Chapter 147 - Chapter 147: Another Talkative One

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Chapter 147: Another Talkative One

Charles Anderson's anger ignited fast. Silence gave way to hesitation, hesitation to bitter correction.

When Theodore mentioned Mildred Anderson seeing through her son's "rotten nature" and kicking him out, Charles Anderson finally snapped.

"I left," he said, voice dripping with contempt. "She didn't kick me out. I left because I couldn't stand it anymore."

His jaw clenched. "She's a prostitute. A whore who spreads her legs for anyone with cash. Shameless. I couldn't live under the same roof anymore. Just looking at her made me sick."

Good. A crack in the armor.

Theodore watched him for a long moment, then continued.

Soon Charles Anderson was correcting Mildred's version of his childhood fights—insisting he'd been bullied, that he'd only fought back in self-defense.

Bernie leaned in. "Why were you bullied?"

Silence. Then, quieter: "Because she's a prostitute."

His agitation spiked. He cursed, fists clenching, and rattled off a litany of abuses—kids isolating him, mocking him, beating him bloody because his mother sold herself for a living.

"I only fought back because I couldn't take it anymore."

Theodore kept his expression neutral, then moved on to the incident where Charles had squatted by the roadside, throwing stones at pedestrians.

Another correction. Charles insisted it hadn't been his idea, Mildred had ordered him to do it. If he refused, she'd withhold dinner.

The stones weren't the only thing. According to Charles Anderson, Mildred had also instructed him to steal.

"If I didn't do what she wanted, she wouldn't feed me," he said, voice rising. "She starved me into compliance."

Once he started talking about Mildred Anderson's sins, he couldn't stop. His desire to unburden himself took over—every nudge from Theodore opened another floodgate.

In his version, all evil originated with Mildred Anderson. He was just an innocent child, pitiful and powerless.

It contradicted Mildred's account completely. Mother and son slinging mud at each other from opposite corners.

Theodore didn't care about the truth of their shared history. He only cared that Charles Anderson kept talking.

He cut through Charles's enthusiastic recitation of maternal persecution and asked, "What did you think about your mother's prostitution?"

That hit a nerve. Charles barely hesitated before launching in.

When he was small, Mildred would hide him in the closet before clients arrived. He'd thought it was a game, so he cooperated, crawling into the dark space obediently, waiting.

Then one day, while Mildred was servicing a client, Charles pushed open the closet door and ran out. He thought she was playing with someone and wanted to join.

He'd scared the hell out of the client.

Bad experience. Bad review. The client refused to pay and slapped Mildred across the face.

No pimp to protect her. She took it silently.

After the client left, she took it out on Charles.

From then on, before every client, Mildred tied him up with a belt and shoved him in the closet.

Sometimes business was good—clients would come until three or four in the morning. Charles would fall asleep in there, bound and wedged between coats and shoes.

When he couldn't sleep, he'd peek through the crack in the door, watching his mother service different men.

As he grew older, sleeping in the closet became normal. A bed felt wrong, unnatural.

He peeked more often. The strange tableaux excited him and repulsed him in equal measure—forbidden, fascinating, and utterly shameful.

He understood, even then, that what she did was wrong.

Charles Anderson's state shifted as he recounted this. He leaned forward, hands pressed flat on the table, face flushed. His expression twisted, anger, excitement, something more challenging to name.

His eyes widened, breath coming fast. "I told her to stop! Get a real job! Something decent!"

"She wouldn't listen. She cursed at me instead."

"She likes being a whore! Money's all she cares about—she'd fuck a dog if it paid!"

A torrent of obscenities followed.

Theodore cut through it, sliding the victim's photograph across the table. "Was she one too?"

Charles Anderson glanced at it. The cursing stopped mid-breath. His eyes darted between Theodore and Bernie, suddenly wary.

Bernie tapped the photo. "We investigated. She was a prostitute, like Mildred Anderson. But she didn't provide simple services; she catered to clients with specific tastes."

He paused. "Abusive scenarios. She'd pretend to be violated, tied up, begging for mercy. She didn't value herself."

Silence filled the interrogation room. Charles Anderson's mouth moved, but no sound came out. He wanted to speak—his face said as much—but some last scrap of self-preservation held him back.

Bernie tapped the photo again, rhythmic and insistent. "You tried to help her, too, didn't you? Just like you tried to help Mildred. But she wouldn't listen either."

Charles Anderson's eyes flicked to the photo. He said nothing.

Bernie reconstructed the scene. "Soundproofing on the fifth floor of the Riverside Hotel isn't great. Loud noises in one room carry to the next."

"On the night of April third, she serviced two clients back-to-back. Pretended to be violated, begged for mercy, screamed for help. A guest in the next room thought she was serious—actually knocked on her door, ready to intervene."

He leaned forward. "Did you hear it?"

Charles Anderson didn't answer.

Bernie glanced at Theodore.

Theodore picked up the thread. "The morning of April fourth, she serviced two more clients. Residents from neighboring rooms, actually."

"After they left, you went into her room. You told her to find different work. But she didn't listen—just like when you tried to save your mother all those years ago."

"It reminded you of Mildred Anderson."

"You felt rage. You couldn't understand why anyone would make that choice. The anger stripped your control. You wanted to stop her from selling herself ever again. You smashed everything in reach, then you violated her."

Theodore's voice stayed level. "When clarity came back, she was already out the window."

Brief silence.

Charles Anderson looked up, voice rising. "I tried to help her!"

Louder now, insistent: "I tried to help her!"

"She wouldn't listen! Just like that old bitch!"

"They're all the same, they love being whores!"

Like so many before him, Charles Anderson's first confession opened the gate. The rest poured out.

On the night of April third, he'd also heard the screams for help. He'd also thought someone was in trouble. Cooper just got there first.

He watched the whole thing, Cooper getting cursed at and sent away after knocking.

Residents on the fifth floor started early to beat morning traffic. Charles Anderson had the same habit, up at five to clean rooms.

So the next morning, he was already working when he witnessed Cooper and Dennis being lured into Barbie Jo Carter's room.

Shortly after they left, Charles Anderson went in.

According to him, he'd tried to reason with Barbie Jo Carter. She was urged to do something else with her life.

She didn't just refuse—she mocked him.

It reminded him of Mildred Anderson. His anger ignited. They argued, the argument turned physical, and he lost control. He dragged her into the closet, assaulted her, then shoved her out the window.

Only after it was done did awareness return. He fled in a panic.

Charles Anderson looked at them now with something almost like sincerity. "I don't know what came over me. She reminded me of my mother. When I came back to myself, I was standing at the window. I had no idea what I'd done."

The interrogation ended. Bernie opened the door and called in an agent to escort Charles Anderson out.

Minutes later, Detective Thomas appeared in the doorway.

"Victim's parents are here," he said. "They're identifying the body in the morgue now."

Bernie frowned. Shouldn't Detective Thomas be the one escorting the parents through that process? Why was he here instead?

He glanced at Theodore, who was organizing documents, then back at Thomas, standing in the doorway like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Thomas left without asking about the interrogation.

A few minutes later, he returned to inform them the parents had taken the body.

Bernie gave him a brief rundown of Charles Anderson's confession.

For the first time, Detective Thomas showed real interest. This was his first complete picture of the case.

When Bernie finished, Thomas looked genuinely moved. "Poor bastard. Charles Anderson, I mean."

He shook his head. "Abused by his mother from childhood, no education, no understanding of right and wrong. How's he supposed to know what's normal?"

Theodore set down his documents. Bernie stopped mid-motion. They looked at each other.

Bernie hesitated. "Do you really think he didn't know what he was doing when he killed her?"

Thomas nodded. "He mistook Barbie Jo Carter for Mildred Anderson. Rage blinded him."

Theodore cut him off. "Charles Anderson blames everyone else for his problems. Everything wrong in his life is Mildred Anderson's fault, according to him."

"He invents excuses for every action he takes."

Theodore's gaze stayed steady on Thomas. "Visit him in a year, if he's still alive. He'll have even better reasons, more plausible explanations for what he did."

A pause. "Didn't you see that?"

Detective Thomas's face flushed. His eyes widened slightly.

Bernie looked between them, caught in the awkward silence. No idea how to defuse it.

Before, they'd thought Detective Thomas was just lazy, unmotivated. Disappointing, but harmless.

Now they understood, it was better that he stayed unmotivated.

Charles Anderson's transparent deflection had earned Detective Thomas's 'sympathy.'

Bernie would admit Thomas was a good man. But good men didn't always make good cops. Good men were easy to deceive.

He could barely imagine the disaster if Detective Thomas ever got ambitious.

Fortunately, Thomas knew his limits. He'd never shown ambition.

Thomas stayed quiet for a moment, then visibly relaxed. He'd briefly entertained ambition; Theodore's blunt assessment crushed it. He was lying flat again.

No defense, no argument. Just a magnanimous smile, a thumbs-up for the FBI agents, and praise for their extraordinary abilities. He hoped to work with them again.

Bernie exhaled quietly and returned the pleasantries.

They chatted a few more minutes before Bernie glanced at his watch and made their excuses.

Leaving the Third Precinct, Theodore and Bernie returned to the Department of Justice Building to drop off the case files.

At this point, the case was essentially out of their hands. The only remaining task was remembering to hand everything over to the internal attorneys on Monday. The paperwork would be someone else's problem.

Next stop: the renovation company.

Bernie and his wife were meticulous about the plans. Finalizing details took all morning.

That afternoon, they drove to the DuPont Bowling Center. They'd arranged to meet Edward for an afternoon of bowling.

The DuPont Bowling Center was the largest alley in the area, with twenty-four lanes, and was a frequent host to federal employee leagues. Its location and modern facilities made it the go-to spot for government workers looking to unwind after hours or on weekends.

At the entrance, Theodore spotted someone unexpected.

Thomas. Not Detective Thomas from the Third Precinct, Thomas from the Federal Bureau of Prisons.

Still in his cast, standing beside Edward, waving with an awkward grin when he spotted them.

Edward and Thomas weren't as busy as Theodore and Bernie. After getting scammed together, they'd grown close. Last night, Edward had visited Thomas, and after confirming his friend was mobile enough, suggested he come along today.

Theodore asked about Thomas's recovery.

Thomas looked genuinely touched by the concern. "I'm preparing for a divorce lawsuit, actually."

Bernie's alarm bells rang. He hadn't forgotten Theodore's comment before their last hospital visit.

Fortunately, Theodore didn't revisit the idea. Just looked at Thomas with faint regret.

Bernie quickly pivoted to bowling rules and etiquette, steering the conversation to safer ground.

[End of Chapter]

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