“You’re the booker?” Will asked, surprised. The position of booking officer was a necessary but tedious job. They were responsible for processing all the newly arrested prisoners and in charge of their well-being while they were housed in the cells. Generally, this was the sort of job an old-timer was given, a light desk position that eased the transition into retirement. Sometimes it was given to a cop who was being punished. Will doubted that was the case with Knox. Frank Wallace wouldn’t have left an aggrieved officer here to handle Will.
Knox was staring at him with open anger. “You just gonna stand there?”
Will took out his badge. “I’m Special Agent Trent. I’m with the GBI.”
The man took off his hat, showing a shock of carrot red hair. “I know who you are.”
“I’m sure your chief has briefed you. We were called in as a matter of routine to investigate the suicide of Tommy Braham.”
“You were called in by Sara Linton,” he countered. “I was standing right there when she did it.”
Will smiled at the man, because he had found that smiling at people when they thought you should be mad was a good way of bringing down some of the tension. “I appreciate your cooperation in this investigation, Officer. I know how difficult things must be for you right now.”
“Do you now?” So much for the smiling. Knox looked like he wanted to punch Will in the throat. “A good man is fighting for his life in that hospital over in Macon and you’re worried about the piece of shit who stabbed him. That’s what I see.”
“Did you know Tommy Braham?”
He was taken aback by the question. “What does that matter?”
“I was just curious.”
“Yeah, I knew him. Had a screw loose in his head from the day he was born.”
Will nodded as if he understood. “Can you take me to the cell where Tommy was found?”
Knox seemed to be really trying to think of a reason to say no. Will waited him out. Any cop would tell you that the best way to get someone to talk was to be quiet. There was a natural, human inclination to fill silence with noise. What most cops didn’t realize was that they were just as susceptible to the same technique.
Knox said, “All right, but I don’t like you, and you don’t like me, so let’s not pretend anything otherwise.”
“Fair enough,” Will agreed, following him through the door, finding himself in a smaller hallway with yet another door. A bench was on one side with a row of gun lockers. Every jail Will had ever visited had the same setup. Rather wisely, weapons were not allowed back with the prisoners.
Knox indicated the lockers. “Be sure to take out your clip and eject the round.”
“I don’t have my gun on me.”
From the look Knox gave him, Will might as well have said he’d left his penis at home.
The man’s lip curled in disgust. He turned around, walking toward the next door.
Will asked, “You said you were here when Dr. Linton made her phone call. Were you just coming on shift?”
Knox turned. “I wasn’t here when the boy killed himself, if that’s what you mean.”
“Were you on shift?” Will repeated.
He hesitated again, as if it wasn’t already clear that he didn’t want to cooperate.
Will said, “I’m assuming you’re not the regular booking officer. You’re patrol, right?”
Knox didn’t answer.
“Who was the booking officer this afternoon?”
He took his time answering. “Carl Phillips.”
“I’ll need to talk to him.”
He smiled. “Carl’s on vacation. Left this afternoon. Camping with his wife and kids. No phones.”
“When will he be back?”
“You’ll have to ask Frank about that.”
Knox took out his keys and opened the door. To Will’s relief, they were finally at the jail. Beside another large door was a viewing window showing another hallway, but this one had the familiar metal doors of jail cells. Just outside the cells was a sort of office for the officer in charge. To one side was a large filing cabinet. To the other was a built-in desk with six flat-screen monitors showing the inside of five of the cells. The sixth monitor had a game of solitaire going. Knox’s supper, a homemade sandwich with chips, was laid out in front of a computer keyboard.
Knox said, “Only got three people in here tonight,” by way of explanation.
Will checked the screens. One man was pacing his cell, the other two were curled up on their bunks. “Where’s the tape for the cameras?”
The cop rested his hand on the computer. “Stopped recording yesterday. We’ve got a call in to get it fixed.”
“That’s really strange that it stopped working right when you needed it.”
Knox shrugged. “Like I said, I wasn’t here.”
“Were any of the prisoners released after Braham was found?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t in on that.”
Will took the answer as a tacit yes. “Do you have the visitors’ log?”
He opened up one of the filing cabinets and pulled out a sheet of paper, which he handed to Will. The form was lined with columns for names and times, the usual sort of paperwork you found in any jail in America. At the top of the page, someone had written in the date. The rest of the form was blank.
Knox said, “Guess Sara didn’t sign in.”
“Have you known her long?”
“She looked after my kids until she left town. How long have you known her?”
Will noticed a subtle change in the man’s anger. “Not long.”
“Looked like you knew her plenty well, sitting in the car with her for an hour like that in front of the hospital.”
Will hoped he didn’t look as surprised as he felt. He had forgotten how insular and incestuous small towns could be. He pressed his luck. “She’s a lovely woman.”
Knox puffed out his chest. He was at least six inches shorter than Will, obviously trying to make up for it with bravado. “Jeffrey Tolliver was the finest man I ever worked with.”
“His reputation is well known in Atlanta. It was out of respect for him that my boss sent me down here to look after his people.”
Knox narrowed his eyes, and Will realized the patrolman could take his words in many different ways, not least of all as a sign that Will planned to go light on the investigation out of respect for Jeffrey Tolliver. This seemed to relax Knox, so Will did not correct him.
Knox said, “Sara just gets a little hot under the collar sometimes. Real emotional.”
Will would hardly describe Sara as someone ruled by her emotions. He didn’t trust his ability to pull off a cliché like “Women!” He simply nodded and shrugged at the same time, as if to say, “What are you gonna do?”
Knox kept staring at him, trying to make up his mind. “All right, then,” he finally said. He used a plastic card to open the last door. His keys were still in his hand, and he jangled them as he walked. “This’n’s a drunk sleeping it off. Came in about an hour ago.” He indicated the next cell. “Meth head. He’s coming down hard. Last time we tried to wake him, he near about knocked somebody’s teeth out.”