Scraping the wooden chair along the floor, Walt tosses the file on the table and lowers his hulking frame into the chair. Turning his left hand over he begins to examine his fingernails while completely ignoring his prisoner.
It’s a psychological tactic that’s supposed to frustrate the captive party.
Finally raising his eyes to look at Will, Walt bristles upon seeing that the tactic didn’t work. Will Sullivan is still staring off into space.
“My boys tell me that aside from waiving your right to counsel, you’ve said nary a word since they found you hunched in an open grave.” Pausing for effect Walt asks, “Your parents grave right?”
No answer.
“Yeah,” Walt calmly continues “Your parents’ grave. Bobby and Maggie Sullivan—how proud they must be of you, don’t you think so?”
Only an experienced interrogator would notice it, but Walt is certain that he saw those distant eyes flinch just a little. Smiling he continues.
“Who helped you dig up their grave?”
No answer.
“Oh come on,” Walt motions toward him saying, “I’m looking at you and I know that you didn’t move six feet of earth by yourself. So who helped you?” Leaning across the table Walt nods his head as he asks, “The same help that took their remains?”
Slowly Will turns his head and looks down at the table—at the file resting on it.
“You want to know what’s in here.” Walt picks up the file continuing in a self-satisfied tone “This is what we in the law enforcement business like to call a trail of evidence—a pretty impressive one too, if I do say so myself. Care to guess where the trail leads?”
No answer.
“You know exactly where it leads, straight to you. I got to say, you are one persistent bastard Sullivan. I mean I have here in my hands requests from you written to the M.E.’s office, several councilors, the mayor’s office, Christ you even wrote to the FBI crying for the case to be reopened. You had to know that your parents’ case was never a federal matter, but you’re just that persistent.
“No matter how many times your request for their grave to be exhumed was denied, you just wouldn’t go away.”
Leaning back in his chair Walt closes the file and asks, “Do you see where I’m going with this? We have a paper trail a mile long connecting you to this act not even mentioning the little fact that you were found in their empty grave. So why don’t you tell me that I’m wrong?”
Keeping his eyes down Will offers no answer.
“What were you doing in their grave Sullivan? Where are their remains? What did you do with them?”
Looking up momentarily, Will shrugs his shoulders slightly before the vacant stare reclaims him.
Lowering his rough voice to just above a whisper, Walt asks menacingly “You think this is a game Sullivan? Take a good look around you, at where you are. You don’t see any two-way mirrors or windows in this room do you?
“I’ll tell you what else you don’t see. You don’t see any cameras do you? It’s just you and I in here and I suggest you start talking before I lose my patience with this bullshit silent act. This isn’t some fucking movie where I actually give a shit about your goddamn rights. If you really want to do this the hard way,” a sinister grin creases his plump face as he says, “Then by all means.”
No answer.
“Fine,” Walt snorts derisively as he stands up and opens the door behind him. “Henson! Get this lump out of my sight!”
Stepping back into the room away from the door Walt moves to within inches of Will’s face. “You’re going to wish for two things when I get through with you Sullivan. You’re going to wish that you had cooperated with me when you had the chance because now I’m going to dig up every little thing I can pin on you.
“You better hope there are no nasty secrets waiting to climb out of your closets because if there are…I’ll find them!”
Walking away Walt stops at the doorway and says over his shoulder “And the second thing…you’re going to wish you hadn’t waived your right to a lawyer. Put him in isolation Henson—he’s got nothing to say anyway.”
Quietly Angela Lincoln sips her brandy in the sitting room of Lincoln Manor. She’s wearing her blond hair up in a tight bun, diamond earrings, a pearl necklace and a green silk evening gown.
Like most nights her glass is full. Part of her knows she should slow down tonight seeing as how she’ll have to accompany her husband later.
But she doesn’t.
Tonight, she knows, is going to be sinfully boring. The Chamber of Commerce is having a banquet to pat themselves on the back for their successful trip to attract business to Stillness.
Mayor Donald Lincoln of course must be in attendance and to keep up appearances he’s bringing Angela along.
Downing another measured sip she cringes at the thought. Not just the evening, but the whole charade of her and Donald.
There was a time when she loved him and him her. Deep down she knows this even when remembering it proves difficult. The hours she has spent thinking about when it all went wrong have been fruitless wastes of time. She has no clear idea of when it all went wrong.
She just knows that it is wrong.
All they’ve had for the past few years is appearances—Donald’s precious appearances. They go out on the town to various functions and smile and wave and laugh with the elite of Stillness. To the town they are the image of a happily married couple.
Swallowing another sip she nearly gags on the bitter taste of her own lies. How she wants to leave Donald—wants it with the very being of her soul.
But she can’t for two very important reasons—Jaime and Cody. If I were to leave Donald how would they react? Would they hate me?
That’s the fear that keeps Angela Lincoln in a sham of a loveless marriage, drowning her sorrows on a nightly basis in bottles of brandy.
Upstairs she hears a door close and quickly downs the last of her drink before Donald’s footfalls are heard descending the grand staircase. Stepping through the double doors of the sitting room he smiles thinly at his wife of 28 years.
“Not the booze again Angela, do I have to put a lock on my own damn liquor cabinet?”
“I’m fine,” she replies with the hint of a slur creeping into her voice.
“Go get some coffee and sober up. You know we have to go out tonight.”
“I’m not drunk.”
Fixing his steely gaze on her Donald says, “And I’m not asking.”
Donald Lincoln has two distinct personas. There’s the one everyone in town knows—a happy and successful politician who has always stood for family values first and foremost. And then there’s the one only a few know—mean and spiteful person spewing venom on anyone who sets off his rather short fuse.
When Angela met him in high school she had no idea he even had a temper. He was so gentle to everyone. In one of those silly high school polls he was voted most likely to run for office because he was so well liked by everyone.
She was positively smitten with him. Back then he had wavy brown hair cut close and parted to one side. A haircut he hasn’t changed in 28 years, only the color is now a mixture of brown and gray. Then as now he had broad shoulders and a stacked physique replete with six pack abs. Though years of political schmoozing have erased his physique, he’s still a commanding presence in any room.
But by far Donald’s most striking feature is his face—a face that can smile at you and gain your trust or with the same smile beat your esteem down. He’s the consummate politician blessed with the wholesome all-American good looks of a Kennedy.
Now as he smiles at his wife it’s definitely not full of warmth. His glittering eyes could equally be described as friendly or full of malice. Angela knows which one is real. Slowly she walks out of the room heading for the kitchen and a cup of coffee.
The dusk light reflects off the placid surface of Crater Lake, bathing the scene at the cave in an orange light. Long shadows stretch out to overcome
the light of day and herald the coming of night.
Hidden within one of those shadows a very interested pair of eyes watches as the body is at last brought out of the cave.
He’s been watching in secret since word spread around town like wildfire that a body had been found in one of the caves.
That clever SOB, he curses to himself. The one place in town that his men didn’t look for him is the one place he’s found. Maybe.
He has to be sure and for that he has to get closer.
Stepping out of the shadows he marches with a purposeful stride around the outside of the perimeter. Most of the commotion has died down by now. Only one officer and the medical examiner are left at the scene now.
Walking closer he finds cover behind the officer’s cruiser and perks his ears up to listen in to their conversation.
“Any idea what killed this guy?” the officer asks.
Shaking his head the M.E. answers “Not right now but I’ll know more at the post.”
The two of them are carrying between them the covered body on a stretcher, taking it to the back of the M.E.’s van.
Growling under his breath he knows that there is no way for him to get a clear look at the remains. Hastily moving away from the squad car he hears the officer call out to him.
“Hey! What are you doing here?”
Turning slightly he looks at the young man that has called after him. He’s not worried about being recognized as the setting sun is behind him silhouetting his face. A face that otherwise would be very recognizable in this town—Stillness doesn’t see many Arab men up close.
His swarthy complexion is pockmarked from countless scuffles and years of experiences. He has thin dark eyebrows above glittering brown eyes and a sharp nose. His black hair is cut short, flowing into a chinstrap beard that has begun to gray in places. It surrounds his angular lower face perfectly, giving him an air of menace.
His physique represents Eastern attitudes towards commitment and values. He is in exquisite shape and runs ten miles every morning before the sun has even come up.
“Hey wait!” the officer calls to him as he turns away. He knows that the officer won’t set the body down to give pursuit and by the time he reaches the van it will be too late.
He will be gone—just another shadow in the night.
From his pocket he removes a tiny cell phone and flips it open to dial a number he knows by heart.
“It’s Kazim,” he says after two rings “I have news.”
“Have you found Markov?” the voice on the other end asks.
“I’m almost certain that his body was found today in one of the caves outside of town.”
“Almost certain?” the voice questions.
“I couldn’t get a clear look, but if it is Markov it won’t take the authorities long to identify him.”
“How can you be sure they haven’t already?”
“There is only one cop here. If they knew it was Markov, the FBI would be here already. He must’ve ditched his identification.”
“You must find that identification,” the voice commands, “Go to his apartment and gather up all evidence linking him to us. You understand that there must be no trace left for the Feds to find.”
“I understand.”
“Are we responsible for his death?” the voice asks without any particular concern showing.
“They’re not sure what killed him. An autopsy has been scheduled.”
“Then if it killed him, they’ll find it. Be absolutely certain his apartment is clean.”
“It will be done tonight.”
Chapter 5
“Evening Jacob,” Clark says as the door to the station is opened.
“Clark.”
“How are things going over at The Sound?”
“Well,” Jacob says as he pulls back a chair to sit on in front of Clark’s desk, “To be honest I’ve spent the day running into roadblocks so to speak. Everywhere I turn for information I find none.”
Flashing his winning smile Clark sighs, “I’m sorry to say but I don’t think I’m going to be of much more help to you.”
“You must have something by now.”
“Well,” Clark spreads his hands out saying, “The victim had no identification on him and he wasn’t a local so we’re waiting on fingerprint analysis to give us a name. An autopsy has been scheduled to give us cause of death, though as of right Hyman doesn’t feel foul play was involved.”
“So what,” Jacob asks surprised “You think this guy just went out to the middle of nowhere to keel over dead?”
“It does happen Jacob, when your time’s up, your time’s up. None of us can know when that time is going to run out.”
“From what I hear he was down in that cave for awhile—living. What do the police attribute that behavior to?”
“Where do you hear that from?”
“You know me Clark,” Jacob smiles “I have my sources.”
Sources…right.
Clark carefully appraises the man in front of him. Underneath the wild, unkempt hair and behind the John Lennon glasses, is a formidable reporter. As the saying goes, he could find dirt in a snowstorm. But how does he do it?
With his reputation he may as well be a leper. The stories about what happened to him all those years ago are not exactly secret, and because of them no one in this small town would ever be seen talking to Jacob Castle. A reputation is indeed a hard thing to lose.
But for Clark the problem still remains—with what he knows, someone is obviously talking to him.
Rumors have been flying around the station house for months now that they have a leak—someone who’s funneling information to Jacob.
But who?
Clark does the roll call in his head of possible suspects. Given his intense distaste for the man there’s no way that Walt would be the leak. Adam is a young pup that’s so eager to please there’s no way he’d even be seen with Castle given the Sheriff’s well-known feelings.
Smith, Owens or Dodson are outside possibilities, but they lack the access to information that Jacob obviously has. And of course I know that the leak isn’t me. I’m friendly and all with Jacob, but I don’t step over that line of professional courtesy.
“Any chance this source has a name?” Clark asks fishing for information.
Jacob smiles in response. “You know I can’t tell you that Clark. But we both know my source is reliable, so how about it?”
“No comment at this time.”
“When can I expect some solid details for publication?”
Shrugging Clark answers, “As soon as we know, you’ll know.”
“Fair enough,” Jacob says, “Anything else going on I should know about?”
“I don’t know Jacob,” Clark jokes “With your sources maybe I should be asking you that question.”
Snapping his notebook shut Jacob fumbles with his capped pen, a nervous habit he displays when he has to broach an uncomfortable topic.
Lowering his voice he asks, “Off the record, is there any news on the Sullivan’s remains? Have they been found yet?”
Knowing of the complicated history between Jacob and the Sullivan family, Clark feels a pang of sympathy for the older man in front of him. He knows the question wasn’t easy to ask.
“Not yet, William has been less than cooperative.”
“That’s a little strange isn’t it?”
“Everything about that case is a little strange. I mean who robs their own parents’ grave?”
“Well, well, well, look who we have here.”
Jacob recognizes the rough voice of the sheriff immediately and without looking over at him he says, “Evening Sheriff. I was just finishing up here.”
Hitching his pants up slightly, Walt sneers, “Don’t leave on my account Castle.”
Standing up Jacob reaches across the desk and shakes Clark’s hand as he says, “I’m not. I have to get back to the office and prepare the morning edition. Thanks for your time Clark.”<
br />
“Don’t let me hold you up then Castle. You know how much I anticipate the morning paper,” Jacob waits for Walt to finish his little joke, “My wife’s canary can’t seem to shit unless the bottom of his cage is properly lined.”
They exchange a brief glance before Jacob turns away and heads for the door.
“Before you leave Castle,” Walt smiles a sick grin as he ridicules him, “You sure you wouldn’t like to visit little William. Maybe see how well he’s grown up without his parents?”
Despite himself the blow lands right on top of Jacob’s heart. Biting his bottom lip he looks down before slowly leaving the station to the harsh sound of Sheriff Walt Anjou laughing under his breath.
“Why do you insist on doing that?”
Walt stops his laughing and focuses his demeaning stare on his deputy. “You’re too nice to that asshole Clark. You didn’t know the Sullivan’s so I wouldn’t expect you to understand that the way I treat him is the way he deserves to be treated.”
With that said Walt grabs a folder off the corner of the desk and waddles his way towards the back of the building and interrogation room two.
Tyler Perry blinks in the harsh light of the room. His right wrist is shackled to the metal ring embedded in the scarred wooden desk. Putting his left hand to his temples he struggles to control the pounding in his head.
“Are you all right?”
He looks beside him at the public defender assigned to his case. The man is young—not much older than him—and knowing the system of public defense well enough, Tyler knows that this man doesn’t represent a top notch lawyer.
“I just have a headache,” Tyler answers softly. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything I could take for it would you?”
The door to the room opens before the lawyer can answer, admitting the wide bulk of the sheriff. Immediately the lawyer stands up and extends his hand in greeting, “Sheriff Anjou, allow me to introduce myself, my name’s Gregory Ames from the Iowa Public Defenders Office. I’ll be handling Mr. Perry’s case.”
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