Read Online The Skin Gods by Richard Montanari - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Montanari
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okay,” he said. There was a pair of empty Sprite cans on the scarred table in front of him. He had a piece of red cardboard in his hands, twisting it and untwisting it.
Jessica placed the Psycho videocassette box on the table. It was still in a clear plastic evidence bag. “When did you rent this?”
“Yesterday afternoon,” Adam said, his voice a little shaky. He had no police record and this was, perhaps, the first time he had ever been in a police station. A Homicide Unit interrogation room no less. Jessica had made sure to leave the door open. “Maybe three o’clock or so.”
Jessica glanced at the label on the tape housing. “And you got this at The Reel Deal on Aramingo?”
“Yes.”
“How did you pay for this?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you put this on a credit card? Pay cash? Have a coupon?”
“Oh,” he said. “I paid cash.”
“Did you keep the receipt?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Are you a regular there?”
“Kind of.”
“How often do you rent movies at that location?”
“I don’t know. Maybe twice a week.”
Jessica glanced at the 229 report. One of Adam’s part-time jobs was at a Rite Aid on Market Street. The other was at the Cinemagic 3 at Penn, the movie theater near the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. “Can I ask why you go to that store?”
“What do you mean?”
“You live only half a block from a Blockbuster.”
Adam shrugged. “I guess it’s because they have more foreign and independent films than the big chains.”
“You like foreign films, Adam?” Jessica’s tone was friendly, conversational. Adam brightened slightly.
“Yeah.”
“I like Cinema Paradiso a lot,” Jessica said. “One of my favorite movies of all times. Ever see that one?”
“Sure,” Adam said. Even brighter, now. “Giuseppe Tornatore is great. Maybe even the heir apparent to Fellini.”
Adam was beginning to relax somewhat. He had been twisting that piece of cardboard into a tight spiral, which he now put down. It looked stiff enough to be a swizzle stick. Jessica sat in the battered metal chair opposite him. Just two people talking, now. Talking about a vicious homicide someone had videotaped.
“Did you watch this alone?” Jessica asked.
“Yeah.” There was a morsel of melancholy in his answer, as if he had recently broken off a relationship and was accustomed to watching videos with a partner.
“When did you watch it?”
Adam picked up the cardboard swizzle stick again. “Well, I get off work at my second job at midnight, I get home around twelve thirty. I usually take a shower and eat something. I guess I started it around one or one thirty. Maybe two.”
“Did you watch it straight through?”
“No,” Adam said. “I watched up until Janet Leigh gets to the motel.”
“Then what?”
“Then I shut it off and went to bed. I watched . . . the rest this morning. Before I left for school. Or, before I was going to leave for school. When I saw the . . . you know, I called the cops. Police. I called the police. ”
“Did anyone else see this?”
Adam shook his head.
“Did you tell anybody about it?”
“No.”
“Was this tape in your possession the whole time?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“From the time you rented it until the time you called the police, did you have possession of the tape?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t leave it in your car for a while, leave it with a friend, leave it in a backpack or a book bag that you hung on a coatrack somewhere public?”
“No,” Adam said. “Nothing like that. I rented it, took it home, and put it on top of the TV.”
“And you live alone.”
Another grimace. He had just broken up
Jessica placed the Psycho videocassette box on the table. It was still in a clear plastic evidence bag. “When did you rent this?”
“Yesterday afternoon,” Adam said, his voice a little shaky. He had no police record and this was, perhaps, the first time he had ever been in a police station. A Homicide Unit interrogation room no less. Jessica had made sure to leave the door open. “Maybe three o’clock or so.”
Jessica glanced at the label on the tape housing. “And you got this at The Reel Deal on Aramingo?”
“Yes.”
“How did you pay for this?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you put this on a credit card? Pay cash? Have a coupon?”
“Oh,” he said. “I paid cash.”
“Did you keep the receipt?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Are you a regular there?”
“Kind of.”
“How often do you rent movies at that location?”
“I don’t know. Maybe twice a week.”
Jessica glanced at the 229 report. One of Adam’s part-time jobs was at a Rite Aid on Market Street. The other was at the Cinemagic 3 at Penn, the movie theater near the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. “Can I ask why you go to that store?”
“What do you mean?”
“You live only half a block from a Blockbuster.”
Adam shrugged. “I guess it’s because they have more foreign and independent films than the big chains.”
“You like foreign films, Adam?” Jessica’s tone was friendly, conversational. Adam brightened slightly.
“Yeah.”
“I like Cinema Paradiso a lot,” Jessica said. “One of my favorite movies of all times. Ever see that one?”
“Sure,” Adam said. Even brighter, now. “Giuseppe Tornatore is great. Maybe even the heir apparent to Fellini.”
Adam was beginning to relax somewhat. He had been twisting that piece of cardboard into a tight spiral, which he now put down. It looked stiff enough to be a swizzle stick. Jessica sat in the battered metal chair opposite him. Just two people talking, now. Talking about a vicious homicide someone had videotaped.
“Did you watch this alone?” Jessica asked.
“Yeah.” There was a morsel of melancholy in his answer, as if he had recently broken off a relationship and was accustomed to watching videos with a partner.
“When did you watch it?”
Adam picked up the cardboard swizzle stick again. “Well, I get off work at my second job at midnight, I get home around twelve thirty. I usually take a shower and eat something. I guess I started it around one or one thirty. Maybe two.”
“Did you watch it straight through?”
“No,” Adam said. “I watched up until Janet Leigh gets to the motel.”
“Then what?”
“Then I shut it off and went to bed. I watched . . . the rest this morning. Before I left for school. Or, before I was going to leave for school. When I saw the . . . you know, I called the cops. Police. I called the police. ”
“Did anyone else see this?”
Adam shook his head.
“Did you tell anybody about it?”
“No.”
“Was this tape in your possession the whole time?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“From the time you rented it until the time you called the police, did you have possession of the tape?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t leave it in your car for a while, leave it with a friend, leave it in a backpack or a book bag that you hung on a coatrack somewhere public?”
“No,” Adam said. “Nothing like that. I rented it, took it home, and put it on top of the TV.”
“And you live alone.”
Another grimace. He had just broken up
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