Chapter 23
The Truth Finders
“I’m taking over this one,” Anderson told Lind as they sat in Anderson’s office after Brown’s unfortunate confrontation with Charles. Both were in full uniform, Anderson preferring its official look over a detective’s more incognito tie and sport coat. Lind was still a mere deputy, so wearing street clothes wasn’t even an option. “Chuck is a good friend, and I want the scumbag who almost killed his grandson to pay. But I’ll need your help, understand?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do it right—that’s a promise.”
“I don’t want a promise; I want professionalism, which this office has lacked for far too long.”
“I understand. I will do the job right and the charges will stick, at least the ones Brown’s bungling haven’t already screwed up.”
“You handle this right and you have a bright future in law enforcement, understand?”
“Absolutely.”
A moment of reflection passed—too long a moment as far as Anderson was concerned. He threw the file at Lind, who was glancing absent-mindedly over Anderson’s shoulder at a bird that was perched on the other side of the window. Instead of catching the file, he looked up too late as the file dropped into his lap.
“What are you waiting for?” Anderson demanded as Lind snapped back to attention. “Get to work.”
Lind slid his chair back and stood. “Right,” he answered, his face emotionless. He stuck the file under his right arm, walked out of the room’s open door, and pulled the door shut behind him. He hurried to his workstation, not even breaking stride when he released the doorknob. There was work to be done and his job was on the line.
He made it to his desk and sat down. He considered the case, recalling as best he could the investigation training he received at the police academy. “First things first,” he said to himself. He grabbed an unused yellow legal pad from his desk along with the pocket-sized notepad that he always kept in his shirt pocket, stuck the legal pad inside the file labeled “M. Thomas Hit-and-Run,” put the notepad in his shirt pocket, and stood up. Carrying the file in his left hand, he dropped his right hand out of habit to his sidearm, a Glock 9 mm, which was safety secured in its holster. He considered whether doing well on this case would result in a promotion to detective. He pondered how he would look in a civilian tie and sport coat, with his sidearm in a shoulder holster and his badge clipped to his belt. He smiled at the thought.
“I hope this yahoo doesn’t pull that Miranda garbage on me,” he said with a huff as he stood up to leave.
He walked through the investigations division area and into the hallway connecting the sheriff’s department with the jail. In a few moments he buzzed himself into the jail’s booking area and approached the front counter, which was staffed with only one detention deputy and a diminutive blond but not very attractive female, the classification “detention deputy” telling him that this particular deputy’s civil service exam scores had probably been very low, or perhaps he hadn’t actually graduated high school and only had a GED.
Losers, Lind told himself. “I need Michael Thomas in the interrogation room, pronto,” he ordered the two behind the desk with an air of disrespect. The DA had not even charged the perp yet and he had not yet invoked his right to counsel, so the hope was that the sheriff’s investigators could get some sort of confession out of him before he lawyered up.
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
She punched the intercom button and said, “Transport M. Thomas to the interrogation room.”
“Will do,” replied the scratchy male voice on the other end.
“Thanks,” Lind said as he paced nervously back and forth, silently reviewing the questions he intended to ask the perpetrator of this most recent heinous crime.
Five minutes later the intercom chimed. “Thomas is waiting.”
He didn’t wait to be told by the stupid blond. He immediately walked the three or so doors to the right of the front counter and entered the room, which was easy to do since the doors were electronically locked from the inside only. The room was tiny, with just enough room for a table in the middle, which was bolted to the floor, and two similarly bolted down chairs on each side of it. The backs of the two chairs on the investigating officer’s side of the table were exposed to the entrance he’d just walked into, and the other two were on the opposite side facing him. To the right side was a one-way mirror, which enabled other interested parties to view ongoing interrogations without suspects seeing them, though most knew someone was almost always there.
Lind knew that no one was on the other side at the moment so he was mostly free to say or do whatever he wanted. He also made sure that the audio and video recording equipment was turned off, which was evidence by the red light flashing above the window. Michael Thomas was already seated on the other side of the table, and he appeared to be very nervous, refusing to make eye contact with Lind and instead choosing to stare at the table’s surface, which was understandable since he was still in chains after being transported from his cell. Although not in plain sight since they were blocked from view by the table, Lind knew that the chains linked Thomas’s hands and feet together in such a way that if things got out of hand the most Thomas could do was shuffle at a snail’s pace toward him, maybe bite him if he got close enough. It was a small risk since even Thomas knew that it would end with him getting his face slammed into the table, wall, or floor since he was mostly helpless with his appendages rendered useless by the restraints, as well as a new charge of assaulting a law enforcement officer. Thomas had a black eye already, so Lind knew that if he got combative the perp would shut up and say nothing. Lind grinned, knowing that he or Brown had probably given Thomas the black eye. In summation, Lind knew he had nothing to fear; the intimidation factor was already off the scale.
“What’s up?” Lind said as he entered.
“Nothing,” Thomas replied sheepishly.
He sat down in the seat opposite Thomas. “Are you being treated okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Nervous?”
Thomas grinned, more out of continued nervousness than a desire to smile. “A little.”
“I looked at your file,” Lind began. “This can be easy or hard, depending on you.”
Thomas looked up but said nothing. Lind pulled a piece of paper out of his file and slid it across the table so Thomas could plainly see it. “Can you read?” Thomas nodded “yes.” “Good. Let me summarize. You have a right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to counsel. If you choose to exercise these rights, we’re done. Got it?”
Again, Thomas nodded.
“Good. Understanding these rights, as well as reading them on the sheet of paper in front of you, are you willing to talk to me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He pulled a pen out of his breast pocket and laid it in the middle of the paper. “Initial on the line to the side of each sentence, then sign at the bottom.” Thomas picked it up with his right hand, briefly scanned the document then did as instructed. Afterwards, Lind retrieved the pen and paper, stuck the latter in the file, and pulled out his notepad for the interview, case file opened so he could review its contents. He glanced down at the file then said, “Two prior DUI convictions and one arrest that should’ve been a conviction,” Lind said then looked up at Thomas. “Looks like you didn’t learn much from the experiences, huh?”
Thomas still said nothing, and turned his gaze back down toward the surface of the table.
“I though you wanted to talk?”
Still nothing.
He slammed the file onto the table and almost screamed. “You almost killed that boy, you jackball!”
No response.
After calming down, he continued, glaring at Thomas as he did. “If you don’t help us you’re going away for a long, long time. Understand?”
Slowly, Thomas looked at Lind. “I’m not saying nothin’. I
got a right to an attorney, and they won’t let me call him. I want my attorney,” he demanded.
“Fine,” Lind said, frustrated, as he grabbed the file off the table and stood. “Call your attorney, but don’t expect any favors from me.”
He left the room, slamming the door behind him. “I should’ve gone to law school,” he said after the door stopped rattling and he stormed through the booking area and toward the exit. “This just isn’t worth it!” he almost screamed.
After he left, the blond said aloud, “What a jerk,” as she continued about her business, which consisted of sitting in a chair waiting till the next shift began, with a periodic lawyer, probation officer, or law enforcement officer visit. She glanced at her watch and said, “Only six hours to go,” shaking her head back and forth as she said it.