Hallow Springs

Twenty-two

I joined Peters and Sykes behind the interrogation room mirror. The interrogation room was a twelve-foot by twelve-foot room with gray tiled and two matching chairs on either side of the lone table at the center of the room. A camera was drilled into the ceiling, giving us a video recording of whatever was about to happen on the other side of the mirror. I examined Maynard Jones awaiting his interrogation. You can learn as much from a suspect by observing how they wait to be questioned. In Maynard Jones's case, he sat shoulders hunched over the small table, looking down at his hands. He wasn't looking at his hands with guilt, questioning what they had done. Rather he was watching them shake, uncontrollably.

"Any progress on the cell phone?" I eyed Sykes for the answer.

"We've reached out to Verizon – they are running a GPS location on it. The only thing is it's been 48 hours, what are the chances it still has battery?"

"What do you think?" I directed his attention to Maynard Jones.

"He's obviously nervous..."

"He is?" I raised an eyebrow toward Sykes.

"He's sweating, his foot is tapping, his hands are trembling... he's shaking in his boots and obviously hiding something." Every word that dripped out of this kid's mouth was an arrogant conviction.

"We'll see..." I winked at Peters as if to say, watch this.

When I pushed the door open, Maynard didn't raise his head, rather he just stayed focused on his palms, which were now coated in a shining layer of sweat. He sighed deeply, knowing a line of questioning was heading his way. He wheezed with every breath as if one of his lungs were punctured. Tattoos scrolled up his neck and lobe gauging earrings had stretched his ear into quarter sized holes.

"Mr. Jones," I began. "I am Detective Amanda Graves."

I reached my hand across the table. He leaned back in his chair, off guard. He was used to seeing male cops on TV slam their suspects up against the wall. Here I was with my double X chromosomes, trying to shake his hand. He raised his pudgy hand and shook mine gently. His grip was soft, which told me that even though according to his record, he had thrown someone through a bar window, he would never lay an aggressive hand on a woman.

"Nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine." I leaned back in my chair. "Do you need anything? Coffee? Cigarette?"

"I'm dying for a cigarette. I already have the sweats and shakes..." I twisted in my chair and faced the mirror. God, how I wish I could have seen through that mirror to see Sykes reaction.

"Officer Sykes? Do you mind bring Mr. Jones here a cigarette?" I said it as sardonically as possible, as if calling a butler to our service.

After a moment, Sykes entered, unable to make eye contact with me. He placed a pack of Marlboro Reds on the table with a Zippo and an ash tray. Maynard tried not to tear through the pack, but got the smoke lit in his mouth as quickly as possible. He sucked it down like water on a summer day. Sure enough, his hand stopped shaking, his foot stopped tapping and his sweat began to dry. Sykes shook his head in frustration as he left us alone in the interrogation room.

"Better?" Maynard groaned as the nicotine reentered his blood stream. "Okay then. Has anyone told you why you are here?"

"No, no one has talked to me."

"I want you to first understand that you aren't under arrest, you can leave if you'd like at any time, but I would appreciate it if you answer a few questions before you did so." I could tell he was at ease with me. I had been polite, got him a smoke and now was asking for help. Call it the nurturing touch or whatever you'd like, but a woman's touch helps in this line of work.

"Sure, Detective... is this about Jeremy Wilson?"

"Yes, it is..." I laid off my question, wondering where he was going to take this.

"What a terrible thing... I think he skipped town. He owed me $1,500 for repairs and I'm sure I'm not the only one he owed." He continued to puff on his cigarette. The end crackled as he inhaled.

"How much did you say he owed you?" I remembered that Sam said Jeremy asked him for $5,000.

"$1,500... I replaced his transmission and he never paid for it. He assured me he was good for it, so I figured it was a small town and it would be hard for him to disappear – I guess I was wrong on that."

Who else did Jeremy owe money to?

Maynard rolled his fingers on the table – the cigarette ashed a little on each tap. He didn't notice for he was halfway down the tracks of a daunting train of thought. He began stirring in his seat. "Wait... I didn't do anything to Jeremy if that's what you're thinking!"

"Where were you on Tuesday night?" Maynard's expression dropped. He was blindsided by my question. I had been so comforting and nice up to that point that he was taken aback by my direct hit.

"Oh God! ... umm... I was... was... with my mother over in Mt. Airy. She cooks me dinner every Tuesday." I spotted a tattoo that said 'Mom' scrawled out in a cursive script on his forearm.

"What did you eat?"

"Lasagna, why?" he knew the answer with certainty. He was telling the truth – his only stutter was because I threw him off his guard and he was trying to place his own timeline. He was recalling the truth not drafting up a lie.

"Do you know anything else about Jeremy Wilson that you think could be helpful?" I backed the attention off of him. He searched his memory and furrowed his brow as he latched onto something.

"Yeah... actually..." he exhaled a cloud of smoke. "When he dropped his car off for service, a high school kid picked him up. I remember thinking that it was weird that a teacher was riding with a high school student."

"Do you know who it was?"

"No, it was a boy though. Sandy blonde hair, drove a red Tacoma sport with 35 inch tires and probably a six inch lift kit... I just shrugged it off figuring it maybe was a cousin, because he's an only child isn't he?"

"He's got a sister..."

"Oh... yeah Zoe right?"

"That's right." My mind was already running with the intel.

So, Jeremy owed money to multiple people and hung out with High Schoolers? Why would he do that? Maybe he just needed a ride? There's nothing wrong with that is there? But owing money to people around town?

Maynard smashed his cigarette down on the ash tray.

"Detective Graves?" I returned to the table. "Am I done?"

"Yes... you can go thank you..." Sykes and Peters entered the room. Maynard lifted to his feet in a wheezing heave, pulling up his pants on the way up. He walked with Sykes who ushered him out of the station, leaving Peters alone with me. Peters leaned up against the interrogation room table and lit his own Red from the pack.

"What'd you think?"

"Sam was right, that guy was harmless. But he gave us a lead. We need to find out who he owed money to and what high schooler drives that truck."

"We'll get on it right away. And we will verify his alibi." I checked the clock hanging on the wall and felt a crushing weight press on my chest as I watched the second-hand continue to tick Jeremy's life away.

<>

"Good... because our time is running out..."

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