“I knew you’d come.”
Andrew Corian, dubbed “The Sculptor” by the national press, was smiling that same old smile. Supremely confident and a little scornful. For a moment it was as almost as if he was seated at his desk in his old office at
PSU and not in this dingy
interview room at The Federal Detention Center in Sea-Tac.
“Sure you did,” Elliot said. He had been second-guessing the decision to meet with Corian from the minute he’d acceded to SAC Montgomery’s request, and Corian’s supercilious attitude just confirmed his doubts. They were not going to get anything useful out of The Sculptor.
Corian’s big hands, wrists handcuffed, rested on the resin table top. He spread his fingers, palms up in a have a seat gesture as Elliot took the chair across the table.
“How could you resist? A chance to play hero one last time. A chance to convince yourself you got the better of me.”
“You’ve been hitting the psych shelves in the prison library pretty hard,” Elliot commented, folding his arms on the table top. He glanced casually around the room. He’d been in plenty of these interview rooms back when he’d been with the FBI. Neutral colors. Durable furniture. Mesh over the windows. Generic right down to the two-way mirror behind which stood Detective Pine of Tacoma Homicide and FBI Special Agent Kelli Yamiguchi.
Just in case they missed anything, the cameras overhead were recording the interview.
Corian’s eyes, a weird shade of hazel that looked almost yellow in the institutional light, narrowed at Elliot’s jibe, but his broad smile never faltered. He seemed to be a in great mood for a guy looking at a multiple life sentences.
“I don’t need to read a psychology book to understand you, Mills. There’s nothing complicated about your psyche.”
“But enough about me,” Elliot said. “Let’s talk about your favorite subject. You. Or more exactly, why you wanted to see me.”