Chapter 11

11

M aking a beeline for the coffee machine, she slid her money into the slot and pushed the button to get a double shot of espresso in her very black, as close to mud as she could get it, cup of coffee. Getting to her desk, she set her cup on the desk and plopped into her chair. Leaning back as far as she could and stretching her arms over her head, she groaned aloud when the unmistakable scent of smoky Applewood and the air after a summer rain hit her nose.

Still stretched backward, she turned her head to the side and as Rafe Kiss-her-butt O’Rhordan stopped at the corner of her desk, she scoffed, “Can you not take a hint?”

“Oh, I take hints very well.” He gave her the same Ta-Da motion with his hands that a Magician who was entertaining a kid’s birthday party would give as he went on, “That’s why I’m here.” With a wink, he topped off his grand entrance by picking up her coffee, taking a huge gulp then adding, “Let’s go talk to those suspects.”

On her feet and grabbing the cup the bane of her existence had just set on her desk as quick as her exhausted body could move, she stopped in front of the man she knew to be Maximillian Prentice and held out her hand. “Guess Lunkhead has no manners.” She spoke just loud enough to ensure Rafe heard every word as she went on, “Name’s Donatella Hale, but everyone here calls me Hale. Family calls me Nat.”

Gently taking her hand and kissing the back of it, he looked up through his impossibly thick, long lashes and winked. Standing back to his full height which was maybe an inch shorter than Rafe, Max’s accent wrapped around her like a blanket fresh out of the dryer as he demurred, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Detective Hale.” Letting go of her hand as he stepped back, Max added, “You are every bit as lovely as Angelique described you.”

“You really do know Nona, huh?” Shaking her head as she picked up her leather portfolio and the cheap Bic pen she chewed on more than wrote with, she added, “That woman never ceases to amaze me.”

“She has that effect on all of us.” Max’s chuckled reply made Nat smile, but not as much as the frown on Rafe’s face or the way he slid behind her.

Leading two of the handsomest men in existence past the Dispatchers – most of whom were female – Nat just smiled and waved as they ooh’d and aah’d. Stopping in front of Interview Room One where the Desk Sargent had put Malcolm Navetti, Nat stopped with her hand on the knob and looked over her shoulder. “Now, you two are observers.” Looking at Max, she added, “And you just got a demotion, King .” She emphasized his title then added a wink. “You are also a Special Agent.”

Opening the door even though she could feel that Rafe wanted to say something, she walked straight to the table sitting in the middle of the windowless, block-walled room and eyed the suspect as she slammed her portfolio onto the Formica top. Pulling out her chair, sure to make as much noise as possible because it unnerved Wilson Freeman.

Wondering exactly how many times Wilson had been interviewed by the police for one thing or another since he was old enough to walk, Nat opened her folder, shifted her papers and sighed. Waiting for Rafe to take a seat and Max to get comfortable standing in the corner, she looked up at the forty-three-year-old who looked like he was pushing seventy from years of alcohol and drug abuse coupled with working in the sun, and deadpanned, “Do you even know why you’re here, Wilson?”

Wringing his hands as his eyes darted from her to Rafe to Max and then back to her, he shook his head. “No ma’am. I just came cause y’all called.”

Well, at least his momma taught him manners.

“Alright, let’s start here.” She pulled out several pieces of paper on which she’d copied the last eighteen months. Pointing to the first date circled in red – March, 29, 2017, she asked, “Where were you on this date?”

Glancing at the paper and then up at her with an expression that was completely and totally blank, he shrugged, “I dunno. That’s been ‘long time ago.”

“Can you try? Maybe think about it a minute?”

Unable to look away as he squinted his eyes and look at a spot somewhere over her left shoulder, she had to wonder how he’d ever gotten dressed let alone ‘allegedly’ burglarize forty-some homes, shoot his own brother to keep the bastard from beating their mom to death, and cook enough meth to hide nearly a million dollars in mason jars in every backyard he and his kin owned. One thing was for sure, he was crazy like a fox, and if he’d killed these girls, she would be the one to finally put Wilson Freeman behind bars.

Hell, somebody oughta catch this butthead for somethin’ or the other…

“How about these dates?” She pushed the papers across the table. “Any of them? Can you remember what you were doin’ on any of those days?”

“Well, I reckon since it’s a bunch of Wednesdays, that I was down to the Farmer’s Market in the morning, feeding the pigs in the afternoon then off to eat Fried Chicken at the Elks Lodge.”

Ready to move onto the next, promising herself to kick Fitz in the shins the next time she saw him for pulling Wilson in, Nat asked, “Just for shits and giggles, do any of these names mean anything to you?” Staring right into his eyes, she named off, “Jean Smith, Pat Borders, Tina Reilly, Mae Masters, Dorothy James, or Misty Blake.”

With every name she mentioned Wilson’s eyes grew bigger with horror in their milky green depths. No sooner was the last name out of her mouth than he frantically shook his head and adamantly denied, “No way. No way, Detective Hale. We Freemans got our issues, but we don’t kill little girls and take out their innards. That’s…that’s…that’s just, well, unchristian and demonic.”

“Okay, okay, calm down, Wilson.” The earbud in her ear squawked to life as Officer Billingsley reported, “There’s nothing here but dirty clothes and eight years of old TV Guides and National Geographics. You want us to keep searchin’, Detective?”

“Naw, go on to the next,” she answered, not surprised that Wilson wasn’t the killer. For one thing, he really didn’t have the heart for out and out murder and secondly, she got nothing from him but image after image of him drunk on the couch with his hand down his pants.

Getting up, she nodded in his direction. “You can go, Wilson. Thanks for comin’ in.”

“Yes, ma’am, Detective Hale.”

Walking out of the room and straight for the Ladies’ Room, she stopped and turned towards Rafe and Max. “I promise the next two will at least give us a good show.”