Page 8 of Zero Divergence
“Holy fuck,” Carnegie said from the back seat. “There’s a lot of people here.”
He wasn’t wrong. Royce had expected a sizable showing, but there were at least two hundred people lined up outside the perimeter of the jail. Some of them looked angry or anxious, but they were greatly outnumbered by the smiling, happy women singing songs and carrying signs touting Humphries’s innocence.
“What the hell does her sign say?” Fuentes asked, pointing to a college coed holding a large poster over her head.
Nausea rose up Royce’s throat when he glanced over and read it. “Some girls like it rough,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper as he remembered the strangled bodies of the four women in their late teens and early twenties. Their lives snuffed out before they’d had a chance to live. “How fucking sick is that?”
“Does this sick son of a bitch have a fan club?” Fuentes asked incredulously.
“Most serial killers do,” Royce replied.
He had to honk the horn to part the throng of people so he could drive up to the gates. Four deputies in riot gear moved in to herd the crowd back so Royce could drive into the prison once they opened wide enough.
“It’s a damn good thing the gathering is peaceful,” Carnegie said. “Those deputies are outnumbered.”
Royce thought the tensions might exponentially increase once Humphries cleared the gates. County had jurisdiction here, but Royce would step in and offer aid if they wanted it.
He stopped his car near the entrance to the jail, noting the navy blue BMW, silver Mercedes, and an old green Jeep Wagoner with wooden side panels also parked there. Royce recognized the small woman sitting in the driver’s seat of the Beemer as Humphries’s wife Tiffany. The statuesque woman piloting the Mercedes was Humphries’s lead council, Vivian Gross. Royce found her last name to be extremely fitting in this case. While he believed everyone deserved representation and a fair trial, he could never understand how a woman could defend a man who’d committed such heinous acts against other women. Maybe she believed he was innocent, or perhaps she just wanted the money and notoriety that comes with a high-profile case. The Woody Wagon belonged to Felix Franklin,Savannah Good Morning’scrime reporter, and a royal pain in Royce’s ass.
“All the key players are in place,” Royce said, unable to ignore the feeling that they were all pieces—pawns—on a chessboard being moved around by an invisible hand. “Feel free to wait in the car to avoid getting in trouble and staying off the serial killer’s radar.”
“Fuck, no,” Fuentes said.
“That goes for me too,” Carnegie added.
A few minutes before eleven, they all got out of their vehicles. Vivian Gross slowly lowered her sunglasses so Royce could see her scathing expression, Tiffany ignored everyone and kept her eyes trained on the front entrance, and Felix wiggled his fingers in a playful wave, which Royce ignored. Vivian started to cross the expanse between them but halted when the doors suddenly opened, revealing Humphries, who wore a crisp, dove gray linen suit and a pale pink shirt. A fedora matching his suit sat atop his head, shielding his bald head from the bright sun.
Royce observed his reactions, which were every bit as theatrical as he expected. He held his arms open toward the sky as if he were hugging it. Then he lowered them and said, “Vivian, Vivian, Vivian.” Unlike Jan Brady’s whiny tone, Humphries’s voice sounded like a smooth and silky caress. Humphries opened his arms and his attorney stepped into them for a hug that lasted much longer than was appropriate. Humphries closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, making Royce’s skin crawl.
Felix stepped forward, capturing the encounter for the paper with his camera. Royce wondered how the headline would read while he turned his head to study Tiffany Humphries’s reaction to her husband and his attorney. She’d taken great care with her appearance for their reunion, wearing a floral sundress and white wedge sandals. Not a hair was out of place, and her makeup looked flawless. Rather than look at her husband, Tiffany Humphries stared down at her clasped hands. Sensing his scrutiny, she slowly lifted her head and briefly met Royce’s gaze before turning her attention to her husband.
On the occasions Royce had interviewed her, Tiffany Humphries had exhibited several signs that she was a victim of domestic violence. She’d been skittish and had spoken softly and only when asked a direct question. She’d avoided eye contact, had only expressed concern about upsetting her husband, and always had an excuse at the ready to explain Franco’s behavior. Her body language now wasn’t happy or welcoming, and Royce worried about her safety.
When Royce returned his attention to Humphries, he had pulled away from his attorney and was walking toward him. Royce crossed his arms over his chest and hoped his expression and body language projected his determination to pursue Humphries to hell and back if that’s what it took. Speaking his intentions out loud would only lead to trouble.
“Detective,” Humphries said in his cultured, smooth voice. “Oh, it’s Sergeant now, isn’t it?” Royce said nothing. “Congratulations.” Humphries’s lips tipped up into a wry smile. “I was sorry to read about your partner Marcus. He seemed so confident and full of life. Who would’ve guessed he’d kill himself? Why did he do it? Guilt over framing an innocent man of multiple murders, perhaps?” Royce bit the inside of his cheek to keep from responding. He wouldn’t allow Humphries to goad him into punching the killer’s smug mouth. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
Royce just stood there staring into his cold, blue eyes.
“Well, this is just boring,” Humphries said. “It’s been a long dry spell, so I think I’ll go home and fuck my wife now.” The contrast between Humphries’s polished appearance and his crude language was startling and intentional. He loved keeping people guessing about him.
Royce had the overwhelming urge to shout at Tiffany Humphries to get in her car and drive as fast and as far as she could and never look back. He remained silent, knowing from personal experience that domestic violence victims wouldn’t leave until they were ready.
“You can go fuck yourself, Sergeant Locke,” Humphries said, turning and walking toward his wife. He jogged the final steps to reach Tiffany, swooped her up, and spun his wife around. Once he set her down, Humphries pulled the woman into a hard kiss and lewdly cupped her ass with both hands before pinning her body between him and the car.
“Gross. I hope they’re not going to do it right now,” Fuentes said, sounding like he was barely suppressing a shudder.
“What a disrespectful prick. Makes me want to apologize to my girlfriend for every time I acted like a jerk,” Carnegie said.
Royce chuckled. “You can text her on the way back to the station.”
Humphries suddenly pulled back from his wife, smiling broadly. “Oops. I got carried away. I sure don’t want to get arrested for public indecency on my first day of freedom in months.” Gripping Tiffany’s bicep, he guided her around to the passenger side of the car, opening the door and patiently waiting for his wife to get settled before closing it. “Vivian, dear, I’ll be in touch soon.” Humphries struck a pose for Felix before walking around and climbing behind the wheel of the BMW.
Humphries put the car in reverse, hitting the gas and cutting the wheel sharp to the left, kicking up gravel as he rocketed backward. Then he shifted into drive and sped down the long driveway toward the gate, flipping Royce off as he passed.
“That went well,” Royce said dryly, making Carnegie and Fuentes laugh. “Let’s head back and watch Commissioner Rigby’s press conference.”
Unfortunately, they got called out to a vehicular homicide where one seventeen-year-old male ran over another for talking to his girlfriend. The two rookies learned the toughest part of being a detective—notifying families that their loved one had died.