George Favreau was an ashen-faced, nondescript little man, neatly dressed in gray trousers and a pinstriped blue blazer. Quiet, cooperative, and well mannered, he was the very essence of inoffensiveness-unassuming, well spoken, with a light, gentle voice.
As they waited for Chuck to finish with a phone call, Lee watched Favreau through the one-way glass partition. He sat patiently, studying his immaculate nails and playing with a St. Christopher's medal around his neck. His eyes moved nervously around the room, then fixed on the door. He stared at it hungrily, like a dog waiting to be let out for a walk.
Chuck came down the hall, Butts trotting behind him, his short legs pumping to keep up with Morton's long stride. They both carried mugs of fresh coffee.
"Come on-let's get this over with," Morton said. It was Saturday, and Lee knew he hated working on weekends. But they all knew they couldn't afford to waste time on this investigation. They had flagged the Favreau house because he occasionally went to the Swan-and because he was a convicted sex offender. His name turned up on a list of credit card receipts-and on VICAP-so they figured he was worth a closer look.
The three of them entered the room, Lee carrying a cup of coffee for Favreau. Butts winked at him, expecting the coffee to be a setup for the good-cop/bad-cop routine, but actually Lee felt sorry for the poor little guy. He had studied his file: Favreau had done his time, attended every counseling session set up by the court, and his parole officer said he seemed truly contrite for what he'd done. Lee didn't doubt it-the man had a sincere, self-effacing manner, without the underlying arrogance of a true psychopath. This guy might be sick, Lee thought, but he was no killer.
Lee knew it wasn't unusual for Peeping Toms to graduate to more hardcore crime, but this guy-he just didn't think so. Detective Butts sat directly in front of Favreau, with Lee to his right and Chuck on his left side.
As the three of them took their places in the room, Favreau studied his hands. They were small and delicate, the nails pink and well cared for. Lee had trouble imagining those hands killing a woman-or a man, for that matter. Favreau had been a math professor at Rutgers before his arrest and prosecution for sex crimes. Maybe it was a coincidence that Ana was taking classes there-but maybe not.
"So, Mr. Fav-reau," Butts said, "do you know why you've been brought in here?"
Favreau looked up at the detective and pursed his lips, as though he had just eaten a lemon. "I can only assume you have orders to beat the bushes a little to flush out this notorious murderer. A useless and ineffective gesture, of course, but something to placate the public thirst for vengeance."
Lee looked at Chuck, who sat back in his chair, arms crossed. He had evidently decided to let Butts take the lead on this one. Lee wondered how Butts would deal with this guy-and to his surprise, the detective backed off a little.
"Look, Mr. Fav-reau, only you know whether or not you have anything to do with these crimes, okay? So let's just say that even if you're innocent, the easier you make my job, the sooner we can both get outta this dump, right?"
"Sounds reasonable," Favreau responded, flicking a speck of something from the table. Meticulous, orderly, outwardly calm, Lee thought. Like the killer.
Butts took a gulp of coffee. "Okay, good-good. So it's pretty basic stuff, really-where were you on the night of so and so, this and that. Okay?"
"Fire away, Detective," Favreau replied smoothly, giving Lee a little smile. "Thanks for the coffee, by the way."
"You're welcome."
Butts consulted his notes, though Lee knew it was purely for show. He had a nearly photographic memory, and no doubt had each date memorized. "Do you remember your whereabouts on August-"
"Twentieth?" Favreau finished for him. "You see, Detective," he said with a wry smile, "I know exactly why I'm here. And believe me, when I read in the papers about that poor girl's death, I made sure to take an exact accounting of my actions, because I knew sooner or later, unless it was solved quickly, someone would try to put my head on the chopping block. Not that it's your fault." He took a sip of his coffee. "I mean, you're only doing your job, right?"
"Okay, fine," Chuck said. "We're only doing our jobs. Big of you to give us that. So would you mind telling us where you were that night?"
Favreau placed his manicured fingertips together. "At the movies. I am an avid fan-I see nearly everything the moment it comes out. Ask anyone. Helps keep my mind off things."
"Okay," Morton replied slowly. "And was anyone with you?"
Favreau smiled. "I'm afraid not. I was forced to enjoy Julia Roberts's manifold charms by myself that night-except for the other people in the theater, of course. And of course I saved my ticket stub. Under the right circumstances, it can be tax deductible-did you know that?" He took a neatly folded yellow ticket stub from his breast pocket and handed it to Chuck. "You'll find my fingerprints on it, too. If I'm not mistaken, you already have a set of my prints on file."
Chuck studied the ticket. "Well, it's the right day, but you could have gotten this in any number of ways. Did anyone see you at the cinema that night?"
"I'm not really sure. I'm not exactly someone who stands out in a crowd, as you may have noticed."
Butts leaned forward. "You were seen on the campus of Rutgers prior to the victim's death. What business did you have there?"
"No business at all, really. I was just wandering around the campus, reflecting on better days, when I taught there. Mathematics. Oh, but you probably already know that-no doubt you read my file. But did you also know that I have an IQ of 165? Genius level, so they tell me. I'm afraid it hasn't done me all that much good."
"So you were just wandering around?" Butts said. "Did you speak to anyone?"
Favreau shook his head. "No. I recognized some of the security guards, but I was too embarrassed to say hello. Sort of puts a crimp in your self-confidence, being convicted as a sex offender, don't you think?"
"I wouldn't know," Butts replied acidly. "So how long were you wandering around campus?"
"Oh, for at least an hour. I am allowed to do that, you know-it's a free country, or at least until our Republican administration has its way. Then, look out-pretty soon civil liberties will be just a fond memory. Sort of like my career, actually," he added thoughtfully.
Lee wasn't sure how much of what Favreau was saying was an act-he seemed to be playing with them, enjoying the self-pitying ruminations and wisecracks. He liked having an audience. That wasn't surprising-good teachers were part actor, part scholar. According to his file, Favreau's reputation as a professor before his fall from grace had been very good-he was popular among both students and faculty. He had a dry way of saying things that made you wonder how sincere he was.
Lee was beginning to change his mind about Favreau. He no longer seemed so pathetic or downtrodden. In fact, he was downright self-possessed, even arrogant, in his professorial way. Arrogant-maybe the contrition routine had been for the benefit of his parole officer, or maybe it too was just an act. He decided to tell Chuck later that they should watch this guy.
In the end, nothing constructive came of the interview. Favreau claimed to have been at the movies, but couldn't produce anyone who had actually seen him there. It also struck all three of them that there was something a little tidy about his alibi-he happened to be at a movie during the time frame in which the murder was committed, but if he was setting up a fake alibi, why not do a better job? But then, with an IQ of 165, he may have already anticipated all of these questions, and, if he was the killer, be several steps ahead of them.