37
WHITESIDE CROSSED THE street from the town hall where the search effort was now being coordinated. The jangle of telephones still sounded in his ears, the lines set alight by that half-million dollar reward. Outside, the town seemed ghostly empty now the press had slipped away. He imagined them all in the motel over in Gutteridge, cheap as it was, getting some rest. Fatigue had begun to eat at the edges of his mind, and if he thought for a moment he would be able to sleep, he would go home right now and climb into bed. He might have tried anyway, except Mitchell had called his cell and demanded he go back to the station.
He had called and texted Collins several times, but she had not replied since she left to go up to the cabin. The idea that something had gone wrong capered around his mind, but he did his best to ignore it. Worry wouldn’t do him any good.
The station was quiet, the senior state cops having gone to their homes. The whole thing had a sense of winding down now, an acceptance that the children were gone, and that was that. He could see it in the cops’ and the feds’ faces.
All except Mitchell, who looked like she never gave up on anything.
She waited with that asshole Showalter down by the interview room. He nodded when she waved him over. Her lackey Abrahms sat at a desk, his laptop open in front of him. He watched Whiteside as he approached.
‘What do you need?’ Whiteside asked. ‘I was thinking about going home and getting some rest.’
Mitchell opened the door to the interview room, let it swing open, room enough for him to step past her and through. Whiteside looked from the door to Mitchell to Showalter and back to her.
‘What?’
‘Just a few minutes of your time,’ Mitchell said. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘You’re going to interview me?’ he said, pointing at the open door. ‘You serious?’
‘A few questions, that’s all.’
Whiteside looked to Showalter, who shrugged, what are you gonna do?
‘All right,’ Whiteside said, giving Mitchell a smile. ‘But let’s make it quick. My bed’s calling to me.’
He sat at the table while Mitchell messed with the video camera, and he realized what Abrahms had been doing with the laptop.
‘You going to send this down to the behavioral fella in Phoenix?’
‘That’s right,’ Mitchell said.
‘And exactly what kind of behavior will he be looking for?’
Mitchell came to the table, sat down, arranged her notebook and pen. ‘Oh, nothing in particular. Just routine. You understand.’
‘Sure, I understand. Did your behavioral fella have anything to say about your interviews with Mrs Kinney?’
‘Yes, his report came back this afternoon.’
‘And?’
‘Mrs Kinney believes what she’s saying.’
Whiteside was about to argue, but Mitchell raised a hand.
‘Please state your name and position, for the record.’
Whiteside held her stare. ‘My name is Ronald Whiteside, Elder County Sheriff. Mrs Kinney might believe this nonsense she’s talking, but even setting aside the physical evidence found in her car, you and I both know Mrs Kinney is batshit crazy.’
‘Mrs Kinney’s state of mind is open for debate, Sheriff, but she has been consistent in her version of events from the first time I questioned her.’
Whiteside gave Showalter a wink. ‘So she’s consistently crazy.’
Showalter smirked.
‘Let’s take this seriously, Sheriff,’ Mitchell said.
‘Oh, I’m taking it seriously, believe me. I’ve been taking it seriously since before you showed up, with your good suit and your camera. Now go on and ask whatever it is you need to ask, so I can get out of here.’
Mitchell turned to a fresh page in her notebook.
‘Where did you first encounter Mrs Kinney?’
‘In the parking lot at the general store out on the County Road, about five miles before the turn to Silver Water. I was sitting there in my cruiser, drinking coffee from my Thermos, when she pulled in. She got out of the car and looked all around. She noticed me, and that appeared to rattle her somewhat.’
‘How so?’
‘She was trying real hard to look casual, if you know what I mean. Look, I told you all this two days ago.’
‘Not on camera. So you felt she looked nervous at your presence.’
‘Right. Like she didn’t want to see a cop. So while she was in the store, I drove around the back, waited for her to come out and drive away. That way I could follow her and look for any problems with the car or how she was driving it. So happened the car was overloaded, so I pulled her in for that reason.’
‘And how was Mrs Kinney when you approached her?’
‘Skittish,’ Whiteside said. ‘Like a deer that knows you got your sight on it.’
‘And how was your manner?’
‘Polite, casual, friendly. Like I always am.’
He imagined the conversation, the woman in the driver’s seat, her hands on the wheel.
‘At that time, did you notice the booster seat in the rear of the car?’
He pictured it, empty.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Didn’t you think it strange to see the booster seat, but no child?’
‘Not really,’ Whiteside said. ‘Plenty of times a parent goes out without their kids, they don’t take the seats out of the car.’
‘In a car with New York plates,’ Mitchell said. ‘You thought it was normal for someone to drive all the way from New York State with a child’s booster seat in the back, but no child.’
‘Not right at that second, but later, yes, I—’
‘Did you ask Mrs Kinney about the seat? Or the child or children that weren’t there?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t. No one mentioned children until after I put her in the cell back there. That’s when she asked me where they were.’
‘And what was your response?’
Whiteside tried to read her. Nothing. He wondered what cards she held.
‘I said, “What children?” She started to get worked up at that point, so I let her be for a while, hoping she’d calm down. When I came back later, we talked, and I explained there were no children in her car when I pulled her over. That’s when she assaulted me, as you saw on the CCTV footage. After that, I started enquiring with the authorities about these children. And that’s about when you invited yourself along.’
‘Where was Deputy Collins at this time?’
‘Out on patrol. She does a circuit of the town and the surrounding roads. Basic traffic stuff. Then she went home, as far as I know. She lives with her mother and her little boy out on Ridge Road. Will you be questioning Collins also?’
‘I haven’t been able to reach her,’ Mitchell said. ‘Any idea how I might get a hold of her?’
He looked at his wristwatch. ‘She’s off duty by now. Friday night. She’s relaxing with a beer or a glass of wine, if she’s got any sense. Could be she switched off her cell.’
Mitchell turned a page. ‘Let’s talk about Mrs Kinney’s version of events.’
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘While we’re at it, let’s talk about how the moon landings were faked. Or how 9/11 was an inside job.’
Mitchell didn’t drop a beat. ‘Mrs Kinney is adamant that when you pulled her over, her children Sean and Louise were in the backseat. She says you spoke with them, including admonishing the boy to get back into the car. She also states that you radioed for Deputy Collins to come get the children, to keep them safe while you dealt with their mother. You helped Deputy Collins get the children into the back of her car and, once she drove away, that was the last she saw of them.’
Whiteside waited for more, but got only Mitchell’s needle stare.
When it was clear she would offer no more, he said, ‘Yeah, that’s her story. Doesn’t matter how many times you tell it, doesn’t make it true. According to this woman’s husband, she’s been unstable for years. God knows what kind of fantasies she has in that head of hers. It’s nonsense, all of it. Me and Collins stole her children. I mean, what in the hell for? Did you ever hear such a thing?’
Mitchell smiled a cold smile. ‘Actually, I have. Just this evening.’
He looked from Mitchell to Showalter, who shrugged, then back to Mitchell.
‘What?’ he said. ‘Quit fucking with me, Mitchell.’
Her smile sharpened. ‘I was told an interesting tale earlier. About a man whose wife drove off with their little girl. The wife got stopped by a small-town cop and arrested on some trumped-up charge. When the wife asked after the welfare of her little girl, the cop said, “What little girl? You were alone when I stopped you.” Sound familiar?’
He pictured the man in the diner this afternoon, the man who ordered another sandwich to go, the man who said he knew what Whiteside had done.
‘So someone else thought up the same story. So what? Let me guess, was this story told by a Chinese gentleman?’
‘An Asian-American man, yes, that’s right. What might also sound familiar is that the assumption of guilt fell on the mother. Everyone was convinced she had harmed her child somewhere between leaving home and being stopped by the police officer.’
‘This is a big country,’ Whiteside said. ‘There must be hundreds of thousands of traffic stops every day. And how many missing children? And out of all those missing children – you should know this – out of those children, how many times does it turn out that a parent hurt them? So you got a similar story from another whack job. One crazy attracts another crazy. Bet you’ve seen that before too.’
Mitchell did not drop that goddamn smile, like she held all the secrets of the world behind her teeth. Whiteside concentrated all his effort on keeping his face blank, mild annoyance at the intrusion, nothing more.
‘There were some interesting details, though,’ she said.
Whiteside wanted to slap the smile from her face. ‘Such as?’ he asked.
‘You’ve heard of the Dark Web, yes?’
‘I think so,’ he said, shrugging. ‘It’s like the back streets of the Internet. They share kiddie porn there, at least that’s what I’ve heard.’
‘Among other things,’ Mitchell said. ‘Child pornography, snuff films, illegal software, hacking tools, anything one might want to discuss in secret with like-minded others. Any sort of illegal activity, really. People arrange the sale of drugs and weapons, even organize contract killings. And in one dirty little corner, so I’m told, a group of very wealthy men uses corrupt law-enforcement officers to procure children.’
Whiteside’s mouth dried, his tongue clinging to the roof of his mouth. A cold bead of sweat took a slow course down his back. But he kept his face blank, not a blink, not a twitch. If he allowed a tell, no matter how slight, he might as well put his pistol to his head right here and now. He rolled spit around his mouth, freed his tongue, and said, ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that. Sounds like a nasty business.’
‘It is,’ Mitchell said. ‘I don’t suppose you’d volunteer to hand over all computers, tablets, and smartphones to my colleague, Special Agent Abrahms, for inspection?’
Another drop of sweat. And a twitch. Below his left eye, he felt it like an angel’s touch. And Mitchell saw it too, her eyes flicking toward it and away again.
‘You suppose right,’ he said. ‘You want to search anything of mine, you show me a warrant. Now, I think I’ve had about enough of this conversation. I need some sleep, and I’m going home to get it. You want to question me further, you put me under arrest and do it with a lawyer present.’
He got to his feet, kicked the chair away, walked to the door, and said, ‘Goodnight to you both.’
Out in the office, the glow of the laptop’s display reflected on Abrahms’ boyish face. He wore earphones, scribbled on a notepad. Whiteside resisted the urge to slap the pen out of his hand and tear up the notes. Instead, he marched to the men’s room, kicked the door open, slammed it closed behind him.
Inside, he passed the urinal and entered the single stall, locked himself in.
‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Fucking goddamn shit motherfucker.’
Tremors erupted from his core, out to his arms and legs, his hands quivering. He put a knuckle between his teeth and bit down hard, seeking the clarity it would bring, but none came. His lungs expanded and contracted, air ripping in and out of him, as if some giant hand pumped his chest. A constellation of black stars in his vision, his head seeming to float somewhere above his shoulders. His lungs going harder, faster, his heart running to keep up.
Panic attack.
I’m having a panic attack, he thought.
He dropped down onto the toilet seat, hands either side of the stall to keep himself upright.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Jesus Christ.’
He bent over, put his head between his knees. Breathe, he told himself. Breathe. Inhale through the nose, one-two-three-four, hold, one-two-three-four-five-six-seven, out through the mouth, one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight. Over and over, in, hold, out.
Eventually, the world levelled off enough that he could lift his head away from the odor of ancient urine and excrement. Another minute or two and he could breathe almost normally. One more, and he could get back to his feet.
Whiteside dug in his pocket for his cell. He hesitated, knowing he shouldn’t use his main phone, he should use the burner, but there was no time. For the fifth time that evening, he called Collins. He listened to the dial tone, certain she wouldn’t answer.
‘Hello?’
He stifled a gasp of startlement.
‘Hello? Ronnie?’
‘Mary, listen to me. Don’t come back to the station. Don’t go home. Meet me in thirty minutes. You know where.’
‘Ronnie, what’s—’
Whiteside hung up, shoved the phone back into his pocket. He flushed the toilet, exited the stall, washed his hands. Then he strode through the office without looking at Mitchell, Showalter, or Abrahms, out to his car.