Dead to Rights by Jack Patterson (fiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

footfalls grew louder until the door behind the receptionist area swung open. A uniformed deputy hung his head as he entered the room.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Mrs. Rollins’ cat got stuck in a tree again, and you know how she can be,” the deputy said without looking up.

“Actually, we don’t,” Cal said.

The deputy looked up, his eyes widening.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought—”

“It’s okay,” Cal said. “We’re clearly not from around here, are we? Mrs. Rollins must be quite a character.”

“Yeah, a character who doesn’t know how to keep her cats inside her house.”

Another man entered the room through the door behind the receptionist desk.

“Give her a break, Tillman. She’s eighty-two years old and doesn’t have anyone to help her,” he said before turning to face Cal and Kelly.

“I’m sorry,” Tillman said. “I didn’t mean anything by it and—”

“Tillman, that’s enough. Go on back and finish up the paperwork. I’ll help this nice young couple.”

Tillman scurried behind the door and pulled it shut behind him.

“Now,” said the other officer, “what can I do for you two?”

Cal offered his hand. “Cal Murphy, Seattle Times. This is my wife, Kelly. We were wondering if we could speak with Sheriff Sloan.”

The man spread his arms wide and grinned.

“You got him, in the flesh,” Sloan boomed, his deep voice echoing in the room. “Let me be one of the first people to welcome you to Pickett.” He then eyed them carefully. “Unless you’ve been here before . . . and in that case—”

“This is our first time,” Kelly said.

“And as you might well imagine, we’re not here as tourists.”

Sloan put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I never assume such things here. You might be here to report a stolen car or wallet. Or you misplaced some camping equipment in the swamp and don’t know where to turn.” He paused. “Or maybe you saw the Marsh Monster.”

“We aren’t here for any of those reasons,” Cal said dryly.

“Then how can I help you?”

“We want to talk with you about Isaiah Drake.”

Immediately, Sloan’s affable demeanor turned cold and distant.

“That was a long time ago, and I really don’t have much to say about it.”

Cal took a deep breath. “I know it’s a painful topic to you and—”

Sloan banged both fists on the counter. “You know it’s painful? You know it’s painful? Have you ever had to scoop up your daughter’s lifeless and bloody body and put it into a bag? If you haven’t, you have no idea how painful that was for me.”

“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I didn’t mean to—”

“To what? Offend me? I’m not offended by any question about my daughter, but I sure as hell ain’t interested in talkin’ about it.”

“I understand, but it’d be helpful for me if you could,” Cal said softly. “There are a lot of people who don’t know or don’t remember the details around that night. And I’d rather get it straight from the source than rehash articles from over a decade ago. I’m just trying to do my job well, sir. And to my knowledge, your side of the story’s never been told.”

“Who wants to hear what a grieving, bitter old man has to say about his dead daughter?”

“You’d be surprised. It might even help people who are going through the same thing right now. It’s not necessarily about getting people to pity you.”

Sloan exhaled and glanced upward for a moment. “Fine. I guess I’ll answer a few questions for you.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. We really appreciate it,” Kelly said.

Sloan motioned for them to follow him behind the reception area and toward his office. The rest of the department was filled with open desks, most of them arranged so neatly that Cal doubted they were ever occupied.

Once they reached Sloan’s office, the only one with a door, he slumped into the chair behind his desk and gestured for Cal and Kelly to sit across from him. Stacks of paper cluttered Sloan’s desk. On the file cabinet behind him, several stained coffee mugs sat atop another mound of papers, which were also surrounded by wadded up cigarette packs and Snickers wrappers. Directly behind Sloan was a framed panoramic picture of Jordan-Hare Stadium, captured moments before the kickoff of a night game. A well-worn blue Auburn baseball cap sat on the corner of his desk.

“War Eagle,” Cal said in an attempt to loosen up the sheriff.

“War Damn Eagle,” Sloan responded. “Just because you know the saying doesn’t mean you know how to say it.”

“It’s not my alma mater, but I know a little bit about life on the plains from when I lived in the south,” Cal said.

“You used to write for the Atlanta paper, didn’t you?”

Cal nodded.

“I thought I recognized your name.” Sloan pulled a cigarette pack out of his desk and tapped the package against the palm of his hand. One of the cigarettes tumbled onto his desk, and he put it on his lips before fumbling through his desk drawers.

“Where’s that lighter at?” Sloan mumbled.

Kelly reached onto Sloan’s desk and grabbed it.

“Here it is, Sheriff,” she said.

He took it from her and smiled. “I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached to my neck.” He flicked the lighter, and the cigarette crackled to life. After a long drag, Sloan threw his head back and blew a lungful of smoke into the air.

“Hope you don’t mind if I smoke,” Sloan said, thumping the cigarette against the ash tray.

Cal shook his head. “By all means.”

Sloan grinned. “We don’t have all those stiflin’ regulations you big city folk have. If a man wants to smoke at his work and no one objects, he can smoke at his work.”

“Well, where should we begin as it relates to the night of May 7, 2004?” Cal asked, sliding his digital recorder onto the edge of Sloan’s desk.

Sloan eyed the recorder and folded his arms. He leaned back in his chair and looked upward as if pensive about Cal’s question.

“I was workin’ the overnight shift, and it was relatively uneventful. I think we had