There’s something about being in a prison visitor area, speaking over a wired phone and through tempered glass to a man you’d only known in one specific setting. Zeke Rogers looked so removed from his previous career as hardware store owner, that it took me a long moment to gather my thoughts.

Normally, he’d have been wearing a pearl snap shirt, his white hair gelled or pomaded back from his high, tan forehead. Instead, he was garbed in the orange uniform of a prisoner, someone trusted into the not-so-tender care of the state of Colorado. He’d been a free man practically all his life, but with one turn of events he’d ended up here, talking to the private investigator that was probably his only hope of making it home in less than five to seven years.

“Guess my girl got you signed on, then,” Zeke said with a solemn nod, the red phone pressed against his ear. “She not coming in with you?”

I shook my head. “Rebecca wanted to stay in the waiting area,” I said into the phone on my side of the glass. I glanced down at the yellow legal pad I’d brought in for note-taking, at the short list of questions I’d just driven over four hours to ask.

“Good. She don’t need to see me like this. Nothing quite like the color orange to make a man look pathetic.”

Or guilty, I mentally added. Not that he was guilty. I didn’t believe that for a second. But there was something to be said about the assumed lack of innocence that a man was bestowed with when he was locked up behind prison bars and forced to wear a jumpsuit.

“Lawyer tell you why I’m here?”

“Said you needed to ask me a bunch of questions. Background stuff. That about the right of it?”

“Just about.”

“Well, ask away, young man. Ask away, and I hope my answers are helpful.”

I went through, in detail, what we’d already done on his case, including imaging his home computer to see if he’d researched anything, and talking to both Derrick and Chief Beckett.

“My computer?” he asked, giving me a look like I was one queer duck.

“Look, Zeke, I’m going to be honest. I don’t think you did it, okay? Mainly because I don’t think you’d know how to do it. That little time-delayed device in the back of your shop? That’s not exactly an idea that just pops into your head. We need to put some doubt in the jury’s mind about the source of that device, and whether or not you could have done it.”

“So you’re searching my computer?”

“Well, if you had been researching arson, you don’t exactly strike me as the type to clear your search history.”

“My search history? What’s that?” Zeke asked, proving my point exactly.

“Your browser history. All the websites that you’ve gone to for the last year or so.”

“Computers save that shit?”

“Yeah. You didn’t know that?”

“Damn.”

“What do you mean?”

He furrowed his brows a little and sucked air through his top front teeth. “Yeah, about my browsing history, or whatever…”

“What is it, Zeke?”

He didn’t reply at first.

I frowned. “Zeke, if it’s something that’s going to affect the case, I need to know now. Is there something on the computer that the cops won’t like if they find it?”

“No, goddammit, ain’t nothing that’s going to screw up your damn case. Just, you know, don’t let Becks see my history, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”

I cleared my throat. The look in his eyes, one of fear and embarrassment gave me an idea of why he was nervous about us looking through his hard drive. I tried not to chuckle. “Big booty hoes or something?”

He twisted his mouth to the side. “Something. Not exactly that, but goddammit, what a man does in his spare time, well that’s my private, personal business.”

“Yeah,” I said, leaning back down to my legal pad, “I get it. So, let’s get to the case, shall we? Now that we’ve got your dirty laundry out in the open?”

“Well, I’m an open book. Let’s get started.”

“Tell me about the guy who came by your place a few weeks before it was burned. To start with, do you remember the date?”

He shook his head. “Not the exact one, no. Ain’t kept a diary or journal since I was a teenager.”

“No notes or anything?”

He shrugged. “Never thought I’d need. I pulled the shotgun on his ass, and he skated right out the door with both hands high in the air.”

“Can you tell me about him? Did you get a name?”

He pouted out his lips a little and shook his head. “Nah, no name.”

“What’d he look like?” I asked. I didn’t want to give him an idea of the description I’d gotten from Roy the night before at the Elk in case I tainted his memory. Instead, I wanted him to give it fully formed so I could put it down in my notes.

“Medium height, average build. Wearing a black coat, think it was wool or something. Shortish hair, combed back and greased–”

“Like yours?”

“No, shorter. Shaved on the sides all high and tight, like they did in the military.”

I nodded. “Go on.”

“Thin little lips, like a weasely little bastard. Big old gap in his teeth.”

I circled the last bit of description, which I’d been transcribing. “Got it. Go on.”

“That’s really about it, Matt. I mean, guy was only in the shop for a few minutes. Long enough to offer me his little insurance policy, and long enough for me to get pissed off and pull Betsy on him.”

“Betsy?”

“My shotty.”

“Right.” I made a note. Betsy = Shotgun. “Who else could have it out for you?”

He shrugged. “Not much else that I can think of. I mean, I’ve lived in the Rock damn near my whole life. Tried to be an honest person. You think someone else could have had a grudge?”

“Just trying to clear out any other possibilities or come up with any other leads. I spoke to Gilbert Beckett. He mentioned you and he used to be friends.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “used to be. All that went by the wayside years ago, though. Man found Jesus after his sinning ways.”

“Told me you forced him into it, though. That kind of thing might stick with a man, even years later.”

“You really think Gil would be willing to risk burning down his town just to get back at me?” He laughed. “I don’t think so. Doesn’t sound like the Gil I know. Not now. He’s all wrapped up with his church, and ain’t got no designs on anything but making it in on Sunday. Can’t miss that potluck.”

“No one else, then?”

He shook his head. “Not off the top of my head. Reckon there could be someone, but if they had a personal beef with me it was from years ago, and Lord knows I ain’t aware of it.”

I tapped my pen against the legal pad, and looked at the description he’d given me of Reggie the Gap.

“That enough?” he asked after a long moment of me staring at the page.

“I think so. If you think of anything else, let your lawyer know. Frost Security is in touch with his office, and they’ll pass along any information you have.”

He nodded, a look of resignation coming over his face. “What chances do you reckon I have on coming out of this?”

“To be honest, I think we have a case here. The investigation by Sheriff Peak wasn’t thorough, and there were several stones he left unturned during the course of it, enough that we can muddy the water if it goes to trial.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Well, last thing I want is for this to go to trial. In my mind, it’s better for us to find the people that really did this to you, the people responsible for burning your store down. That way there’s no doubt as to your innocence or guilt. You put all this in front of a jury, and point to some shadowy figure as the culprit, you start to play with chances and lawyers and judges. And none of that can end up well. A good district attorney can run rings around you without you even knowing it, and the criminal justice system doesn’t exactly look out for the little guy. Then, of course, there’re the legal fees you’re going to be stuck with. And the longer it drags on, the more your lawyer gets out of you.”

He nodded along with me. “I see your point. It is better we don’t go to trial.”

“Exactly. Now all I need to do is prove you’re innocent.”

“That’s all?” he asked, a frown creasing his face. “Got any suspects?”

“One in particular. Gonna stop by and have a little chat with him on the way back to the Rock, in fact.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Simple.”

Boy, was I wrong.