Broken (11 page)

“I couldn’t impose on your family.”

“I’ve dragged you all the way down here. You could at least let me feed you. Or let my mother feed you, which would be far better for your health.” Then, because she knew he was not a stupid man, she added, “And you know I want to know what’s happening on the case.”

“I don’t know how late I’ll be.”

“I’ll wait up.”

W
ILL TRENT PRESSED HIS FACE TO THE CLOSED GLASS DOOR
of the station house. The lights were out. There was no one at the front desk. He rapped his keys on the door for a third time, thinking if he used any more pressure, the glass would break. The building overhang wasn’t doing much to keep the rain off his head. His stomach was grumbling from hunger. He was cold and wet, and extremely irritated that he had been ordered to this small-town hellhole during his vacation.

The worst part about this particular assignment was that this was the first time in his working life that Will had ever asked for a whole week off from work. Back home, his front yard was torn up where he had been digging a trench around the sewer line from his house to the street. Tree roots had taken over the ninety-year-old clay pipe, and a plumber wanted eight thousand dollars to change it out to plastic. Will was digging the trench by hand, trying not to destroy the thousands of dollars worth of landscaping he’d planted in the yard over the last five years, when the phone rang. Not answering didn’t seem like an option. He’d been expecting news from Faith—that her baby was finally coming or, even better, that it was already here.

But, no, it was Amanda Wagner, telling him, “We don’t say no to a cop’s widow.”

Will had put a tarp over the trench, but something told him his two days of digging would be erased by a mudslide by the time he got back home. If he ever made it back home. It seemed like he was destined to spend the rest of his life standing in the pouring-down rain outside this Podunk police station.

He was about to tap on the glass again when a light finally came on inside the building. An elderly woman headed toward the door, taking her time as she waddled across the carpeted lobby. She was large, a bright red prairie-style dress draping over her like a tent. Her gray hair was wrapped up in a bun on the top of her head, held there by a butterfly clip. A gold necklace with a cross dangled into her ample cleavage.

She put her hand on the lock, but didn’t open it. Her voice was muffled through the glass. “Help you?”

Will took out his ID and showed it to her. She leaned in, scrutinizing the photograph, comparing it with the man in front of her. “You look better with your hair longer.”

“Thank you.” He tried to blink away the rain pouring into his eyes.

She waited for him to say something else, but Will held his tongue. Finally, she relented, unlocking the door.

The temperature inside was negligibly warm, but at least he was out from the rain. Will ran his fingers through his hair, trying to get the wet out. He stamped his feet to knock off the damp.

“You’re making a mess,” the woman said.

“I apologize,” Will told her, wondering if he could ask for a towel. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. He smelled perfume. Sara’s perfume.

The woman gave him a steely look, as if she could read what was going through Will’s mind and didn’t like it. “You gonna just stand there all night sniffing your handkerchief? I got supper to make.”

He folded the cloth and put it back in his pocket. “I’m Agent Trent from the GBI.”

“I already read that on your ID.” She looked him up and down in open appraisal, obviously not liking what she saw. “I’m Marla Simms, the station secretary.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Simms. Can you tell me where Chief Wallace is?”

“Mrs.” Her tone was cutting. “Not sure if you heard, but one of our boys was almost killed today. Struck down in the street while trying to do his job. We’ve been a little busy with that.”

Will nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I did hear that. I hope Detective Stephens is going to be okay.”

“That boy has worked here since he was eighteen years old.”

“My prayers are with his family,” Will offered, knowing religion paid currency in small towns. “If Chief Wallace isn’t available, may I speak with the booking officer?”

She seemed annoyed that he knew such a position existed. Frank Wallace had obviously given her the task of stalling the asshole from the GBI. Will could almost see the wheels in her head turning as she tried to figure out a way around his question.

Will politely pressed, “I know that the prisoners aren’t left unattended. Are you in charge of the cells?”

“Larry Knox is back there,” she finally answered. “I was about to leave. I already locked up all the files, so if you want—”

Will had tucked the file Sara had given him down the front of his pants so that it wouldn’t get wet. He lifted his sweater and handed Marla the file. “Can you fax these twelve pages for me?”

She seemed hesitant to take the papers. He couldn’t blame her. The file was warm from being pressed against his body. “The phone number is—”

“Hold on.” She extracted a pen from somewhere deep inside her hair. It was plastic, a retractable Bic that you’d find in any office setting. “Go ahead.”

He gave her his partner’s fax number. The woman took her time writing it down, pretending to get the numbers mixed up. Will glanced around the lobby, which looked like every other small-town police station lobby he had ever walked into. Wood paneling lined the walls. Group photographs showed patrolmen in their uniforms, shoulders squared, jaws tilted up, smiles on their faces. There was a tall counter opposite the photographs, a gate filling in the space
between the front part of the building and the back, where all the desks were lined up in a row. The lights were all off.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll fax them before I go.”

“Do you have an extra pen I can borrow?”

She offered him the Bic.

“I wouldn’t want to take your last one.”

“Go ahead.”

“No, really,” he insisted, holding up his palms. “I couldn’t take—”

“There’s twenty boxfuls in the closet,” she snapped. “Just take it.”

“Well, all right. Thanks.” He tucked the pen into his back pocket. “About the fax—I’ve numbered the pages, so if you can make sure all twelve go in the same order?”

She grumbled as she walked toward the gate. He waited as she bent over to find the release. There was a loud buzz and the click of a lock. Will found it strange that there was such a high level of security in the station, but small towns had found lots of inventive ways to spend Homeland Security money after 9/11. He had visited a jail once that had Kohler toilets in all the cells and nickel-plated fixtures on the sinks.

Marla busied herself in front of the row of office machines by the coffeemaker. Will took in the space. Three rows of three desks were in the center of the room. Tables with folding chairs lined the back wall. On the side of the building facing the street was a closed office door. There was a window looking out onto the squad room, but the blinds were tightly shut.

“Jail’s in the back,” Marla advised. She stacked the pages on the table, giving him a careful eye. Will looked back at the office and something like panic seemed to take hold of Marla, as if she was afraid he would open the door.

“Through here?” he said, indicating a metal door in the back of the room.

“That’s the back, isn’t it?”

“Thank you,” he told her. “I appreciate your help.”

Will let the door close before taking out Marla’s pen and unscrewing the barrel. As he suspected, the ink cartridge inside was plastic. Sara had said the cartridge Tommy Braham used to cut open his wrists was metal. Will was guessing it came from a nicer pen than the Bic.

He reassembled the pen as he walked down the hall. Exit signs illuminated a tiled floor that was around sixty feet long and four feet wide. Will opened the first door he came to, a storage room. He checked over his shoulder before turning on the light. Boxes of paper clips and various office supplies lined the shelves, as did the twenty boxes of retractable Bic pens Marla had mentioned. Two tall stacks of yellow legal pads were beside the pens, and Will imagined the detectives coming into this closet, grabbing a pen and a legal pad so they could give suspects something to write their confessions with.

There were three more doors off the hallway. Two led to empty interrogation rooms. The setup was as you would expect: a long table with a metal eyebolt sticking out of the top, chairs scattered around. Two-way mirrors looked into each room. Will guessed you had to stand in the supply closet to see the first room. The other viewing room was behind the third door. He tried the knob and found it locked.

The door at the end of the hall opened and a cop in full uniform, including hat, came out. Will glanced over his shoulder, finding a camera in the corner that had tracked his progress down the hallway.

The cop asked, “What do you want?”

“Officer Knox?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right.”

“You’re the booker?” Will asked, surprised. The position of booking officer was a necessary but tedious job. They were responsible for processing all the newly arrested prisoners and in charge of their well-being while they were housed in the cells. Generally, this was the sort of job an old-timer was given, a light desk position that eased the transition into retirement. Sometimes it was given to a cop who
was being punished. Will doubted that was the case with Knox. Frank Wallace wouldn’t have left an aggrieved officer here to handle Will.

Knox was staring at him with open anger. “You just gonna stand there?”

Will took out his badge. “I’m Special Agent Trent. I’m with the GBI.”

The man took off his hat, showing a shock of carrot red hair. “I know who you are.”

“I’m sure your chief has briefed you. We were called in as a matter of routine to investigate the suicide of Tommy Braham.”

“You were called in by Sara Linton,” he countered. “I was standing right there when she did it.”

Will smiled at the man, because he had found that smiling at people when they thought you should be mad was a good way of bringing down some of the tension. “I appreciate your cooperation in this investigation, Officer. I know how difficult things must be for you right now.”

“Do you now?” So much for the smiling. Knox looked like he wanted to punch Will in the throat. “A good man is fighting for his life in that hospital over in Macon and you’re worried about the piece of shit who stabbed him. That’s what I see.”

“Did you know Tommy Braham?”

He was taken aback by the question. “What does that matter?”

“I was just curious.”

“Yeah, I knew him. Had a screw loose in his head from the day he was born.”

Will nodded as if he understood. “Can you take me to the cell where Tommy was found?”

Knox seemed to be really trying to think of a reason to say no. Will waited him out. Any cop would tell you that the best way to get someone to talk was to be quiet. There was a natural, human inclination to fill silence with noise. What most cops didn’t realize was that they were just as susceptible to the same technique.

Knox said, “All right, but I don’t like you, and you don’t like me, so let’s not pretend anything otherwise.”

“Fair enough,” Will agreed, following him through the door, finding himself in a smaller hallway with yet another door. A bench was on one side with a row of gun lockers. Every jail Will had ever visited had the same setup. Rather wisely, weapons were not allowed back with the prisoners.

Knox indicated the lockers. “Be sure to take out your clip and eject the round.”

“I don’t have my gun on me.”

From the look Knox gave him, Will might as well have said he’d left his penis at home.

The man’s lip curled in disgust. He turned around, walking toward the next door.

Will asked, “You said you were here when Dr. Linton made her phone call. Were you just coming on shift?”

Knox turned. “I wasn’t here when the boy killed himself, if that’s what you mean.”

“Were you on shift?” Will repeated.

He hesitated again, as if it wasn’t already clear that he didn’t want to cooperate.

Will said, “I’m assuming you’re not the regular booking officer. You’re patrol, right?”

Knox didn’t answer.

“Who was the booking officer this afternoon?”

He took his time answering. “Carl Phillips.”

“I’ll need to talk to him.”

He smiled. “Carl’s on vacation. Left this afternoon. Camping with his wife and kids. No phones.”

“When will he be back?”

“You’ll have to ask Frank about that.”

Knox took out his keys and opened the door. To Will’s relief, they were finally at the jail. Beside another large door was a viewing window showing another hallway, but this one had the familiar metal
doors of jail cells. Just outside the cells was a sort of office for the officer in charge. To one side was a large filing cabinet. To the other was a built-in desk with six flat-screen monitors showing the inside of five of the cells. The sixth monitor had a game of solitaire going. Knox’s supper, a homemade sandwich with chips, was laid out in front of a computer keyboard.

Knox said, “Only got three people in here tonight,” by way of explanation.

Will checked the screens. One man was pacing his cell, the other two were curled up on their bunks. “Where’s the tape for the cameras?”

The cop rested his hand on the computer. “Stopped recording yesterday. We’ve got a call in to get it fixed.”

“That’s really strange that it stopped working right when you needed it.”

Knox shrugged. “Like I said, I wasn’t here.”

“Were any of the prisoners released after Braham was found?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t in on that.”

Will took the answer as a tacit yes. “Do you have the visitors’ log?”

He opened up one of the filing cabinets and pulled out a sheet of paper, which he handed to Will. The form was lined with columns for names and times, the usual sort of paperwork you found in any jail in America. At the top of the page, someone had written in the date. The rest of the form was blank.