“What have you learned about Porscha?” he asks, turning his gaze back to me. When he asked to speak with me away from the rest of the team I knew he wasn’t happy, and I dispatched them to go and do other things.
I glance at the walls, shaking my head. I think he’s looking for a hole in my story, things that I’m missing or overlooking. “Are you asking because you don’t trust my team or because there’s something you think I’m missing?”
“I’m asking because I’m your boss and your job is to report to me,” he snaps.
“I send you regular updates,” I remind him, crossing my arms. “I filled out all the paperwork when Gabe was shot, when Constantine disappearedandwhen I shot Wallsburg because he killed Constantine. We needed Constantine to speak against Porscha and we no longer have that testimony.”
“You still have a case against her, don’t you?” Pabst presses.
Dragging a hand over my face, I try to mentally calm myself down before I respond. “Porscha had to be the killer for the first five new cases from Estrada through Borkowski. Her DNA is at the crime scenes and before she started to devolve, the stab wounds were her signature. They were nearly identical to the marks from years ago. Once Porscha broke Constantine out of prison, victims six through eight are the ones in question, because the signatures overlap, but we believe Porscha killed these additional victims since she was holding Constantine hostage.”
“Her attorney is going to pick apart any argument the defense gives her because Constantine is dead,” Pabst snaps. “We need to be able to prove with absolute certainty that she killed each of these women.”
“I know, Sir. When it comes to the first fourteen-”
“I’m not worried about them,” Pabst interrupts, and the words die in my throat. “Focus on the new eight.”
I stare at him, trying to figure out if what I’m hearing is correct. “Sir, you don’t want us to try and get justice for the fourteen other victims?”
He holds up a hand. “Those fourteen victims, they have long since been laid to rest. Their families suffered sixteen years ago, and they avoided a lengthy, drawn out court experience because Constantine admitted fault. Even if some of the blame falls on Porscha, Constantine is gone. We can’t hear his side of the story anymore.”
“But he didn’t kill Porscha,” I argue. “He lied about that, or omitted the facts, so he could’ve done so for the other victims too. Jo sat with us just last week and said she was no longer certain Constantine meant to hurt her that day.”
Pabst shakes his head, looking at me through rounded glasses. His dark hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing a stiff black suit that makes him look more severe as he continues speaking. “It could be remorse. You saw her at the funeral. Everyone did. She mourned his passing. She could have Stockholm Syndrome, her emotions could be confused-”
“Confusion or not,” I argue, “it doesn’t change the facts. If Constantine didn’t kill those girls, their families deserve to know who the real killer is. Porscha looks harmless until you find out she’s a nutjob. She’s the kind of person people don’t expect to be evil, but she is. And she shouldn’t escape judgment for killing more people just because it might be inconvenient to dig into.”
He studies me, and I realize I’ve probably said too much. “You’re letting your feelings cloud your judgment, Sterling. I understand seeing this case through is important to you since your father handled the original crimes, but we need to look at this rationally. Taking Porscha Surwright to court for the deaths of those fourteen women won’t bring them back. Eight murders could land her on Death Row as is. We won’t press for Constantine’s involvement in any of the new cases because of his passing. There’s a solid case against her, and thus far she doesn’t look like a good contender for an insanity plea. She’s wicked, but I’m not convinced she’s insane.”
I bite my lip, trying to think through what I should say next. He’s dismantling my team’s plan for attack when I still see plenty of reasons to flesh out the missing pieces. “You want this case closed without ensuring that Porscha pays for every life she stole?”
Pabst groans. “It’s not what you think, Sterling. It’s messy. Your agent got shot, more and more bodies keep appearing in relation to Surwright-”
“That deserve to have their day in court,” I reason. “The original coroner on the case sixteen years ago, Dr. Whitmore? He didn’t shoot himself in his home. The ME determined he was murdered. If he covered something up for her, that’s plenty of motive right there to want him dead. The body in place of hers in that cellar years ago wasn’t identified incorrectly by accident.”
“And your reports don’t say anything about that either?” Pabst says dryly. “You haven’t found anything hinting at who she was?”
“Theories and nothing else,” I explain. “We have our suspicions about who killed the Nunes’, but until there’s evidence it’s just a theory. With the hands we recovered, the ME is certain the body that Porscha put in place of hers was Diana’s, but the different times of death between James and Diana don’tadd up. If Porscha killed them both I doubt she’s going to give us the answers unless we find them ourselves and shove it in her face.”
“And how are you planning on getting her to admit to anything?” Pabst asks, looking at me again. It makes me think of the last time I visited Porscha, only a few days after Alastair died.
“It finally happened?” she asked, sitting at the table looking smug. Smug enough I actually consider what it would be like to lean over and grab the chains restraining her and wrapping them around her throat.
I sit in the chair diagonal from her, letting Tyler sit across. My mind is in a dark place, and I don’t need these violent thoughts popping up while I should be interrogating her.
Tyler clears her throat. “You saw the news I take it?”
“Oh, everyone’s seen the news,” Porscha says, smirking. “How can anyone miss the death of a washed up serial killer?”
“You’re the serial killer,” Tyler argues, folding her hands on the table. “You’ve killed people too. Unfortunately, no one really cares what you’ve done right now. No one’s thinking about a copycat when the original was just buried.”
I shoot Tyler a look, fighting back the refute that wants to crawl up my throat. I can’t stand up for Alastair right now, but I disagree with what she’s saying. Luckily, Porscha and Tyler are too focused on each other to pay me any attention.
“It’s your team that’s oh-so-certain I killed all of these people,” Porscha says, rolling her eyes. “You make me sound like the worst thing imaginable when we have our little chats. Who’s to say that our dearly departed Alastair didn’t just copy me?”
The sarcasm is so thick in her voice that I wish she’d choke on it. Tyler answers before I can, which is good becauseat least she stays on topic. “Teens can be impressionable, don’t you think? If you were the leader, you could absolutely learn how to manipulate him.”
Porscha yawns like she’s bored. “Please, I’m not going to admit to any of that. Try again, Agent. Alastair was a good boy, but he did what he wanted to. My only crime was I didn’t stop him.”
