by Scott Blade
“Reznor. I done told you that.”
Widow stayed quiet.
“You escape a mental institution or something?”
“You think that?”
“You busted into Overly’s carrying a naked girl.”
Widow just looked at him.
Rousey said, “You tried to murder that girl. Now you don’t know where you are?”
Murder?
Widow paused a beat and said, “I didn’t try to kill anyone.”
“We got witnesses saying different.”
“What witnesses?”
“The people that saw you.”
“What people?”
“From the bar. Don’t you remember? They all saw you.”
“They saw me?”
“They saw you.”
“They saw me do what, exactly?”
“They saw you attempt to kill that woman.”
“No one saw me kill anyone.”
“Attempt to kill.”
“No. No way. No one is saying that.”
Rousey stared at Widow, hard.
He said, “They saw you carry that girl inside. They saw you, a big guy, with your shirt off, your coat off. Out in the cold like that. Carrying a half-dead girl.”
“They saw nothing.”
“We got you on camera kicking the door down. I never seen nothing like it before. Looked like a horror movie. So, I ask you, have you escaped from a mental hospital?”
“I didn’t try to kill anybody. I didn’t attempt to kill anyone. I found that girl.”
“That’s not what the witnesses say.”
“No one is saying that.”
“They saw you carry her in. Saw you with no top on.”
“If I attempted to kill her, why would I wrap her up in my clothes and carry her into a bar?”
Rousey said nothing.
Widow said, “I found her. Side of the road. And I carried her to the bar. Trying to get her medical attention. I was trying to save her life.”
“You found her?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Where?”
“Where’s she now? Is she ok?”
“Why?”
“Is she going to make it?”
“Why? Wanna know if you’re facing murder one?”
“Is she safe?”
Rousey was quiet for a second. Widow could see him working out calculations on his face, which amplified the bags under his eyes because he cocked his head up while thinking.
A giant, carrying a near-dead woman with intentions of saving her life sounded unbelievable, but it made more sense than a giant carrying his victim into a bar and passing out in front of witnesses.
“I don’t know.”
“Where is she?”
“She was medevaced to the hospital in Deadwood. The sheriff will meet with her first, and then he’ll be here to talk to you.”
“Thought you said he was at home?”
“I lied. He’s not going stay home when something like this happens in his county. Not when we got an attempted murder and the culprit behind bars. No, you’ll be a top priority.”
“I didn’t try to kill anyone. I told you I rescued her. Why else would I bring her into the haberdashery?”
They’d already gone over this, but Widow felt the endless cycle of round-and-round they go over his version of what happened.
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to get to the bottom of.”
Widow was quiet for a beat, and then he lifted his free hand to his face, stared at his fingertips. Rousey watched Widow’s face. He saw a realization come over it.
Widow asked, “You take my fingerprints?”
“Why? You worried we gonna find out something that you don’t want us to find out about you? You wanted somewhere?”
Widow shook his head.
“Am I under arrest?”
“What’s it look like?”
“You didn’t read me my rights?”
He said nothing.
“Can you fingerprint a man without reading him his rights?”
Rousey said nothing to that.
Cops aren’t supposed to fingerprint someone without reading them their rights, but they do it all the time. Miranda rights are supposed to be read to a suspect when an arrest is made. But it’s often not done that way. Real life doesn’t work like it does in the movies.
Who’s going to challenge the police department over it?
It usually comes down to your word against the cops. Easy enough for them to lie about it.
In Widow’s experience of being arrested in the civilian world, sometimes what they do is offer you early release on lesser charges, but first, you’ve got to sign a piece of paper saying that you were read your rights at the time of arrest.
Not like the movies, but then again, almost nothing in life was.
“If I’m under arrest I’d like my lawyer now.”
Rousey shouted at him.
“You don’t get a lawyer!”
The shout BOOMED! and echoed like Widow’s voice had earlier.
Rousey stopped and dropped his arms down straight.
He paused. They both did.
Rousey looked like he wanted to say he was sorry for the outburst, but he said nothing.
Widow ignored it. He figured the guy was high-strung being out here by himself, forced to deal with a potential attempted murder suspect, especially one that looked like him.
“Constitution says I do,” Widow said, calmly.
“Don’t worry if it comes to that you’ll get a chance to speak to an attorney.”
“What about my phone call?”
“No phone call.”
“I get a phone call. Everyone gets a phone call.”
“You’re not under arrest.”
Widow stared at Rousey for a second and then looked around the cell, made it big and obvious. He stared at the bars, at the walls, at the metal toilet and sink and crude steel-surfaced mirror, and then back at Rousey.
“You’re not under arrest, yet. Right now, you’re being detained.”
“Detained? Like a suspect?”
“A person of interest. That means no, I didn’t fingerprint you because you’ve been accused of nothing. No charges. Not yet. Sheriff will make that determination when he gets here.”
“Okay.”
Silence.
Widow drank more of the coffee, and thought maybe the coffee, combined with the late shift, and the boredom was what was making Rousey a little agitated.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“Don’t mention it. Might be the last decent thing you get for a long, long time. If the sheriff decides it so.”
“Not the sheriff.”
Rousey cleared his throat, big and obvious. It echoed in the narrow corridor, not as loud as his outburst, but close.
“Pardon?”
“The courts decide. Don’t they?”
“Right, the courts.”
Widow took another pull from the coffee.
Rousey asked, “Gonna tell me your name?”
“You already know it. Don’t you?”
“Didn’t fingerprint you! Told you that!”
“You took my passport. You took my ATM card. Both were in my pockets.”
Rouse thought for a second like he wasn’t sure if he should relay the information, but he nodded anyway.
“I just wanted to see if you knew your own name.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You don’t know where you are?”
“South Dakota. The Black Hills. Some place called Reznor.”
“I told you that.”
“And I remembered it.”
“You’re not high?”
“High?”
“You know doped up? High?”
“I’m high on coffee.”
“There’s no drugs in your system?”
“Only the most powerful drug known to man.”
Rousey’s eyes lit up, re
vealing his pupils.
Widow held the coffee cup up into view and said, “Caffeine.”
“You’re not on anything else?”
“Like what?”
“Meth?”
“Why would I be on meth?”
“It’s a thing here. You didn’t smoke any?”
“I never smoke anything, except Cubans whenever I was in Havana. That’s the only place to get them, you see.”
“Havana, Georgia? Is that where you’re from?”
“That’s Savannah.”
“What?”
“Savannah, Georgia, not Havana.”
“That’s where you from?”
“No. Sad to say, I’ve never been there. I’m talking about Havana, Cuba.”
“Where’s that?”
Widow looked at him, not meaning to be judgmental, but how does he not know about Havana, Cuba?
Widow guessed that maybe that was just the lack of education in his upbringing, combined with the fact that the guy probably never left the state, combined with his obvious insomnia, affecting his daily life.
Widow knew the signs. Being out at sea during Operation Freedom, where they had to watch out for the Iranians more than anyone else, or sneaking through the mountains in Afghanistan at night, hoping they didn’t run into the Taliban for long stretches; Widow had seen the effects of insomnia on SEALs in his unit. Hell, he had experienced them firsthand.
He gave Rousey the benefit of the doubt.
“It’s in Cuba?”
“You Cuban? Don’t they have drugs?”
“What’s with you and drugs?”
Rousey straightened up like a wolf on a lonely road with a pair of headlights barreling down on him all of a sudden.
“Don’t get hostile. I’m just asking questions here. I’m interested in what you know. You’re state of mind.”
“My state of mind is normal.”
“You didn’t know where you were before I told you. That’s weird. Don’t you think?”
“No. Not really. Middle of the night. I never been here before. Why would I know where I am? Doesn’t mean I’m high on drugs.”
Silence for a moment.
Rousey said, “You should know where you are? How could you not?”
Widow shrugged and said, “Lots of reasons why someone might not know exactly where they are. People get lost every day. Doesn’t mean they are criminals.”
He nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“What’s it say on my passport?”
“Do you not know what it says?”
Widow stayed quiet. This conversation was going nowhere.
Rousey repeated, “What’s your name?”
“You’ve talked to me. Does it seem like I’m mentally incompetent? Like I really don’t know my own name? Why do you keep asking me that?”
“I have to ask. I need to be able to tell the sheriff my professional assessment.”
Widow smiled at the phrase professional assessment, from a rural deputy. No way did this sheriff care about his professional assessment. Widow figured the guy just wanted to make himself look as good as possible for the sheriff.
Widow shrugged and answered.
“Name’s Jack Widow. I’m innocent of whatever it is you think I did.”
Widow stopped and thought about it. He pictured it. What he must’ve looked like. The image of somebody like him carrying a half-dead woman into a strange place, around people who’ve probably known each other their whole lives. Then he thought about how he would feel about it.
So, he could understand how it looked to Rousey and the people at the bar. He knew he was innocent. But they didn’t.
Rousey asked, “You didn’t abduct this woman. Try to kill her?”
“I haven’t tried to kill anybody. I told you that. But you need to have them do a rape kit on her. Someone did assault her, and someone did try to kill her.”
“So why not tell me how it went down? What did you do?”
Widow shook his head, eyes closed. His face didn’t show frustration. He wasn’t surprised at all by the deputy’s tactics.
Repeat the crime to them. Over and over. See if they admit to it. See if they make a mistake. These tactics were taught in Detective work 101, right after it was taught that any confession learned this way would be meaningless because a terrified innocent person was just as likely to confess as a guilty person.
Widow saw this was going nowhere. He would just have to answer the same questions when the sheriff got there. So, he took a last pull from the coffee, tilted it all the way up until he was sure it was empty. He handed the empty mug back through the bars to Rousey, who waited again for Widow to take a step back before he came forward to get it.
“Just place it on the bars.”
He didn’t want to get within reach of Widow, a valid precaution.
Widow wasn’t restrained. He could have exploded, fast, and shot his arm through the bars, grabbed Rousey by the shirt collar, and jerked back and slammed the deputy violently into the other side of the bars. Could have put him into a temporary coma with two slams of equal power, equal calculation. He could have killed Rousey with three slams.
But Rousey was staying clear, which made Widow suspect that he might’ve been carrying the cell’s key in his pocket. Like he was staying back in case Widow tried to get at the key.
Even if he wasn’t carrying the cell key, he was carrying that .38 Special.
If Widow had been an escaped mental patient, like Rousey claimed to suspect, then Widow might’ve tried to go for the gun. Might get it. Then he’d just shoot Rousey. Escape or not.
Why would a mental patient care?
Widow said, “You know what? If you’re not going to give me my phone call, then I’m just going to wait for the sheriff.”
Rousey stared back at him.
Widow said, “I don’t want to have to repeat myself endlessly. And talking to you won’t get me out of here.”
“You’re not getting out.”
Widow nodded.
“When’s he get here?”
“Like I said, he’ll get here when he gets here,” Rousey said and paused a beat. Then he repeated, “Where is here?”
“Reznor. You done told me, remember?”
He paused a beat and said, “The city of Cheyenne Crossing.”
Silence.
Widow asked, “Anyone live here?”
“There’s people here.”
“How many?”
“Enough.”
“They let you police the people here?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind. Got any food?”
“There’s a twenty-four-hour diner. Right across the interstate.”
Interstate? It wasn’t a highway like Widow had thought. It was an interstate. That was good. It meant he could get a ride a lot faster, once he was out of here.
“What time is it now?”
Rousey looked at his watch and stayed silent for a moment, debating on whether or not to tell him the time.
“Early.”
“How early?”
“Too early for the sheriff to show up.”
Widow nodded and asked, “You gonna buy me some food?”
Rousey thought and said, “Sure. We’re required by law to provide food for overnight stays. And technically, you've been here overnight.”
“Am I gonna be here another night?”
“Told you. That’s up to the sheriff. But my guess is yes. My guess is you’ll be behind bars for the rest of your life.”
Widow ignored that.
“Can I see a menu?”
“No menu. You get a burger and fries. That’s it.”
“This early in the morning?”
Rousey shrugged.
“It’s too early for breakfast.”
Too early for breakfast? Must be between four and six a.m., Widow thought.
“And coffee?”
“You just had a coffe
e.”
“I could use another. I like coffee.”
“I don’t care. Have what you want. I’m not going to order you any. You can have what I made here.”
“Fine by me. Do I get a choice of cheese?”
“You want cheese?”
Widow nodded.
“Sorry, no cheese.”
He took the coffee mug off the bars, one fast swipe, and turned and marched out of sight.
Widow returned to the cot and kicked off his boots.
That’s when he noticed that the deputy had taken them off before because his socks were missing.
He found them balled up under the cot.
Widow kicked the boots under the cot with the socks, and then he lay back down. He rested his head on one open palm like it was an airplane pillow, then he stared at the ceiling.
He had a lot of questions. He lay there and decided to fall back asleep—no reason to be up until his food arrived. He let the questions fill his head and counted each one like an insomniac counts sheep.
Who’s the girl in the rug?
Who was in the car he saw?
Was it a car or a truck?
Why was she left alive?
Did her attacker intend on leaving her alive?
What about the dog?
Will she live?
He answered the last question out loud just before dozing back to sleep.
“I hope so.”
Chapter 11
W IDOW RETURNED TO SLEEP. He returned to the same dream. He didn’t stay asleep long enough to consider it sleep, more like a nap.
His eyes rolled open slowly, like being awakened by smelling salts. Which he wasn’t. It was all automatic. His brain had had enough sleep.
He stayed lying on the cot, stared straight up at the gypsy moths. This went on for most of an hour more before Rousey returned to the cell. He brought a takeout box with a hamburger in it with a side of fries. No cheese. No utensils. No condiments. No napkins.
Widow didn’t complain. He took it and thanked him and ate it.
It was good. He wouldn’t say it was the best meal ever, but certainly comparable to the mess deck on a battle carrier.
After Widow finished eating it, he heard a desk phone ring from the other room, which he assumed to be the station’s office.
Widow set the empty takeout box next to the bars on the inside of the cell. He returned to the cot and dumped himself down on it, then scooted to the edge.
He sat with his feet on the concrete floor and his hands on top of his knees. He tried to listen. He heard nothing but a single voice repeating “Yes, sir” over and over.
