna talk? Talk."
Goldston gathered himself and cleared his throat. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, and he wiped them away on the sleeve of his black jacket.
"What makes you come out, Orson?" Goldston asked.
"What do you mean?"
"What makes your personality come out?"
"I’m not a fucking split personality, Doctor. I’m always here. I run the show, not Andy."
"You’re always aware of him?"
"Yes."
"Is he always aware of you?"
"When I want him to be. He’s in la-la land most of the time."
"La-la land?"
"I send him away when I have things to do. Europe, Aruba. That’s his La-la land."
