Albatross (5 page)

Andersen quietly sat opposite of Coleridge. He opened his file, clicked his ballpoint pen for writing, and placed it carefully on the pad of paper. Coleridge impassively sat. Andersen could see he was taking in everything. Andersen was almost positive Coleridge was tracking him visually when he got up to ostensibly “stretch” and pace. While he appeared still, there was a lot going on with this guy.

“So … do you want to start?” Andersen asked.

Coleridge smiled. “Where would you like me to begin?”

The voice was smooth. It had a low timbre.
Well practiced. Actually
, Andersen thought,
his voice had a therapeutic quality to it.

“From the beginning,” Andersen answered.

“The beginning? Do you mean early in my life or as it related to me being on Summer Street?” Coleridge asked

“How about a couple of weeks prior to the event if it’s related?” Andersen clarified.

Coleridge sat there quietly for a long moment. It was evident he was trying to figure out where to begin. As if he had just seen a starting point, he smiled slightly and asked, “What time is it?”

“Eight thirty a.m. Does that affect your statement?” Andersen responded.

“No. I was wondering where my assistant was,” Coleridge answered.

Andersen waited and then finally asked, “So do you want to tell me how you got to a basement where a shoot-out happened?”

Coleridge seemed to ponder and then continued, “I would really have to go back three and a half years. I can highlight, but it will make more sense to go back that far to give you the whole story.”

Andersen’s approach to interviewing was to let things run their course at first to give the impression the interviewee was in control and then change approaches halfway through. It was time to start.

“All right. We’ve got time. Were you advised of your rights? I’m sorry. You waived your rights, I see,” Andersen continued.

“Yes. I have not been charged with anything, but I doubt what I say will have an effect on anything.” Coleridge actually appeared dark for a moment as if he were remembering something painful.

“No charges yet, so why don’t you start talking?” Andersen prodded.

Coleridge came back from his dark place. He smiled and seemed more composed than he had just a moment ago.

“Okay. If you got some coffee and arnica, I will tell you everything. And can someone let me know when my medication gets here?”

Andersen got back up and opened the door to call for one of his men and see what they could produce for Coleridge. Andersen knew the coffee was the easy part. Fortunately, his witness had not qualified his coffee as “good” coffee. The arnica was not going to happen. Andersen knew it was an herbal ointment for bruising, but it typically needed to be put on as soon as possible. After a few minutes, coffee was brought to the interrogation room, and Coleridge agreed to a cold compress in lieu of the ointment. Once settled, Andersen returned to his seat.

“So … how does it all start?” Andersen asked.

“I wasn’t always Sam Coleridge,” Coleridge began.

“I guessed that. Coleridge was a poet.” Why Andersen had to show Coleridge he knew his poets was unclear to him. Maybe he was feeling the control of the interview slipping away from him.

“Yes. What my name was before is really not important.”

Andersen cut him off. So it wasn’t halfway through the interview process, but he was getting annoyed. “No games, Coleridge. There are three dead bodies and two injured federal agents in my town, and I need answers—direct and clear ones.” Andersen was now angry. His “witness” was unreal—too calm, too collected.

After a moment of contemplation, Coleridge finally responded, “My name was David Caulfield. I was born December 5, 1967.”

Andersen wrote the name and date down. He knew others in the adjoining observation room would be running the information along with his prints as he and Coleridge continued the interview. There was always a technician behind the mirror monitoring the recording equipment in high-profile cases. Hopefully, there would be another investigator in the observation room as well, looking for nonverbal cues. In light of the insanity happening in and around his town, Andersen was pretty sure no police personnel would be spared. Maybe an intern or a cadet would be observing.

“So Mr. Caulfield—”

“No. My name is Sam Coleridge. I am cooperating, so please show me the courtesy of using my name.” At that point, Coleridge was silent and as still as a statue.

Andersen contemplated the request for a moment. The more he could get this guy to talk, the better. Sometimes you had to give people in the hot seat some control to run their mouth. He went back to the original plan.

“All right, Mr. Coleridge. How did you end up at Summer Street?”

“Sam is fine. Three and a half years ago, I never would have been there or here.”

“All right,” Andersen conceded. “Three plus years ago, what happened?”

“It’s funny,” Coleridge began, “how a former life can be drawn up so quickly from the past and yet your present life is so purposeful.”

Oh boy
, Andersen thought. He hated the “philosophical” witnesses. Eventually, Andersen settled with pen and pad in hand, while silent, multiple recording devises were meticulously collecting data.
At least the story might be interesting
, Andersen thought.
Something to talk to my wife about
. Laura loved these stories, but Andersen really hated it when witnesses and criminals took their time with explaining things.

Coleridge began with the basics—the details of life that are demographic though telling when you compare the past and present.

Chapter 4

“It was a long
time ago,” Coleridge began.

Andersen noticed a perceptual shift in Coleridge’s expression. Andersen knew enough about interviewing to know that watching for behaviors could communicate critical communication, which could provide insight into the person. Up till now, Coleridge was calm and collected. No emotion displayed. That told Andersen that either Coleridge had been in stressful situations before or he was a great actor. But right now, Coleridge’s shoulders dropped a bit. He crossed his legs in the other direction, and he stroked his chin.
That was different,
Andersen thought.

Andersen refocused on Coleridge’s story as he made note of the body language.

“I was married with a beautiful wife and three teenage children. We had married after her divorce. She was a medical doctor with three children from a prior marriage. I married late. Loved work more than anything until I met her. We lived in the suburbs, where I was fortunate to be a stepfather to her children. Their biological father made it very easy for me to be the ‘nice one’ since he wanted nothing to do with them. I had always thought it was because he was an alcoholic, but after meeting him just once, it was clear he had mental health issues in addition to the alcohol problems. Once the kids were in college, we moved closer to the city in a newer development that would be big money someday.”

“Where did you live?” Andersen interrupted.

“North Carolina. Then we moved to Virginia. They weren’t my biological children, but I loved them. I miss them …” Coleridge’s voice trailed off, but then he regrouped and continued, “I was a therapist then too, but I also taught psychopathology and personality disorders to graduate students and doctorate fellows. My specific focus was on recovering memories and treatment of patients who suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. Brain development and stressful events could be treated in the most severally traumatized clients, but only if the patients really wanted to. That was key. The brain knows how to protect itself when it’s endangered, and it will not just stop ‘remembering’ something on a whim. It takes time and trust. It also takes physical exercise, meditation, and mental gymnastics, such as learning a new skill. All of this has to be done at the same time you are working on your issues. Most importantly, the client has to be patient.

“I worked with other professors at the university in this approach and would spend some time working at the veterans’ hospital’s inpatient and outpatient departments with traumatized patients there. I had a small but intense private practice. Because this clinical approach was considered ‘eclectic,’ even though each aspect of the treatment had its own body of research supporting it, as a clinical practice, it was not covered by the patients’ insurance. My practice was a ‘cash only’ venture that became pretty successful both in reputation and in profits. My clientele were mostly victims of abuse and violence. Sometimes there were high-ranking military and ex-military personnel. I would see them privately. Periodically, there were law enforcement, and most infrequently, I would consult with federal agencies either in an employee assistance vein or criminal case.”

“Federal agencies?” Andersen asked.

“Yes,” Coleridge answered coolly. “Typically, the FBI and Pentagon staff … typically in foreign analyst branch,” Coleridge elaborated.

Well, there is the Quantico connection and possibly an organized crime connection too
, Andersen thought.

“Go on,” Andersen coached.

Coleridge’s voice had taken on a more lightened tone, less therapeutic and more storytelling.

“All was going quite well then. The twins were in college. The oldest was in graduate school. My wife was really enjoying her own private practice and being at work full-time. As for me, I was like all guys in their professional prime—overweight, liked my alcohol—and I was depressed more than less. But I sure made money. I was not living my own treatment strategies for recovery, I guess. But then there was no trauma at that point for me to recover from.”

There was that darkness again Andersen had noticed as Coleridge’s story slowed to a stop. Andersen thought he was going to have prod Coleridge along until he picked the story back up again on his own.

“That was all going to change the day my most complex client appeared at my practice. He was also the most responsive client I had ever worked with. Truly, I was lucky in a sense to see how a treatment strategy on the right person at the right time could change someone. Lucky—”

From Andersen’s perspective, Coleridge did not look or act “lucky.”

“Does your client have a name?”

“Former client,” Coleridge corrected. “His name is Mr. Alexander Burns.”

Coleridge stopped at the name. He was still but very present.

“So who is Mr. Burns?” Andersen asked.

Andersen noticed that Coleridge started with an exhale. Coleridge then smiled, but it was not a happy one, Andersen thought. Coleridge’s body language and facial expression seemed to relax and tense up at the same time.

I wondering what he’s thinking
, Andersen thought.

While he was sitting with Lt. Andersen, David’s head continued aching right where Burns had hit him earlier that morning. While the officers that found him were nice enough, it must have seemed strange to them to find him at the site of such a violent crime. David recalled that the noise, yelling, and shots in the house were horrible to hear when he was in the basement. But it was not as bad as the silence that suddenly followed after such a commotion. The police made sure he was seen by the paramedics, and then they brought him to the station. He was happy he was not handcuffed. David had no idea what being handcuffed would be like. David had no idea what it was going to be like playing a character while being interrogated by the police. All of this was new to him.

David shifted in his seat as he refocused on what the lieutenant was saying.
Well, this sure is stressful,
David admitted to himself. Before David met Burns, he was nothing short of a law-abiding citizen. So honest that his college roommates could not believe it when he called the cable company to report getting free movies. David smiled fondly at that thought. Still though, he was sitting in front of a police officer whom he was deceiving while giving his friends time to create a whole lot of chaos.
If they hadn’t taken everything away from me, if they hadn’t threatened Emma, maybe I couldn’t do this now,
David thought.

Sitting in front of the lieutenant, in one of the interrogation rooms he had researched, was still unnerving to David, even though he had rehearsed this scene several times. Burns constantly coached him.

“Be yourself,” Burns would say. “Tell him the truth. It’s easier when you tell the truth. Just don’t give him the answers he wants,” Burns would constantly urge.

David struggled with what Burns was saying.

For the moment, David was doing his best to seem at home, but it was difficult. It was not a question of if he could do it. It was an issue of how.
How can I do this? How can I convincingly pretend to be someone named Sam Coleridge? How can I keep this charade going for a couple of hours?
David thought to himself. David knew intuitively that he was the best person to keep the police occupied as the others moved ahead with their plans. Originally, Samantha had been chosen to play the role of victim, but Burns had reconsidered. David had to admit Burns’s analysis was right: While Samantha could stonewall anyone, she could play more roles than anyone outside of the police station. That was her strength—many things to many people. David’s skills were interviewing and dealing with people and stressful situations. David also had to admit that he was also good at dramatic monologues. So it was with great irony that Burns recommended David initially use the alias of Samuel Coleridge from
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
. David believed that Burns’s choice of name and that specific poem had more to do with Burns himself at an unconscious level. David was sure that Burns’s choice was guided by the story’s symbolism of burdens, sins, revelations, truth, metamorphosis, and redemption.
That’s definitely more Burns than me,
David thought. Still, David followed Burns’s advice and took the alias.