It was good advice that Gibson wasn’t sure he could follow. He wanted to pummel Detective Jim Bachmann, smear blood in the man’s eyes, and ruin his perfect little haircut.
“Don’t tell him anything,” Duke said. “He’s probably CIA like Washburn.”
Gibson thought Duke was being paranoid.
“No one will tell me about the fire,” Gibson said.
Duke let out an exasperated sigh.
“We’ll get to that,” the detective said.
For the next thirty minutes, the detective advised him of his rights while implying that it would be a mistake to invoke any of them. “You want a lawyer, we’ll stop right here, but after that I can’t do anything for you.” It was a hell of a performance—lawyers and the courts were the enemy, and only good old Jim Bachmann could straighten this mess out. Gibson marveled at what kind of fool would fall for it until he realized that he hadn’t asked for a lawyer yet.
“Can you please just tell me if anyone was hurt?”
Detective Bachmann sidestepped the question, unmoved by Gibson’s plea. “You answer my questions, then we’ll see about yours.”
“My daughter . . . is she okay?” Gibson said.
“We can discuss all that after you answer my questions.”
Gibson studied Jim Bachmann. He’d always had a talent for reading people and tried to pick up the detective’s intent from his body language. His mind couldn’t bring the man into focus, and the detective’s face remained a cubist jumble of angular planes. Gibson slumped back in frustration. “Why was I stopped?”
“Officers responded to reports of someone matching your description causing a disturbance at 53 Mulberry Court.”
“There was no disturbance. We just talked.”
Bachmann made a note. Gibson realized he’d admitted to being there.
“We only talked. I swear.”
Bachmann smiled agreeably. “The homeowner told a different story.”
“So they Tased me in the back?”
The detective looked sideways at Gibson. “You failed to comply with the officer’s verbal instructions. Then you assaulted that officer. That’s why you were Tased.”
“I don’t remember doing that.”
“Don’t worry. That’s what body cams are for. That’s one-to-five, by the way.” Jim Bachmann opened his file. “So . . . 53 Mulberry Court. That was your ex-wife’s address, right?”
Gibson nodded, immediately uneasy at the mention of Nicole.
Duke looked over the detective’s shoulder at the file. “Son of a bitch is setting you up for something.”
“So what prompted the unexpected visit?”
“I thought I was under arrest for assault. And if you have it all on body cam, what do you even need to question me for?”
“Don’t worry about the assault. The officer is a friend. If you help us with our investigation, then I’m sure he could be convinced to let it drop.”
“What do you actually want?”
“Can you account for your whereabouts the day your ex-wife’s house burned down?”
The question caught Gibson by surprise, but he understood now why he was here and why the family had freaked out. Nicole’s house hadn’t burned down; it had been burned down. And he was a suspect, probably the only suspect. Disgruntled, unemployed ex-husbands automatically went straight to the top of the list. The assault charge was nothing but a pretext to question him about the fire. It made him angry all over again.
Bachmann repeated his questions.
“Don’t answer that,” Duke advised.
Gibson glared at his father. He didn’t need to be told that paranoid tales of CIA kidnappings and black-site prisons would go over badly. The detective followed Gibson’s eyes to the empty wall where Duke had been and jotted down another note. Gibson doubted it was flattering.
“Mr. Vaughn, I can’t clear you if you won’t answer my questions.”
“You already cleared me.”
“Have I now?” Bachmann said with a practiced, condescending smile.
“Well, you have nothing on me, so if you haven’t, you’re either stupid or a liar.”
“Don’t kid yourself. I got you six ways and Sunday.” Bachmann didn’t look amused now.
“Bullshit. I know you don’t because I had nothing to do with it. This little dog and pony show is just to see if I’ll incriminate myself.”
“Gibson . . .” Bear pleaded. “Don’t.”
She wasn’t wrong. Antagonizing the detective wasn’t helping anything, but Gibson was tired of humoring this jackal. “Was. Anyone. Hurt?”
“Spare me, all right?” said Bachmann. “If you cared so much about your kid, you wouldn’t have burned down her home.”
The eighteen months he’d spent wondering if he’d ever be released had been hell, but it was nothing compared to the last twelve hours not knowing if Ellie were alive or dead. He didn’t know that he wanted the answer, but not knowing was the most dreadful purgatory he could imagine. Bachmann’s sneer was the proverbial last straw. Gibson snapped.
“Was anyone hurt?” he screamed, toggling from calm to rage in the blink of an eye. “Is my daughter safe, you fuck?”
Spittle flew across the table. Gibson’s chair hit the back wall as he surged at Bachmann, stopped only by the handcuffs. Bachmann jerked backward, caught off guard by Gibson’s Jekyll and Hyde. A pair of uniformed officers burst through the door, ready to crack heads, but Bachmann got between them and Gibson and ushered them back out into the hall. Gibson raged against his handcuffs, unable to subdue the stream of threats and expletives pouring out of him or the tears that coursed down his face. Bachmann shut the door and put his back against it. He waited for Gibson’s storm to blow itself out.
Gibson slumped to the floor, arms twisted over his head by the handcuffs still attached to the table. It should have hurt, but he felt nothing at all.
“Are you about done?” Bachmann asked.
“Please . . .”
Bachmann looked down at Gibson and took pity on him. “No one was home, Mr. Vaughn. Your daughter and ex-wife are alive and well.”
Gibson absorbed the news. Something hard and jagged loosened in his chest, and he took a newborn’s first breath. The sense of relief was primal, and he prayed thankfully to the god of little children. Too adrenaline scarred and exhausted to move, Gibson needed the detective’s help to sit up in the chair again.
“Thank you,” Gibson said.
“Do that again, and I’ll put you back in the cage for a week.”
“Where’s Ellie?”
“That’s not pertinent to this—”
“Where are they?”
“They’re not anxious to see you. You have to understand that much. Your ex-wife took out a restraining order against you, so I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew.”
The words “restraining order” reverberated in Gibson’s ears. He caught Duke’s eye, who only shook his head and looked away. The detective carried on talking at him, but his words were fuzzy and indistinct.
“Now I’ve answered all the questions I’m going to, so how about you return the favor? Where were you the day the house burned down? Where have you been?”
“Away,” Gibson said. “On my own.”
“Don’t get cute with me. I’m all out of good graces for the day.”
“I don’t know where I was.”