Unexpected but wonderful.
On this side of the window, however, the scene was not so special. The interrogation room resembled countless others in police precinct houses and sheriffs’ stations all over the country. A cheap linoleum-tile floor. Battered filing cabinets. A round conference table and five chairs. Institutional-green walls. Bare fluorescent bulbs.
At the conference table in the center of the room, the current occupant of the suspect’s chair was a tall, good-looking, twenty-six-year-old real estate agent named Fletcher Kale. He was working himself into an impressive state of righteous indignation.
“Listen, Sheriff,” Kale said, “can we just cut this crap? You don’t have to read me my rights again, for Christ’s sake. Haven’t we been through this a dozen times in the past three days?”
Bob Robine, Kale’s attorney, quickly patted his client’s arm to make him be quiet. Robine was pudgy, round-faced, with a sweet smile but with the hard eyes of a casino pit boss.
“Fletch,” Robine said, “Sheriff Hammond knows he’s held you on suspicion just about as long as the law allows, and he knows that I know it, too. So what he’s going to do—he’s going to settle this one way or the other within the next hour.”
Kale blinked, nodded, and changed his tactics. He slumped in his chair as if a great weight of grief lay on his shoulders. When he spoke, there was a faint tremor in his voice. “I’m sorry if I sort of lost my head there for a minute, Sheriff. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. But it’s so hard. . . so very, very hard for me.” His face appeared to cave in, and the tremor in his voice became more pronounced. “I mean, for God’s sake, I’ve lost my family. My wife . . . my son . . . both gone.”
Bryce Hammond said, “I’m sorry if you think I’ve treated you unfairly, Mr. Kale. I only try to do what I think is best. Sometimes, I’m right. Maybe I’m wrong this time.”
Apparently deciding that he wasn’t in too much trouble after all, and that he could afford to be magnanimous now, Fletcher Kale dabbed at the tears on his face, sat up straighter in his chair, and said, “Yeah . . . well, uh . . . I guess I can see your position, Sheriff.”
Kale was underestimating Bryce Hammond.
Bob Robine knew the sheriff better than his client did. He frowned, glanced at Tal, then stared hard at Bryce.
In Tal Whitman’s experience, most people who dealt with the sheriff underestimated him, just as Fletcher Kale had done. It was an easy thing to do. Bryce didn’t look impressive. He was thirty-nine, but he seemed a lot younger than that. His thick sandy hair fell across his forehead, giving him a mussed, boyish appearance. He had a pug nose with a spatter of freckles across the bridge and across both cheeks. His blue eyes were clear and sharp, but they were hooded with heavy lids that made him seem bored, sleepy, maybe even a little bit dullwitted. His voice was misleading, too. It was soft, melodic, gentle. Furthermore, he spoke slowly at times, and always with measured deliberation, and some people took his careful speech to mean that he had difficulty forming his thoughts. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Bryce Hammond was acutely aware of how others perceived him, and when it was to his advantage, he reinforced their misconceptions with an ingratiating manner, with an almost witless smile, and with a further softening of speech that made him seem like the classic hayseed cop.
Only one thing kept Tal from fully enjoying this confrontation: He knew the Kale investigation had affected Bryce Hammond on a deep, personal level. Bryce was hurting, sick at heart about the pointless deaths of Joanna and Danny Kale, because in a curious way this case echoed events in his own life. Like Fletcher Kale, the sheriff had lost a wife and a son, although the circumstances of his loss were considerably different from Kale’s.
A year ago, Ellen Hammond had died
On this side of the window, however, the scene was not so special. The interrogation room resembled countless others in police precinct houses and sheriffs’ stations all over the country. A cheap linoleum-tile floor. Battered filing cabinets. A round conference table and five chairs. Institutional-green walls. Bare fluorescent bulbs.
At the conference table in the center of the room, the current occupant of the suspect’s chair was a tall, good-looking, twenty-six-year-old real estate agent named Fletcher Kale. He was working himself into an impressive state of righteous indignation.
“Listen, Sheriff,” Kale said, “can we just cut this crap? You don’t have to read me my rights again, for Christ’s sake. Haven’t we been through this a dozen times in the past three days?”
Bob Robine, Kale’s attorney, quickly patted his client’s arm to make him be quiet. Robine was pudgy, round-faced, with a sweet smile but with the hard eyes of a casino pit boss.
“Fletch,” Robine said, “Sheriff Hammond knows he’s held you on suspicion just about as long as the law allows, and he knows that I know it, too. So what he’s going to do—he’s going to settle this one way or the other within the next hour.”
Kale blinked, nodded, and changed his tactics. He slumped in his chair as if a great weight of grief lay on his shoulders. When he spoke, there was a faint tremor in his voice. “I’m sorry if I sort of lost my head there for a minute, Sheriff. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. But it’s so hard. . . so very, very hard for me.” His face appeared to cave in, and the tremor in his voice became more pronounced. “I mean, for God’s sake, I’ve lost my family. My wife . . . my son . . . both gone.”
Bryce Hammond said, “I’m sorry if you think I’ve treated you unfairly, Mr. Kale. I only try to do what I think is best. Sometimes, I’m right. Maybe I’m wrong this time.”
Apparently deciding that he wasn’t in too much trouble after all, and that he could afford to be magnanimous now, Fletcher Kale dabbed at the tears on his face, sat up straighter in his chair, and said, “Yeah . . . well, uh . . . I guess I can see your position, Sheriff.”
Kale was underestimating Bryce Hammond.
Bob Robine knew the sheriff better than his client did. He frowned, glanced at Tal, then stared hard at Bryce.
In Tal Whitman’s experience, most people who dealt with the sheriff underestimated him, just as Fletcher Kale had done. It was an easy thing to do. Bryce didn’t look impressive. He was thirty-nine, but he seemed a lot younger than that. His thick sandy hair fell across his forehead, giving him a mussed, boyish appearance. He had a pug nose with a spatter of freckles across the bridge and across both cheeks. His blue eyes were clear and sharp, but they were hooded with heavy lids that made him seem bored, sleepy, maybe even a little bit dullwitted. His voice was misleading, too. It was soft, melodic, gentle. Furthermore, he spoke slowly at times, and always with measured deliberation, and some people took his careful speech to mean that he had difficulty forming his thoughts. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Bryce Hammond was acutely aware of how others perceived him, and when it was to his advantage, he reinforced their misconceptions with an ingratiating manner, with an almost witless smile, and with a further softening of speech that made him seem like the classic hayseed cop.
Only one thing kept Tal from fully enjoying this confrontation: He knew the Kale investigation had affected Bryce Hammond on a deep, personal level. Bryce was hurting, sick at heart about the pointless deaths of Joanna and Danny Kale, because in a curious way this case echoed events in his own life. Like Fletcher Kale, the sheriff had lost a wife and a son, although the circumstances of his loss were considerably different from Kale’s.
A year ago, Ellen Hammond had died
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