Page 57 of In the Dark of the Past

I pulled the chair out across from him, letting the scrape of metal on tile cut him off. Then I sat, laid a folder on the table, and folded my hands on top of it.

“Who is ‘he?’” I asked.

Darren swallowed. His gaze flicked to the glass, then back to me. “I…I want a lawyer.”

“Okay.” I leaned back. “You’re entitled to one. You know that. And you know that I can’t keep asking you questions once you invoke. But you also know that if you ask for one and then keep talking, everything you say is still on the record, and it will likely be worse for you if you don’t talk.”

He nodded miserably. “Fine, whatever.”

“Was that a fine ask whatever, or a fine, I still want a lawyer whatever?”

He just stared at me.

“Okay. So, here’s what’s going to happen then,” I continued. “I’m going to ask questions. You’re going to decide whether you want to answer them now or wait until there’s someone here whose job is to tell you to shut up. In the meantime, you are under arrest for aggravated assault on a law enforcement officer, conspiracy to harass, and whatever else we dig up from that drop box and your phone records. Do you understand?”

He made a strangled sound. “I’m not a bad guy.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “Maybe you’re just a guy who made a couple of really stupid choices because someone dangled money in front of you. Maybe you were scared. Maybe you thought you didn’t have another option. I’m not here to judge your soul, Mr. Whitlock. I’m here to figure out how many people my town has buried in the woods because they asked the wrong questions, and who the hell keeps causing trouble lately.”

A beat.

“And right now, you’re the only one in this building who knows those answers.”

His eyes filled. “They’ll kill me,” he whispered.

“Maybe you should have thought of that before,” I said flatly. “Maybe we walk you out of here in the morning with a slap on the wrist and no record of you cooperating. Maybe we pretend you don’t know anything and let you go back to sweeping up after basketball games while the people who paid you keep pulling strings.” I leaned forward, my voice low. “I’m not sure either of those would be real great for you. Or, you can talk. On camera. On tape. With your rights read and your statement clear. You give us names. You give us locations. You give us so much goddamn detail there’s no way a prosecutor or a jury can ignore it. And then I put you somewhere they can’t touch you. Protective custody. New ID if we can swing it. Your kids get visits instead of memories.”

He stared at me like I’d offered him a lifeline and a noose at the same time. “My kids didn’t do anything wrong,” he choked. “They just…they just want to graduate. Maybe have a decent life.”

“Then help me make it a town worth graduating from,” I said.

We stared at each other across that cold metal table. Then his shoulders slumped.

Something in him gave. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I’ll talk.”

I hit the record button on the tabletop unit, recited the time, date, case number, and advised him again of his rights. He waived his right to counsel for the purposes of the statement, voice shaking but clear. I could almost feel River watching, imagining every line of her body strung tight.

“Let’s start simple,” I said. “State your name for the record.”

“Darren Michael Whitlock. I, uh…I work custodial at the high school. Have off and on for the better part of two decades.” His cuffed hands clenched. “I’m not part of some…cult or whatever you think this is.”

“Good,” I said. “So, then, tell me how you ended up wearing a mask and attacking me with a hunting knife in the rain.”

He winced. “That wasn’t supposed to happen, man. The knife wasn’t…I brought it in case…in case an animal came at us or somethin’. Coyotes get bold sometimes, ya know? I was just supposed to…you know, paint. Watch. Deliver things.”

“Deliver what, exactly?”

“Notes. Photos. Sometimes a USB drive or two. Other times, cash.”

“Who gave you those things?”

He licked his lips. “A guy from city hall. Clerk. Name’s Bradley Kline. He said he was acting on orders from ‘upstairs.’” Darren’s voice dipped lower, like someone might be listening through the vents. “He said there’s some kind of a…special fund or something for making problems go away. People who made trouble got a visit. Or a warning. Or a one-way ticket out of town if they were smart.”

My jaw tightened. “The Benevolence Fund?”

“Sounds right.” Darren swallowed. “He said it was…you know, for the good of Maple Ridge. To keep things stable. Some folks, they said…they said they were sick. Or dangerous. Or…I dunno, asking questions they shouldn’t.”

“Like Eleanor Jenkins, maybe?” I said.