retrieve several key
pieces of evidence and information I would need for the conversation. I secured them, along with the Kapak, in a large manila folder. I also grabbed a tape recorder and a bottle of water from the refrigerator. When I returned to the tiny interrogation room, I found Mr. Gambrel with his head buried in his arms on the metal table. His brawny six-foot, four-inch frame barely fit beneath the table. “Here you go,” I said, handing him the water.
He seemed dismayed by my gesture. “Do you always give cold bottled water to people like me?”
I thought about it and nodded. “Yeah. Actually, I do always give cold bottled water to people exactly like you.”
“You’re very kind,” he said, dropping his head. “Too kind.”
I knocked two quick raps on the two-way glass.
“What was that for?” he asked with a concerned look.
“I’m letting them know on the other side to start the video.” I pointed up to the two corners of the tiny room where the video cameras were perched and pointed toward the table.
“You’re filming this?”
“Yes, sir. Have to get it on record.” I sat down and started the tape recorder. “That’s my backup in case something goes screwy with the video.”
Gambrel seemed overwhelmed. “How many people are behind the glass?”
“Two, I think,” I said, opening the manila folder on my lap. Gambrel gazed at the two-way glass with great concern. “You thought this was going to be private?” I asked him. “Get used to it, sir. Confessing to murder can become a very public affair. Especially when it’s someone as prominent and well-loved in the community as you.”
“My world is crashing down around me.” He tossed the Denver newspaper to the side.
That was the second time he’d said that in the last ten minutes. “Yeah, after we’re done here, I’m going to call that news writer and show him some love. My job is tough enough without having a case tried in the court of public opinion. It can’t help but infect a jury pool — ”
“But I’m confessing ,” he said quickly. “That means no trial, right?”
“Your lawyer is going to fight you on that. They hate it when you confess.”
“I don’t want a trial,” he stressed. “ That’s why I’m confessing .”
“You know that you’ve got the right to remain silent? Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law — ”
“Yes. Fine. Understood.”
“No. I really have to finish this spiel. This is how the defense likes to catch us up later in court and I’m not going there.” I rattled off the rest of his Miranda rights. “Take a sip of water,” I suggested.
He took a rushed sip and shook his head. “You must think I’m awful.”
I studied him. “You’re not the first husband to confess killing his wife. You won’t be the last.” He looked at me briefly, pain laced in his blue orbs. “I see the guilt all over your face.”
“You do?” He seemed shocked by my statement.
“Oh, yeah. I saw the guilt when I talked to you in the entryway of your house too. Guilt has a way of shadowing all of us. The things we strive to conceal from others tend to hide in the baggage around the eyes.”
He was taken aback. “Really?” he said quietly.
“It’s not obvious to everyone,” I assured him. “You have to be observant . You have to know the codes.”
“What codes?”
“If I told you that, I’d give away all my secrets and then I’d be an open book, and we can’t have that now, can we?”
“I suppose not.”
“You want a cigarette?”
“Excuse me?”
“A cigarette? Sometimes it helps to calm you down. I’m sorry I don’t have any Dunhill ciggies to offer you — ”
“Dunhill?” Gambrel looked at me, his mouth slightly agape. He gulped another sip of water.
“That’s a fancy English brand? Lots of well-heeled Brits and celebrities favored them back in the day.”
He was flustered. “Yes. I know.”
“I figured you probably smoked
pieces of evidence and information I would need for the conversation. I secured them, along with the Kapak, in a large manila folder. I also grabbed a tape recorder and a bottle of water from the refrigerator. When I returned to the tiny interrogation room, I found Mr. Gambrel with his head buried in his arms on the metal table. His brawny six-foot, four-inch frame barely fit beneath the table. “Here you go,” I said, handing him the water.
He seemed dismayed by my gesture. “Do you always give cold bottled water to people like me?”
I thought about it and nodded. “Yeah. Actually, I do always give cold bottled water to people exactly like you.”
“You’re very kind,” he said, dropping his head. “Too kind.”
I knocked two quick raps on the two-way glass.
“What was that for?” he asked with a concerned look.
“I’m letting them know on the other side to start the video.” I pointed up to the two corners of the tiny room where the video cameras were perched and pointed toward the table.
“You’re filming this?”
“Yes, sir. Have to get it on record.” I sat down and started the tape recorder. “That’s my backup in case something goes screwy with the video.”
Gambrel seemed overwhelmed. “How many people are behind the glass?”
“Two, I think,” I said, opening the manila folder on my lap. Gambrel gazed at the two-way glass with great concern. “You thought this was going to be private?” I asked him. “Get used to it, sir. Confessing to murder can become a very public affair. Especially when it’s someone as prominent and well-loved in the community as you.”
“My world is crashing down around me.” He tossed the Denver newspaper to the side.
That was the second time he’d said that in the last ten minutes. “Yeah, after we’re done here, I’m going to call that news writer and show him some love. My job is tough enough without having a case tried in the court of public opinion. It can’t help but infect a jury pool — ”
“But I’m confessing ,” he said quickly. “That means no trial, right?”
“Your lawyer is going to fight you on that. They hate it when you confess.”
“I don’t want a trial,” he stressed. “ That’s why I’m confessing .”
“You know that you’ve got the right to remain silent? Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law — ”
“Yes. Fine. Understood.”
“No. I really have to finish this spiel. This is how the defense likes to catch us up later in court and I’m not going there.” I rattled off the rest of his Miranda rights. “Take a sip of water,” I suggested.
He took a rushed sip and shook his head. “You must think I’m awful.”
I studied him. “You’re not the first husband to confess killing his wife. You won’t be the last.” He looked at me briefly, pain laced in his blue orbs. “I see the guilt all over your face.”
“You do?” He seemed shocked by my statement.
“Oh, yeah. I saw the guilt when I talked to you in the entryway of your house too. Guilt has a way of shadowing all of us. The things we strive to conceal from others tend to hide in the baggage around the eyes.”
He was taken aback. “Really?” he said quietly.
“It’s not obvious to everyone,” I assured him. “You have to be observant . You have to know the codes.”
“What codes?”
“If I told you that, I’d give away all my secrets and then I’d be an open book, and we can’t have that now, can we?”
“I suppose not.”
“You want a cigarette?”
“Excuse me?”
“A cigarette? Sometimes it helps to calm you down. I’m sorry I don’t have any Dunhill ciggies to offer you — ”
“Dunhill?” Gambrel looked at me, his mouth slightly agape. He gulped another sip of water.
“That’s a fancy English brand? Lots of well-heeled Brits and celebrities favored them back in the day.”
He was flustered. “Yes. I know.”
“I figured you probably smoked
Similar Books
