"Get anything out of him?" I asked.
"Nothing. Other than what we've already got, that is."
"You're in a world of hurt, McReady," I said to the man sitting on the other side of the table, hand-cuffed. He looked up at me and grinned. This was the man who had killed Wilson's wife and two sons.
"I waited, because I wanted to let you know that I'm going to question him--my way."
He dug into his right pant pocket and brought out a pocket knife, flipped open the blade, which looked to be at least six inches long. He pretended to clean his fingernails.
"I can, and damned well will," he snapped. "Now that I've let you know, you get on downstairs and have a coffee or something. Wait half an hour then come back up. I'll have what we want to know by then."
What we wanted to know was where the rest of the bodies of his wife and children were hidden. McReady had been apprehended with parts of the victims in his car; very few parts.
I started to protest, but Wilson held up his hand. "Thirty minutes. Okay? I have to do it."
I shrugged, turned and left. I went downstairs, moped around the lounge for half an hour, then went back upstairs. Wilson was alone in the room.
"Did you get him to talk?"
"Yeah. He talked. We know where they are, and I'm on my way there now."
He slipped on his coat and pushed past me.
"He back in the holding cell?" I asked.
"No, he in the morgue by now. Heart attack. That's how the doc put it down. 'Cardiac arrest'. Now I gotta go."
I was alone in the room. I looked around. I could almost smell the lingering odors of fear and pain and blood. It looked like the place had been hurriedly cleaned, but there were still a few spots of rust color on the floor. There was nothing more I could do there, so I left too.