The Lonely Mile by Allan Leverone

inside that rest area with a loaded gun?”
    Bill was seated in an interrogation room at the State Police barracks in Lee while a petite, auburn-haired woman, who had introduced herself rather perfunctorily as “Canfield,” paced back and forth in front of him. She seemed angry, affronted that an ordinary citizen might carry a concealed weapon in a public place.
    Bill assumed Canfield was a detective, but since she hadn’t offered her status during the introduction, he couldn’t be sure. One thing he was sure of, though, was that she was extremely unhappy and more than willing to share her displeasure with him.
    He had cooled his heels inside the State Police cruiser for close to forty-five minutes before officers returned and removed the handcuffs, apparently satisfied, after speaking with the many witnesses inside the rest stop, that Bill was one of the good guys, or at least didn’t represent the enemy. They had very respectfully informed him that they would be driving him to the station—he waited for someone to say “downtown,” like they always did on TV but was once again disappointed—where he was going to have to answer a few questions.
    The police had been careful to stress that he was not under arrest, nor was he considered a suspect in any criminal activity, and they backed up their claim by not cuffing his hands to the iron ring protruding from the middle of the scarred wooden table dominating the interrogation room. Aside from that courtesy, though, Bill doubted there was much difference between how he was being treated and how the I-90 Killer might have been treated.
    Bill watched his interrogator as she stomped back and forth. It was like trying to follow a particularly spirited tennis volley. Canfield stopped short of adopting an accusatory tone but came close. She was clearly trying to lean on him, although for what purpose he could not guess.
    Canfield—whether that was her first or last name was unclear, although Bill figured it was the latter, since she was very clearly a woman, a good-looking one at that, and he had never known a single female with the first name of Canfield in his life—seemed to find it unlikely in the extreme that an ordinary citizen carrying a concealed weapon would happen to be inside the rest stop at the exact time the I-90 Killer would try to snatch a girl.
    Bill thought the kidnapper had probably found it unlikely as well, and tried to hide a smile. He failed, and Canfield stopped right in the middle of a question to ask, “Do you find something funny about this, Mr. Ferguson?”
    “Listen,” he said, “I’m not the enemy here. I have a valid, up-to-date license to carry that Browning due to business concerns. Feel free to check, although I imagine you already have. I realize that, mathematically, the odds are against me being in the exact position to see an attempted kidnapping and then stop it, but that’s precisely what happened. Obviously, the girl and her parents related the same story or I would be sitting in a holding cell right now. So why bust my chops? What do you think you’re going to gain from that? I don’t expect a ticker-tape parade from you people, but you don’t need to flog me with a rubber hose, either.”
    Canfield leveled her best, flat-eyed cop gaze at Bill, amazed by the outburst, her next question apparently forgotten. Then a trace of a smile seemed to tug at the corners of her mouth for just a second before disappearing. She turned without a word and left the room.
    Bill waited fifteen minutes before Canfield—Officer Canfield? Detective Canfield? Agent Canfield?—returned, and when she did, she was lugging a bulky, old-fashioned tape recorder. She took a seat across from him at the table and set the recorder between them, plugged it in, and turned it on. She recorded initial identifying information, the date and their names, before starting a formal interview. The mystery was solved. “Canfield” was FBI Special Agent Angela