The interrogation room was located in the cold, damp basement of the Paris police headquarters. Like in movies, the suspect was put in a brick room with a small, single light hanging from the ceiling. It moved ever so slightly with the chilly draft that entered the room whenever the door was opened. It wasn’t the friendliest looking room, but then again, the police weren’t interested in interviewing friendly-looking people.
In a nearby, more welcoming room, Zach and I sat in front of a monitor broadcasting the interrogation room in a very crisp and clear picture thanks to a hidden camera in the room’s ceiling.
The policeman was checking his watch rather impatiently. Christinne, the diva that she was, was running fashionably late. Her lawyer had called the headquarters that morning and said Christinne needed time to “freshen up.”
“Agents Porter and Freeman?” An intern offered us two bottled waters.
“Thank you,” Zach and I said in unison, each taking a nice, cold bottle.
I definitely needed it. I was parched. I uncapped the bottle and took a large gulp, hoping some refreshment may calm my nerves. This could be it. This interrogation could make us or break us. The entire case rested on the answers Christinne gave. If we were wrong again…I didn’t know if I could handle starting over from stage one. If I even still had my job, that is…
Zach was anxious too. He tapped his foot rapidly as his fingers played with the plastic water bottle lid.
“I don’t think we are the only ones suspicious of Christinne,” I said finally, hoping to break the tense silence as we waited for the interrogation to begin. Zach turned to me expectantly, almost thankful that I had said something.
“Dylan told me yesterday about her rivalry with all of the other girls and how she threatened them. He trusts her no more than we do, and he knows her much better,” I continued.
“I’d say,” Zach mumbled before taking a large gulp of water.
Huh? My stomach dropped and I felt a little sick. It was a feeling that wasn’t entirely foreign to me. I knew what jealousy was, often being the girl not asked to dances or Friday night football games. Still, I didn’t expect to have such a jealous reaction at those two words Zach had muttered under his breath.
“What does that mean?” I asked Zach, trying to sound calmer than I felt. I had no right to be jealous. Dylan wasn’t my boyfriend or anything.
Zach shrugged his shoulders before giving me a look filled with slight pity. “Christinne was telling me how they went out for a while. Dylan didn’t tell you?”
No, he didn’t share that little piece of info with me, but suddenly I was more concerned with something else. “When were you talking to Christinne?” I bit my lip nervously. My words took on a reproachful tone I hadn’t intended.
Zach slowly took another sip of water and I did the same, in an attempt to stop myself from saying anything else that I would have undoubtedly regretted.
“She asked me to coffee yesterday,” he said finally, screwing and unscrewing the lid to his water. “I thought it would be a good opportunity to learn more about her, you know, delve into the mind of a suspected serial killer.”
His explanation didn’t make me feel any better. “What did you find out?” For some reason I couldn’t force myself to look at Zach, so I watched the policeman in the interrogation room. He was now pacing back and forth, his face visibly annoyed as he waited for Christinne. He snuck a quick glance at his watch and rolled his eyes.
“We went out to this little café and had a chat. She asked where you were, how I was able to get away. When I told her,” he laughed though I couldn’t find anything funny about the situation, “she was furious. I was surprised she didn’t throw her hot coffee in my face simply for telling her.”
So that’s how she knew about our date? Zach had told her.
“She was so distraught. And then it started to rain, so I escorted her back to her apartment-”
I nearly spit out the water I had been drinking. Coughing and choking, I sputtered out: “You went home with her?” What happened to not rendezvousing with the suspects?
Zach lowered his voice, aware of the interns around the room. “Laura, it’s part of the job. I needed to get her to trust me. And when I say I escorted her home, literally, that was all it was. Let’s say she isn’t the murderer.” Please, she was most definitely the murderer. “I couldn’t have let her walk home by herself knowing that the killer is out there,” he tried to explain.
My cheeks were hot. I was thankful for the dim lighting in the room, hoping that it would hide my blushing face. I sounded more jealous than I had intended. “So there was no…kissing?”
Zach’s usual smug smile returned to his face as he leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest and his feet stretched out in front of him, completely relaxed and calm.
“I can’t exactly say that.” He winked at me.
My jaw dropped as I shot a glance once more at the monitor. No Christinne yet. I turned back to Zach, studying his face intently, searching to see if he was really being serious. He was hard to read.
He caught me staring at him. “Like you didn’t kiss Dylan yesterday?” he scoffed.
I wished I could demonstrate the composure Zach was so good at displaying. While he was cool and collected, I was a stuttering, sputtering, sweating mess.
“N-n-no!” I managed to say much too loudly and quickly.
Zach arched his eyebrow perfectly. He really could be a model.
“For the job,” I reasoned. I could almost see myself digging the hole I was in, bigger and deeper. I was clawing at the rocks and dirt, attempting to save myself from the long fall down into the abyss.
“Of course,” Zach exaggerated.
My fingers lost their grip and I fell back into the hole, Zach laughing at me from his spot above.
Before I subjected myself to even more humiliation, Christinne and her lawyer strolled into the interrogation room, saving me from the awkward conversation with Zach that had been growing more uncomfortable with every passing moment.
Christinne was dolled up in the latest fashions, her blonde hair swept back into a high, lavish twist behind her head. I had a slight feeling Christinne was fresh from an appointment at the salon. For someone associated with a dozen murders, she looked rather calm and well put-together.
She didn’t sit, not right away. Instead she studied the room around her, her upper lip lifted slightly in disgust.
“Mademoiselle,” the policeman ordered, his outstretched arm pointing to the “hot seat.”
Christinne sat down on the cold, metal chair and stared apprehensively at the man. Her lawyer, a stern-looking woman in a black pantsuit never took her eyes off of the policeman as she sat next to her client. Zach and I adjusted our earpieces, waiting for the voice of the translator to crackle through the static.
The policeman took his seat, his hands folded gingerly on the metal table in front of him. His demeanor was almost gentle, despite the impatience he had displayed earlier. He crossed his legs and leaned closer to Christinne. Despite his outwardly friendly and young appearance, I noticed the fire in his eyes, the yearning to get down to business and break the suspect using any means.
“I assume you are well aware of the murders?” he asked, not needing to specify which murders he was exactly speaking of.
Christinne sniffed. “Of course.”
The policeman studied her for a moment. “Are you aware of the fact that you are a suspect in the murders of more than a dozen models?”
Christinne lost her composure and poise. “On what grounds?” she spat. “What evidence do you have connecting me to the scenes of the crimes?” Her high voice shrieked on the last word and I had to adjust the volume on my earpiece.
The policeman raised his voice in return. “We have solid evidence and eyewitness accounts! Now unless you can demonstrate for us over a dozen reliable alibis, you will be seen as a suspect from here on out!”
Christinne turned to her lawyer who took over for her client.
“You cannot arrest her-” she began.
“Do you see handcuffs on her wrists?” the policeman interrupted.
Next to me, Zach snickered.
“Mademoiselle, have you or have you not threatened your agency’s fellow models?”
Christinne’s lawyer shook her head, clearly not oblivious to her client’s past behavior and fiery attitude.
“Yes,” Christinne affirmed. “But only a complete idiot would actually believe that the threats held any merit!”
“Mademoiselle, there are women and young girls being slaughtered for no apparent reason and you go around threatening the ones that remain. And you expect those girls to take your threats lightly?” The policeman uncrossed his legs and leaned closer to Christinne.
Her eyes lowered as she began to play with the silk scarf around her neck. “I suppose not,” she whispered, so quietly that the translator almost did not pick up her words. “But I didn’t murder those girls,” she argued, much more loudly.
The policeman studied his papers, though Zach and I both knew it was only for show. This guy had his facts and questions down. He probably memorized all of them the night before over a mug of steaming coffee. He was a pro.
“How is your relationship with Emma Blake?”
Christinne folded her arms and pursed her lips. “We get along.”
“Liar,” I said under my breath. Zach shushed me.
The policeman snorted. “Really?”
Christinne sat still and silent.
“Really?” he said again. “Because she received this yesterday.” He slid the handwritten note across the table so Christinne could get a better look. It was in a plastic bag, but the few words written in black pen were still visible. “Look familiar?”
Christinne’s face lost its color. She stared at the note for a prolonged period of time. Clearly her lawyer was getting nervous. She leaned over and whispered in Christinne’s ear.
The policeman obviously didn’t feel like waiting for the two to converse. “Did you or did you not write this note and send it to the Hotel Amour where Emma Blake is currently staying?”
Christinne laughed. She actually laughed. It was a quiet, ringing chuckle that caught the policeman off-guard. She leaned across the table until her face was only a few inches away from that of the policeman. She flashed him a white smile.
Had he been entranced by her beauty, he didn’t show it. “This isn’t funny, Christinne.” His voice was low and threatening.
Christinne pulled away and swallowed hard. “Yes,” she whispered.
Zach and I stared at each other. He gave me a thumbs-up.
“Yes I wrote the note and had my brother, Christophe, deliver it to her hotel.” Christinne’s voice cracked.
Her lawyer stepped in. “No more questions-”
“But I didn’t kill those girls!” Christinne cried. “I swear. I may have written the note, I may have threatened those girls, but I would have never killed them!” She took a deep breath as a tear trickled down her cheek. “I will sit here and give you an alibi for every single murder, even if it takes me the entire day. I didn’t kill them.”
The positivity and hope I had been feeling all day quickly subsided. I grew even wearier as Christinne gave a reliable alibi for every single date a murder had occurred. She provided names and phone numbers, addresses and even receipts and tickets stubs from shopping sprees with girlfriends and train rides out of the country. Every alibi she gave enshrouded Zach and me in a dense fog as the case became far from over once more.
Christinne took a deep breath and pushed aside a stray strand of hair as she finished. She looked pleased with herself, and rightfully so. Zach and I, on the other hand, had slumped in our chairs as our shoulders drooped.
Even the young policeman, who had seemed so sure and ready when the interrogation began, was grasping for any other piece of evidence that would convict her of something, something that would prove the entire morning hadn’t been a total waste of time.
“What about,” he slid the locket I had found across the table, along with the picture of Christinne wearing it, “this? This was found at one of the crime scenes.” I waited with baited breath. Maybe, just maybe…
Christinne wiped the sweat from her forehead and smiled widely. “Well,” she pulled a necklace out from her coat, “I still have mine.” The charm dangled in front of the policeman’s eyes, mocking him. Mocking all of us.
Next to me Zach angrily tossed the empty water bottle across the room and hid his face behind his hands.
The policeman nodded. He glanced around the room until his eyes met the camera in the far corner. He shook his head at us, a small move nearly unnoticeable.
“Thank you for your time. This interview is over. You’re free to go.” He stood up and opened the room’s door. “Good luck on your runway show tonight, Mademoiselle.”
I groaned as the interrogation room emptied before my eyes. As if the day couldn’t have gotten any worse: I had my first fashion show in less than three hours.