Page 22 of Lover
Normally, Rory argued with him about every damn little thing, and Rand fully expected that to be the case then as well. Instead, he simply nodded and followed Rand’s instructions to the letter. He and Connie watched through the glass as Rory entered the room, kicking the door shut behind him. It startled the attorney, and he jerked back, his wide eyes narrowing when he looked at Rory, the surprised expression quickly becoming a scowl. Rory sat the now-empty box on the corner of the table and waited several long moments before sliding it across. There was a brief flicker of recognition in Pearson’s eyes, but he quickly put his brash exterior back in place, glaring up at Rory. “Yeah, that’s my boy!” Gonzales nudged him with her elbow. “Okay cowboy, your turn.” She snapped her fingers, shooing him out of the room.
Polar opposite, Rand blew into the room like a tornado. “Good afternoon, Mr. Pearson, I’m Detective Davis. I just have a few more questions for you, and then we can call it a day. May I call you Bruce?” He rapped his knuckles on the table.
“No,” Pearson quickly responded.
Grabbing the chair, Rand flipped it around, leaning the back of it against the table and taking a seat, setting the folder on the table in front of him. “Listen, Bruce, I was hoping you could clear some things up for me. You see, we found these pictures in your condo and, well, to be completely honest with you, Bruce, they’re rather disturbing.” Pearson glared at him, one eyebrow raised, arms crossed.
Opening the folder, he lifted the first picture, turned it around, and slid it across the table. It was Mitchell Helms sitting on the couch in Pearson’s condo, smiling up at the camera. Next was Junior, then Doral and so forth; the last smiling happy face was Shannon. “What I do in my own home and whom I do it with is none of your concern, Detective.” Pearson was dispassionate.
Shaking his head, Rand clicked his tongue a couple of times. “Not if one or more of the young men portrayed in these photographs was underage at the time you took their picture, Bruce, you naughty, naughty boy.” Pearson’s eye would twitch every time Rand called him Bruce, and Rand took a smidge of satisfaction in knowing he was slowly unraveling the pent-up bastard across from him. He covered the images with a set of more somber ones, taking note when Pearson cocked his head to one side, popping his neck. Next came the more graphic pictures—the early stages of the abuse that nineteen young men had endured while in the company of Bruce Pearson. Rand’s fingers itched to reach across the table, grab the piece of shit by the neck, and slam his head on the hard, cold steel until his face looked like the image of Shannon’s back that would be forever imprinted on Rand’s brain.
With each new image the violence escalated, a silent movie depicting the horrors Pearson had inflicted. “This one here,” Rand pointed at Mitchell Helms. “His body was found in Portland, Oregon in 2007 in Macleay Park less than a week after you were there. And before you ask, we have your credit card statements that put you on a plane to Portland and booking a hotel in the city at that time. Coincidence? I think not.”
“Circumstantial at best,” Pearson huffed. A tiny bead of sweat dotted the attorney’s immaculate brow. Inside, Rand did a happy dance, knowing that with each new image, with every name and place he told Pearson they’d tied him to, his cold, hard exterior took a blow.
Rand pressed on, deliberately trying to sound jovial. “Howard Manning Tullor Junior.” He whistled. “Damn, now ain’t he a pretty one?” Waggling his brows, Rand fanned himself with his hand overdramatically. “Did you know his grandfather was a judge before you took him to your bed while he was still a minor?”
Nostrils flaring, a spark of pure desire lit Pearson’s eyes, and Rand wondered briefly if he could talk Gonzales into turning off the camera and voice recorder, so he could kick the shit out of Mister Malice. “Here’s another question for you. Did you know every person you decided to have a Kodak moment with is now either dead or missing, all except one?” Technically, Rand wasn’t lying; at this point the only person in Pearson’s picture box they could say with certainty was alive, was Shannon.
That got his attention. “What?” Pearson sat up straight, eyes roaming over the images before him, lingering a few extra seconds on Shannon. Rand could hear Rory growling behind him and prayed that Pearson didn’t say something that would set the agent off. “That’s...no, that can’t be.” He mumbled, probably the first time an iota of humanity leaked into his voice.
“I assure you, Bruce, it is the truth.” Rand rummaged through his folder, pulling out several newspaper clippings he’d downloaded that morning before they went to Pearson’s condo. One by one, Rand placed each story in front of Pearson, thoroughly enjoying the variety of shocked expressions dance across the man’s face.
“The body of eighteen-year-old Mitchell Helms was found in a shallow grave in Macleay Park in Portland over the weekend.”
“Portland man, 18, drowns near Sauvie Island.”
“Dental records prove that the badly decomposed body found in Lakeview Park last summer was Brian Doral, a teenager that had been reported missing by his mother four years ago when he was just thirteen.”
“Howard Manning Tullor Jr, grandson of Judge Tullor, likely the most outspoken judge on the bench against gay rights, has now been listed as a missing person for almost a decade. Judge Tullor has recently requested the assistance of the FBI along with a Cold Case detective in Dallas, Texas to resume searching for his grandson.”
Resting his elbows on the table, Rand sat quietly while Pearson frantically read each article, eyes roaming the piles of pictures. “All of them? No—how—why?” It made his day that he’d managed to break down the stone-faced attorney. “Wait,” Pearson sat back in his chair. “You think I did this? That I killed them?” And the wall went back up. “No, Detective, I loved them. I opened my heart and my home to these young men, gave them everything, asking for nothing but their honesty and devotion in return, and they all left me in the end.”
Rory snorted. “Honesty and devotion? You mean blind submission, right, Mr. Pearson?” In an instant, Rory was across the room, hands on the table as he leaned over Pearson. “Is this what you call love, Mr. Pearson?” He grabbed the image of Junior on the patio, his face mangled and beaten, slapping it down on top of the newspaper articles. “Look at his face, Mr. Pearson. Do you see that?Youdid that, and you call that love? You are one sick fuck, you know that, Mr. Pearson?”
Ah, yes. Good cop, bad cop.Rand loved this game. Gonzales was probably in the other room cursing them both to hell, in Spanish, for cracking Pearson’s tough exterior and reducing him to one-word sentences. “You know what I think, Mr. Pearson?” Rory shouted, fist slamming down on the table hard enough that it rattled.
“Easy, Agent, take a step back.” Rand gently touched Rory’s arm, praying he’d understand the schematics of the game they were playing and not think that Rand actually felt sorry for the piece of shit. He stared at Rand for a long moment, nodding once before straightening and moving over to lean against the wall, less than two feet away from Pearson. Rory was appeased for the moment.
Smiling, Rand turned his focus back to Pearson. “Listen, Bruce, I want to believe you, that you loved these young men. But you know the adage, ‘A picture is worth a thousand words’? These words don’t bode well for you, Bruce.”
“They were never my prisoners, Detective. They were free to come and go as they pleased. Which is exactly what they did, what they all do, eventually.” Pearson growled. Finally, some modicum of truth fell off his foul tongue. The abusive, domineering, evil fuck of a man sitting across from him in a thousand-dollar suit was insecure.Well, how ’bout that?Rand surmised.
Pushing off the wall, Rory stepped over to the table again, this time leaning into Pearson’s personal space until the man flinched and pulled back. “Why the fuck would anyone in their right mind choose to stay with you, Mr. Pearson? You show yourlovewith your fists, your feelings forever imprinted on the minds of the young men you preyed on.” Rory poured so much disdain and hate into the word “love” that it made Rand shudder. Thankfully, Pearson only had eyes for the agent currently rattling his cage to notice the movement.
Gaze dark and angry, hard face staring back at Rory, Pearson gave as good as he got. “You have no grounds to hold me or charge me with anything, Agent, so unless I’m under arrest...”
Rand cut him off with a smile and a wave of his hand. “Oh, you’re under arrest all right, Bruce, so wrap your arrogant head around that. We have photographic, electronic, and physical evidence that you entered into a relationship with multiple young men while they were still underage. Whether or not they wanted to be smacked around and treated like animals is neither here nor there, not in this instance.”
Rory stood, pulling his handcuffs out, swinging them in a circle and grinning maniacally. “Oh please, let me do the honors.”
“Wait!” Pearson shouted, catching them both off guard. “You said that all but one was dead.” Rand stood, deliberately stepping between Rory and the idiot. “Who...” Pearson reached over, his hand lingering over the images of Shannon. “Which one?”
Rory made a noise, a sound you’d normally hear from a wounded animal, and Rand thanked the lord above that he’d put himself in the way. Otherwise, the agent would likely have been jumping up and down on their suspect. “I can’t answer that question, Mr. Pearson. The lone survivor is now in protective custody.”
Pearson slowly turned and met his eyes, his gaze hard and angry. The man was not stupid; he’d immediately caught the change from Bruce to Mr. Pearson and realized that Rand had been playing him from the moment he walked into the room. “Gonzales,” Rand called out, mere seconds going by before the vivacious brunette was bounding into the room.
“Yes, dear?” Connie wore a huge smile, a pair of handcuffs dangling from two fingers.
