She asked, “How are you feeling, Mr. Hudson?”
“Like dog shit. How are you?”
A penciled eyebrow arched. She glanced at Perkins, who didn’t react at all. When she came back to Calder, she said, “I don’t think that response needs elaboration.”
“What’s CID?”
“Criminal Investigations Division.”
“You’re here to ask me about the shooting?”
“A necessary evil. Perkins and I understand how difficult this is.”
“So why put me through it now?”
“This is only a preliminary interview. We’ll keep it brief.”
Calder gave a terse nod. He wanted them gone, but he’d been haunted by a question he had to ask. “How many casualties were there?”
“Counting you, twelve wounded, three of those are in critical condition. Five fatalities including the suspect. He died at the scene. Self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
Good, Calder thought but didn’t say it out loud. “Who was he? What was his beef?”
“We haven’t yet released his name, because he was a minor.”
“A minor?”
“Sixteen.”
“Shit.”
“But he’d been booked twice for breaking and entering, once for petty theft, once for selling pot to his friends in middle school. He served two stints in juvie and officially dropped out of high school last year. The day before yesterday, he was hired by the fair to work one of the games on the midway.”
Speaking for the first time, Perkins added a footnote. “As to what his beef was, we’re trying to determine that.”
“Maybe he didn’t need a beef,” Calder said with scorn. The guy sounded like a loser wanting to generate some respect and recognition for himself, so he went on a shooting spree, killing four people and counting. Calder wished he could peel the skin off the son of a bitch inch by inch. “Was he whacked out on drugs?”
“The autopsy will tell,” Compton said. “But he had to pass a drug test before he was hired.”
“Those can be rigged.”
The agents nodded in grim agreement. Compton said, “We’re trying to ascertain what his motivation was, so we need to talk to anybody who might have seen or heard something that would give us a hint. Like if you saw him beforehand in an altercation with someone.”
“I didn’t make it as far as the midway, and I didn’t see an altercation of any kind.”
“I was just using that as an example,” she said. “Talk us through your experience.”
“Now?”
“We’ll keep it brief.”
So she’d said, but already this preliminary interview had lasted too long. His head was killing him, so was his arm, and his stomach was still queasy. Maybe he should have submitted to the suppository.
He despised being utterly helpless. The detectives had the leverage, the authority, and their facial expressions were as implacable as those on Mount Rushmore, so he had just as well recount what he remembered and get it over with.
“I got to the fairground about—”
Perkins cut him off. “We’d like some background on you first.”
“Like what?”
“What we couldn’t get off your driver’s license. Is the home address on it current?”
“Yes.”
“Are you married?”
“No, but I live with my girlfriend.”
“What’s her name?”
“Shauna Calloway.”
The two stopped scribbling on their small spiral notepads, looked at him, looked at each other, then back at him. “The Shauna Calloway on channel five?” Compton asked.
“Channel seven, but yes.”
“Huh. Are you aware that she was doing an interview—”
“Yes. I was going to meet up with her and stay for the concert.”
“It was canceled,” Perkins offered.
“Have you spoken with Ms. Calloway since the shooting?” Compton asked. “Is she aware that you were wounded?”
“I haven’t spoken to her, but somehow she learned that I was shot. One of the nurses told me that she came here to the hospital, but they wouldn’t let her in to see me because I hadn’t talked to you yet.”
Compton said, “Since she and her video crew were on the premises, they were the first to break the story. Within minutes of the shooting, they were reporting live from the fairground.”
Shauna would have eaten that up, Calder thought. He should be happy for her for getting that opportunity. Instead, he felt an inexplicable resentment.
“Who do you work for, Mr. Hudson?” Perkins asked.
“I’m self-employed.”
“What do you do?”
He gave them his pat answer. “Consulting.”
“Who do you consult?”
“Corporate clients.”
His pat answers weren’t washing with Compton. “What kind of consulting, Mr. Hudson?”
“It varies from company to company.” He rubbed his temples with the fingers of his right hand. “Look, my head is about to explode. Can’t this wait?”
“Just a few more questions,” she said. “The shooting took place just inside the north gate.”
“Yeah, I’d come through maybe a minute earlier.”
“You came alone?”
“Alone except for the mob of people also trying to get in. Shauna had offered to leave a pass for me, but I hadn’t confirmed that I was coming, so I had to wait in line to buy a ticket. Once through the turnstile, I merged with people trying to exit. It was a madhouse.”
“We’ve seen security camera video,” Perkins said.
“The shooter couldn’t have picked a better spot to open fire,” Calder said. “The crowd was so tightly packed he couldn’t have missed hitting a lot of people in a fraction of time. Although when it was happening, it seemed to go on forever.”
“Here’s the suspect’s last mug shot. Do you remember seeing him?” From the pocket of her blazer, Compton produced the picture and held it out to him.
The guy was about what Calder had expected: half-mast eyelids, long, unwashed hair, and a “fuck you” expression. In a few minutes’ time, he’d graduated from punk to mass murderer. Congratulations, asshole.
With disgust, Calder handed the picture back to Compton. “I don’t remember seeing him, but I could have. It was an awful crush.”
“What were you doing when you heard the first shot?”
“Working my way through the crowd. Shauna had mentioned that she would be backstage. I was trying to figure out the easiest way to get there.”
“When you first heard the shots, what did you think?”
“I thought, some crazy motherfucker is shooting at us.”
Again the detectives exchanged a look before coming back to him. Compton said, “We’re checking into the suspect’s background to see if he had a history of mental illness.”
“If he didn’t before, he has a history of it now.”
Compton didn’t respond to that. “You knew right away you’d heard a gunshot?”
“Yeah. My dad is a gun enthusiast. He has semiautomatic weapons that he uses for sport. Less now than he used to, but, growing up, I often went to the range with him. We always wore headsets, but I know what they sound like when fired. What did this guy use?”