The Rag and Bone Shop Read Online Free PDF Page A

aware that he was waiting for the right case to come along.
    Meanwhile, there was Califer.
    Focusing on him, Trent began to tire of the cat-and-mouse moves. He had an ace up his sleeve. But the trick was to play it at the right time, to be patient, to await the proper moment.
    So he allowed Califer to conduct his game of interrogative hide-and-seek. Interrogations called for flexibility and subtlety within the rules and regulations that Trent had developed. And, at times, a waiting game had to be played with patience as the watchword. Whatever weapons Trent had at his disposal had to be brought into play when it was psychologically right. The weapons, of course, consisted of information that the subject didn’t know Trent possessed. Or, most often, knowledge of the subject that Trent had detected during the questioning itself.
    At a moment when Califer was off guard and thus vulnerable, Trent made the decisive move.
    “What was your daughter’s name?” he asked, quite innocently, almost casually.
    Stunned, Califer turned away, averting his eyes for the first time during the interrogation. When he looked at Trent again, he couldn’t disguise his astonishment. Trent saw Califer’s defenses begin to crumble.
    “She’s dead,” Califer said, voice flat with resignation, shoulders slumping, chin dropping to his chest.
    “I know,” Trent said, making his voice soothing and sympathetic, one of many voices he employed during his confrontations with suspects.
    “She was only five when she died,” Califer said, voice breaking now.
    Trent had not only waited for the proper moment to spring the question but had attacked Califer from the inside, not the outside, touching the one vital spot where Califer was vulnerable.
    Ten minutes later, Califer confessed.
    And five minutes after that, Trent received the call from Detective Lieutenant George Braxton.
    “I’m calling from Monument down in Massachusetts,” Braxton said. “We need your services here. Desperately.”
    “And why’s that?” Trent asked dryly, knowing the answer, of course.
    “The town’s in an uproar over the murder of a child. We have a suspect who needs interrogation. Can you help us?”
    Carl Seaton and Califer, all within six days. He didn’t need another so soon.
    “How did you reach me?” he asked, knowing that he was stalling, that he never could resist an appeal to his expertise.
    “Your department in Highgate gave us your number in Rutland. I’ve been standing by until you wrapped up your current interrogation. Congratulations. I understand you scored another one.”
    Braxton’s congratulations rang hollow but the words still pleased him. Trent knew, however, where Braxton’s real interest lay. Sure enough, Braxton immediately proved him right. “Can you come?”
    “Where’s Monument?” Trent asked, but only going through the motions, really.
    “Central Massachusetts. About four hours from Highgate.” Trent heard him pause. “Senator Gibbons is interested in the case. He said to call this to your attention. His grandson knew the victim. They were in the second grade together.”
    Braxton had played his ace and Trent’s interest quickened. The senator was a man of powerful authority and influence. He was an advocate of tough anticrime laws. A good man to have in your corner.
    “Details,” Trent said.
    He heard the relief in Braxton’s voice as he recited the details of a too-familiar situation. The murdered girl, the tension-filled town, the suspect.
    “He’s more than a suspect. Someone we feel is the perp. Twelve-year-old neighbor of the victim,” Braxton added.
    “Evidence?”
    “That’s the hitch. No physical evidence. No witnesses. No weapon. No fingerprints. That’s why we’re calling you. We have a suspect who fits the profile. But we need a confession. Otherwise, he walks.”
    “Is the scenario in place?” Trent asked. The answer to this question would determine whether he would accept the assignment.
    No