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.
Knox said, “Guess Sara didn’t sign in.”
“Have you known her long?”
“She looked after my kids until she left town. How long have you known her?”
Will noticed a subtle change in the man’s anger. “Not long.”
“Looked like you knew her plenty well, sitting in the car with her for an hour like that in front of the hospital.”
Will hoped he didn’t look as surprised as he felt. He had forgotten how insular and incestuous small towns could be. He pressed his luck. “She’s a lovely woman.”
Knox puffed out his chest. He was at least six inches shorter than Will, obviously trying to make up for it with bravado. “Jeffrey Tolliver was the finest man I ever worked with.”
“His reputation is well known in Atlanta. It was out of respect for him that my boss sent me down here to look after his people.”
Knox narrowed his eyes, and Will realized the patrolman could take his words in many different ways, not least of all as a sign that Will planned to go light on the investigation out of respect for Jeffrey Tolliver. This seemed to relax Knox, so Will did not correct him.
Knox said, “Sara just gets a little hot under the collar sometimes. Real emotional.”
Will would hardly describe Sara as someone ruled by her emotions. He didn’t trust his ability to pull off a cliché like “Women!” He simply nodded and shrugged at the same time, as if to say, “What are you gonna do?”
Knox kept staring at him, trying to make up his mind. “All right, then,” he finally said. He used a plastic card to open the last door. His keys were still in his hand, and he jangled them as he walked. “This’n’s a drunk sleeping it off. Came in about an hour ago.” He indicated the next cell. “Meth head. He’s coming down hard. Last time we tried to wake him, he near about knocked somebody’s teeth out.”
“What about door number three?” Will asked.
“Wife beater.”
“I am not!” came a muffled shout from behind the door.
Knox silently nodded to Will. “Third time he’s been locked up for it. She won’t testify—”
“Goddamn right!” the man screamed.
“He’s covered in his own puke, so I’m gonna have to hose him down if you wanna talk to him.”
“I hate to ask …” Will shrugged. “It might help expedite this so we can all get back to our lives. My wife’s gonna kill me if I’m not home for the holiday.”
“Know whatcha mean.” Knox motioned Will to the next cell. The door was open. “This is it.”
Tommy Braham’s blood had been cleaned up, but the red stain on the concrete floor told the story. His feet would have been toward the door, head back. Maybe he was lying on his side, arm out in front of him. Will guessed from the circumference of the stain that Tommy had not just stopped at one wrist. He had cut open both to make sure the job was done right.
Will stepped into the cell, feeling a slight sense of claustrophobia. He took in the cinder-block-lined walls, the metal bed frame with its thin mattress. The toilet and sink were built as one stainless steel unit. The bowl looked clean, but the smell of sewage was pungent. Beside the sink was a toothbrush, a metal cup, and a small tube of toothpaste like the kind you’d get at a hotel. Will wasn’t superstitious, but he was keenly aware that Tommy Braham had, in his misery, taken his life here less than eight hours ago. The feel of his death still lingered.
“‘Not me,’” Knox said.
Will turned around, wondering what he meant.
Knox nodded toward the faded wall. “That’s what he wrote. ‘Not me.’” He took on a knowing tone. “If it wasn’t you, buddy, then why’d you kill yourself?”
Will had never found it useful to ask dead men to explain their motivations, so he threw the question back to Knox. “Why do you think he kept insisting he didn’t kill Allison Spooner?”
“Told you.” Knox touched the side of his head. “Not right up here.”
“Crazy?”
“Nah, just stupider than shit.”
“Too stupid to know how to kill somebody?”
“Hell, I wish there was such a thing. Wouldn’t have to keep such a close eye on the wife during that time of month.” He gave a loud laugh, and Will forced himself to join in, pushing away thoughts of Tommy lying on the floor of this cell, slicing and slicing the ink cartridge across his wrist, trying to draw blood. How long would it take before the flesh opened? Would the skin get hot from the friction? Would the metal ink cartridge start to get warm? How long would it take for enough blood to leave his body so that his heart stopped?
Will turned back to the faded letters on the wall. He didn’t want to break this new, if false, camaraderie with Knox. “Did you know Allison Spooner?”
“She worked at the diner. All of us knew her.”
“What was she like?”
“Good girl. Got the plates out fast. Didn’t stand around yapping too much.” He looked down at the floor, shaking his head. “She was good-lookin’, too. I guess that’s what caught Tommy’s eye. Poor thing. She probably thought he was harmless.”
“Did she have any friends? A boyfriend?”
“I guess it was just Tommy. Never saw anybody else around her.” He shrugged. “Not like I was paying attention. Wife don’t like it when my eye wanders.”
“Did you see Tommy at the diner a lot?”
Knox shook his head. Will could see his compliance was waning.
“Can I talk to the wife beater?”
“I didn’t touch her!” the prisoner screamed back, slamming his hand against the cell door.
“Thin walls,” Will noted. Knox was leaning against the door, arms crossed. His shirt pocket was bunched up, a silver pen clipped to the material. “Hey, can I borrow your pen?”
Knox touched the clip. “Sorry, this’n’s the only one I got.”
Will recognized the Cross logo. “Nice.”
“Chief Tolliver gave ’em to us the Christmas before he passed.”
“All of you?” Knox nodded. Will gave a low whistle. “That must’ve been expensive.”
“They sure ain’t cheap.”
“It takes a special cartridge, right? A metal one?”
Knox opened his mouth to respond, then caught himself.
Will asked, “Who else got one?”
Knox’s lip curled up in a sneer. “Fuck you.”
“That’s all right. I can ask Sara about it when I see her later.”
Knox stood up straight, blocking the door. “You better
be careful, Agent Trent. Last guy who was in this cell didn’t end up too well.”
Will smiled. “I think I can take care of myself.”
“That a fact?”
Will forced a grin. “I hope so, because you seem to be threatening me.”
“You think?” Knox banged on the open cell door. “You hear that, Ronny? Mr. GBI here says I’m threatening him.”
“What’s that, Larry?” the wife beater shouted back. “I can’t hear nothing through these thick walls. Not a goddamn thing.”
WILL SAT IN the interrogation room, trying to breathe through his mouth as he stared at the photocopied pages Sara had given him. Officer Knox had rescinded his offer to hose down the wife beater. Will had endured the man’s stench for twenty minutes before giving up on interrogating him. In Atlanta, Ronny Porter would have sung his way to freedom, giving Will any information he had in order to get out of jail. Small towns were different. Instead of trying to cop a plea, Porter had defended every officer in the building. He’d even waxed poetic on Marla Simms, who apparently used to be his Sunday school teacher.
Will spread out the files, trying to put them into some sort of order. Tommy Braham’s confession was handwritten, the copy dark from the yellow paper. He set that aside. The police report was like every form Will had ever handled at the GBI. Boxes provided space for dates, times, weather, and other details of the crime, to be written in by hand. The suicide note had caught the light from the copier, the letters blurring.
There were two other pages that were photocopies of notepaper from a small pad, the sort of thing most cops carried in their back pocket. Four sheets of the smaller paper had been lined up to fit on one copied page. In all, there were eight pages that had been torn from the notepad. Will studied the positioning. He could see faint marks where the lined paper had been taped to a bigger sheet for copying. Instead of jagged edges at the top where the paper had been ripped from the spiral, there was a clean line as if someone had used scissors to cut them out. This he found strangest of all—not just because cops didn’t tend to be neat, but because he had never in his career known a police officer to tear pages out of their notebook.
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