Portland Police Department. A man
wearing a straw-colored jacket and blue pants—a lousy combination, especially
in March—was standing in the shelter of the doorway. Claire smiled to herself
when she saw that he wasn’t puffing on a cigarette with a fedora pulled down
low over his eyes like a movie detective.
“Ms. McMullen,”
he said—a statement, not a question, Claire noticed as he stepped forward and
extended his hand.
Of course he
knows who I am…He’s a freaking detective, for crying out loud.
Claire smiled
tightly and shook his hand. She noticed that his grip was warm and dry…even on
a chilly afternoon like this. For some reason, she found that reassuring, but
she instantly thought how much warmer Samael’s handshake would be...
Detective
Trudeau stepped back and opened the door for her, and she followed him inside.
The walls throughout the building were painted a shade of green that Claire was
fairly certain didn’t occur in nature. They made their way down a hallway, past
uncountable offices, and then down a flight of stairs. Their footsteps echoed
in the stairwell.
Detective
Trudeau introduced her to several people as they went. Standing outside a
closed door was one of the officers who had arrested her assailant last Friday
night. She couldn’t remember his name now, but she smiled and nodded. Trudeau
led her into a small room with a folding table and several metal chairs. On one
wall was a counter, its white surface marred and smudged from years of use and
abuse. On it was a coffee maker as well as creamer and sugar, and numerous used
mugs. The carafe was half full of something that looked more like recycled
motor oil than coffee.
Trudeau
grabbed a clean Styrofoam cup and filled it. Then he poured in three heaping
spoonfuls of sugar and four artificial creamers. He glanced at Claire.
“Want some?”
Staring at the
grimy coffee carafe, Claire shook her head. All she could think was: Let’s
get this over with so I can go home.
“No, thanks.”
“How ‘bout a
bottle of water?” He walked over to the refrigerator in the corner, but when he
opened it and Claire saw several moldy containers that looked like science
experiments gone wrong, she said, “I’m fine.”
After keeping
Claire waiting for ten minutes or so while he talked to the other cops in the
room, Detective Trudeau glanced at the wall clock and said, “Well, then, let’s
get this show on the road.”
Trudeau led
Claire back out into the corridor. Before closing the waiting room door, he
dropped his half-finished cup of coffee into the trash can. It hit with a
splash. He and two other policemen led her a short way down the corridor to
another closed door. Before they went inside, Claire noticed that down the
hall, the corridor was blocked by iron bars.
Trudeau opened
the door for her to enter the small room. One wall, she noticed right away, was
dominated by a large pane of glass. It was obviously a one-way mirror, but the
lights weren’t on in the adjacent room, so it looked like a huge slab of
polished, black marble. A narrow shelf ran the length of the mirror, and there
was a microphone with a silver base on the shelf. Several chairs were arranged
around the small circular table so anyone who might be seated would have a good
view of the one-way mirror.
“Please. Take
a seat, Ms. McMullen,” Trudeau said, indicating the chairs at the table. “Make
yourself comfortable. We’ll bring the suspects in soon. But first, I want to
reassure you that you’re under no pressure here.”
“Okay,” Claire
said with some hesitation. “I still don’t see why, if you arrested this guy at
the scene of the crime, I even have to do this.”
“Strictly a
formality.”
Claire nodded,
still not liking this, and then swallowed hard.
“And what if I
can’t identify him?” she asked, suddenly fearful that, in the panic of the
night and because of everything else that had happened since—especially with
Samael—she might
wearing a straw-colored jacket and blue pants—a lousy combination, especially
in March—was standing in the shelter of the doorway. Claire smiled to herself
when she saw that he wasn’t puffing on a cigarette with a fedora pulled down
low over his eyes like a movie detective.
“Ms. McMullen,”
he said—a statement, not a question, Claire noticed as he stepped forward and
extended his hand.
Of course he
knows who I am…He’s a freaking detective, for crying out loud.
Claire smiled
tightly and shook his hand. She noticed that his grip was warm and dry…even on
a chilly afternoon like this. For some reason, she found that reassuring, but
she instantly thought how much warmer Samael’s handshake would be...
Detective
Trudeau stepped back and opened the door for her, and she followed him inside.
The walls throughout the building were painted a shade of green that Claire was
fairly certain didn’t occur in nature. They made their way down a hallway, past
uncountable offices, and then down a flight of stairs. Their footsteps echoed
in the stairwell.
Detective
Trudeau introduced her to several people as they went. Standing outside a
closed door was one of the officers who had arrested her assailant last Friday
night. She couldn’t remember his name now, but she smiled and nodded. Trudeau
led her into a small room with a folding table and several metal chairs. On one
wall was a counter, its white surface marred and smudged from years of use and
abuse. On it was a coffee maker as well as creamer and sugar, and numerous used
mugs. The carafe was half full of something that looked more like recycled
motor oil than coffee.
Trudeau
grabbed a clean Styrofoam cup and filled it. Then he poured in three heaping
spoonfuls of sugar and four artificial creamers. He glanced at Claire.
“Want some?”
Staring at the
grimy coffee carafe, Claire shook her head. All she could think was: Let’s
get this over with so I can go home.
“No, thanks.”
“How ‘bout a
bottle of water?” He walked over to the refrigerator in the corner, but when he
opened it and Claire saw several moldy containers that looked like science
experiments gone wrong, she said, “I’m fine.”
After keeping
Claire waiting for ten minutes or so while he talked to the other cops in the
room, Detective Trudeau glanced at the wall clock and said, “Well, then, let’s
get this show on the road.”
Trudeau led
Claire back out into the corridor. Before closing the waiting room door, he
dropped his half-finished cup of coffee into the trash can. It hit with a
splash. He and two other policemen led her a short way down the corridor to
another closed door. Before they went inside, Claire noticed that down the
hall, the corridor was blocked by iron bars.
Trudeau opened
the door for her to enter the small room. One wall, she noticed right away, was
dominated by a large pane of glass. It was obviously a one-way mirror, but the
lights weren’t on in the adjacent room, so it looked like a huge slab of
polished, black marble. A narrow shelf ran the length of the mirror, and there
was a microphone with a silver base on the shelf. Several chairs were arranged
around the small circular table so anyone who might be seated would have a good
view of the one-way mirror.
“Please. Take
a seat, Ms. McMullen,” Trudeau said, indicating the chairs at the table. “Make
yourself comfortable. We’ll bring the suspects in soon. But first, I want to
reassure you that you’re under no pressure here.”
“Okay,” Claire
said with some hesitation. “I still don’t see why, if you arrested this guy at
the scene of the crime, I even have to do this.”
“Strictly a
formality.”
Claire nodded,
still not liking this, and then swallowed hard.
“And what if I
can’t identify him?” she asked, suddenly fearful that, in the panic of the
night and because of everything else that had happened since—especially with
Samael—she might
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