Chapter 4 - The Interrogation Room
The holding cell at the Oak Ridge sub-station hadn't changed in three years, or forty years, or whenever they first slapped industrial pea-green enamel over the cinderblocks.
It smelled of damp limestone, floor wax that had turned to yellow varnish in the corners, and the sour, sharp tang of industrial disinfectant that never quite covered the reek of old vomit and stale tobacco. A single fluorescent tube hummed overhead, flickering every four seconds like a dying heart monitor.
I sat on the steel bench bolted to the wall, my wrists still handcuffed in front of me, listening to the muffled roar of the media mob gathering outside the precinct’s double glass doors.
Even through two layers of reinforced brick, the voices were distinct:
“...sources within the Sheriff’s department confirm the recovery of the murder weapon...” “...a dispute over thirty thousand dollars in back surveying contracts...” “...the Vance family issuing a formal statement calling for the death penalty...”
The heavy iron latch rattled. The solid steel door swung open, dragging against the floor with a screech that made my teeth ache.
Bradley Vance walked in.
He had taken off his duty belt and his shearling coat. He wore a dark navy tactical sweater with the gold investigator shield pinned over his heart, his sleeves rolled up to the mid-forearm to show off the silver diver's watch Arthur had bought him for his thirty-fifth birthday.
Behind him came Sergeant Miller, carrying a yellow legal pad and an ancient Sony micro-cassette recorder with a red record light already glowing on its plastic chassis.
Bradley didn't sit down. He walked straight to the small metal table in the center of the room, pulled out the chair with his boot, and planted his hands on the backrest, leaning forward until his face was eighteen inches from mine.
"You're done, Nate," Bradley said, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register prosecutors use when they’re offering forty years like it’s a Christmas gift. "State's Attorney is already drafting the information. Capital murder. Concealment of a homicidal death. Tampering with physical evidence."
I didn't blink. I didn't shift my feet on the concrete floor.
"You look tired, Bradley," I said. "Didn't get much sleep last night, did you?"
Bradley’s jaw tightened. "I was up working the lead that put your ass in that chair."
"Was that the lead from the informant?" I asked, tilting my head toward Sergeant Miller, who had taken a seat in the corner and was staring intently at his legal pad. "The one who told you about the false bottom in my toolbox? The one you didn't mention in the search warrant affidavit?"
Sergeant Miller’s pencil stopped mid-stroke. He looked up, his faded blue eyes darting from me to the back of Bradley's neck.
"The affidavit was based on preliminary forensic modeling from the tire treads at the quarry," Bradley snapped, his voice rising half an octave before he caught himself. "We don't need an informant when the physical evidence is screaming your name. Arthur’s blood on that iron wedge matches the reference sample from his dental records. We’ll have the DNA confirmation from the state lab in Joliet before the afternoon docket."
"And the ring?" I asked. "Arthur's signet ring? How'd that get under the partition, Bradley?"
"You put it there," Bradley hissed, slamming his open palm down onto the metal table with a concussive BANG that made the cassette recorder jump. "You took it off his finger after you smashed his skull behind the old batch plant! You took it as a trophy, Nate, because you're a sick, arrogant son of a bitch who thought he was smarter than every cop in this county!"
"Is that the theory?" I asked softly. "I took a trophy from a man I killed, drove it back to my own house, bypassed three hundred acres of abandoned mine shafts and limestone quarries where nobody would ever find it, and dropped it into a toolbox that sits five feet from my bedroom window?"
"Criminals are stupid, Nate," Bradley sneered, leaning in until I could see the broken red capillaries around his nostrils. "They always make mistakes. And yours was thinking I wouldn't search every square inch of that rust-bucket Chevy."
I looked at him for three seconds—long enough to let the silence stretch until the hum of the fluorescent bulb sounded like an electric saw.
"You're right about one thing, Bradley," I whispered, resting my cuffed hands on the cold edge of the table. "Criminals are stupid. They always think nobody's watching them in the dark."
I turned my head and looked directly at Sergeant Miller.
"Sergeant," I said, "what's the county policy on retaining private security footage when a warrant is executed?"
Miller blinked, clearing his throat. "Any... any electronic surveillance on the subject property is to be secured by the forensic unit and logged into the master evidence repository before the preliminary hearing."
"Good," I said. "Then you should probably ask Detective Vance why he didn't seize the wireless receiver plugged into the breaker box behind my water heater."
Bradley’s face didn't just lose color; it went the dead, curdled shade of skim milk. His hands slid off the back of the metal chair, his fingers twitching toward his waist where his holster usually sat.
"There's no receiver behind the water heater," Bradley said, his voice flat, dead, and entirely devoid of its earlier theatrical thunder. "We swept the basement."
"You swept the laundry room, Brad," I smiled, leaning back against the cinderblock wall. "You didn't check the utility cavity behind the fiberglass insulation. You were in too much of a hurry to get back to your truck before the sun came up."
Sergeant Miller slowly set his yellow legal pad down on the table. He looked at Bradley, then back at me, his weathered face hardening into a deep, suspicious frown.
"What's on the receiver, Nathan?" Miller asked, his voice dead serious.
"A four-channel high-definition digital stream," I said, looking straight into Bradley's terrified eyes. "Capturing my gravel driveway, the south woodline, and the bed of my Chevy Silverado from midnight until six this morning."
May you like
I paused, letting the words sink into the concrete like acid.
"Would you like to know who dropped the ring in the toolbox, Greg? Because he's standing three feet to your left, and he's wearing your department's badge."
