The Never Game

Now, sitting in an interview room in the sterile lockup attached to the Joint Major Crimes Task Force, Colter Shaw was summoning up what criminal law he knew. He’d been arrested more than a few times in his career. Though he’d never been convicted of any crime, the nature of his work meant he occasionally butted heads with the police, who, depending on their mood and the circumstances, might haul him in front of a booking desk.

He massaged his right arm, which had taken the brunt of deflecting the tumbling Sophie Mulliner, and calmly, in an orderly way, prepared his defense. This didn’t take long.

The door opened and a balding man, slim, in his fifties, walked inside. His scalp was shiny, as if it had been waxed, and Shaw had to force himself not to look at it. The man wore a light gray suit, with a badge on his belt. His tie was a bold floral, the knot perfectly symmetrical. Colter Shaw had last worn a tie... Well, he couldn’t exactly remember. Margot had said he looked “distinguished.”

“Mr. Shaw.”

A nod.

The man introduced himself as “Joint Task Force Senior Supervisor Cummings,” a mouthful that spoke more about the man’s nature than about the job description. “Fred” or “Stan” would have painted him better.

Cummings sat across the table from Shaw. The table, like the benches, was bolted down and made of sturdy metal. Cummings had a notebook and a pen. Shaw couldn’t spot the cameras, but they’d be here.

“The detention officer said you wanted to talk to me. So you’ve changed your mind about waiving your right to speak to us without an attorney.”

“I didn’t change my mind. I wouldn’t speak to Detective Wiley, with or without an attorney. I’ll speak to you.”

The lean man digested this, tapping the end of the Bic against a notepad. “I’m at a disadvantage here. This happened pretty fast and I don’t have all the facts. There’s something about a reward that the victim’s father was offering? You’re trying to get that?”

While Shaw preferred “earn,” he nodded.

“That’s your job?”

“It is. And it’s not relevant to our conversation.”

Cummings processed once more. “Dan Wiley can be a difficult person to deal with. But he’s a good officer.”

“Have there ever been complaints against him? Women officers, for instance?”

Cummings gave no response. “He tells me that you stole evidence from a crime scene. With the evidence missing, it would have looked like you were the only one who found the girl. And that meant you’d be entitled to the reward.”

Shaw had to give Wiley credit. Clever.

“Now, what we’ll do — and Detective Wiley’s on board with this — is knock down the obstruction to tampering. Misdemeanor. You forget about that reward and leave the area — you live in the Sierra Nevadas, right?”

“That’s my residence.”

“We’ll do recognizance. And you can walk now. The prosecutor’s got the paperwork ready.”

Shaw was tired. A long day — from Molotov cocktail to murder — and it was only 6 p.m.

“Supervisor Cummings, Detective Wiley arrested me because he needs to steer this whole ship in a different direction. If I don’t pursue the reward and I leave town, it doesn’t look like Wiley screwed up and a civilian solved his case.”

“Hold on, Mr. Shaw.”

But Shaw didn’t hold on. “Wiley had all the information he needed to realize this was an active kidnapping. He should’ve had twenty-five uniforms in and around San Miguel Park to search for Sophie Mulliner. And if he had, they would’ve found her — because I found her by myself in a half hour — and Kyle Butler’d be alive right now and, likely, you’d have your unsub in custody.”

“Mr. Shaw, the fact is you removed evidence from a crime scene. That’s an offense. The law is black-and-white on that.”

Cummings had helpfully walked right into Shaw’s trap.

Shaw leaned forward ever so slightly. “One, I took that rock to have a DNA test done, at my own expense, to prove that Sophie’d been kidnapped — because none of you believed it. Two” — Shaw held up a hand to silence Cummings’s impending sputter — “San Miguel Park wasn’t a crime scene. Dan Wiley never declared it one. I picked up a piece of granite in a county park. Now, Supervisor Cummings, I’m ending our conversation. You can discuss all this with your DA or I’ll call my attorney and she’ll take it from there.”

20

Shaw opted for one of those packets of peanut butter crackers.

All the other snacks in the Joint Major Crimes Task Force lobby were of the sweet variety, other than some unpopped cheddar popcorn, though how a visitor might prepare it was a mystery, there being no microwave that he could see.

He bought a bottled water too. The coffee, he figured, would be undrinkable.

He’d just finished the delicacy when Cummings’s assistant, a sharp-eyed young man, entered the lobby through the submarine-quality security door and said that, unfortunately, Shaw’s car had been towed to the pound.

Shaw didn’t bother to ask why. So while he’d been released, his wheels were still in detention.

“I’m not being charged.”

“I know that, sir.”

“But I can’t get my car?”