American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) (4 page)

It was almost ten hours from the time Dylan was cuffed to the time that he was headed back to the county lockup in Nashua, making it close to seventeen hours since he had left home for his walk. He thought for sure he would be able to sneak some shuteye on the ride, but it wasn’t to be.

The cops in Vermont had been very accommodating. They were constantly taking him to the restroom, moving him to a warmer or cooler holding spot, feeding him, asking him questions or telling him they were leaving him alone. Sleep was heavy in his eyes, but that was the one thing they would not let him do.

Riding back to Nashua allowed the New Hampshire state police to demonstrate their hospitality. They stopped four times so he could stretch his legs. He politely refused each time, but for his own well being they made sure that he got out and moved around. The two officers accompanying him also each had to stop once for a bio break. In all, the three-hour drive took five hours.

Back in Nashua, processing took forever.

Just because Vermont had taken fingerprints, urine samples, and even swabbed him for gunshot residue didn’t mean that New Hampshire would skip these steps.

When Dylan had been picked up for drugs or petty theft there was always a good-cop/bad-cop scenario. It wasn’t direct every time, but it always existed. One cop felt bad for him and saw addiction as an illness. Another cop considered him the scum of the earth for being so weak he succumbed to the world of drugs and addiction. It wasn’t so much a tactic as it was an insight on humanity.

This time, there were no good cops. Every single person he dealt with considered him a cop killer. “Innocent until proven guilty” was as much a myth as the good-cop/bad-cop being an intentional approach to police work.

Once exhaustion and frustration peaked, doubt and anger started to take their place.

Why did he follow the killer down the trail? He could easily have turned for home after seeing the damage to the old house. Dylan didn’t need trouble; he needed to go in the opposite direction of trouble.

Maybe he
was
secretly hoping that it was a drug deal. The addict inside of him was looking for a fix. If you’re out walking in the woods and stumble upon a score, clearly it’s a sign that things would be okay if you started using again. Right?

He didn’t really think that, but the addict’s mind is constantly trying to justify using one more time. One little hit of something would feel so good, and then he could walk it off with his trusty dog by his side. Being smart enough to know the truth and having the energy to battle your own brain are two different things.

Logic told him that he went down the path behind the killer because he is an addict. He was a slave to his habits, good or bad. Walking was a good habit and that trail was his fix. Through rain, snow, melting heat, and arctic cold, he had walked down that trail. No vandal or petty criminal would get in the way of his walking.

It was all Montana’s fault. If he hadn’t taken off to investigate the gunshot, none of this would have happened. Damn dog.

Dylan was losing the energy to battle his brain.

A tall officer entered the interrogation room. “You look like hell. I guess killing a cop can really wear you down,” he said.

There was no clock on the wall and Dylan didn’t have a watch. He assumed it was sometime on Sunday morning, but it was impossible to tell how early or late in the day it had gotten.

“I didn’t kill anyone. I was kidnapped at gunpoint
after
my dog found the officer.” Dylan could hear the absurdity in his head.

“Sure you were, happens all the time in Brookford.” The cop shook his head in disgust.

Silence.

The two men sat opposite each other, Dylan cuffed to the table and the officer leafing through a folder. The folder wasn’t thick, but Dylan could see that there were several sheets of paper inside.

If they were waiting for him to confess out of the blue, it wouldn’t happen. In prison, after detox, he thought a lot about lying and telling the truth. He knew that the liar always goes first.

For Dylan, the lies had typically been justification. “I was just…” fill in the blank. Holding this for someone, looking for who this belonged to, trying to put this back.

He had lied to his coaches, his teammates, his roommate, little old ladies, and, on several occasions, the police. Every single time, he had spoken first.

Today he had no lie and no tall tale to share. He had told the truth already and that’s all he had to say.

“We know you killed officer Farley. Help me understand why and what you did with the gun.” The officer spoke first, with the lie.

“I did not kill Officer Farley,” Dylan answered clearly.

“I’m not going to lie, things look pretty bad for you right now. The only chance you have to make things better is to start telling the truth. Did he catch you in a drug deal and you panicked and shot him in the head?” The cop kept his voice strong but level.

“I did not shoot officer Farley. I did not kill officer Farley. My dog found his body and then I was kidnapped at gunpoint.” Dylan did not have to think about his words; he was telling the truth.

The officer leveled a piercing stare into Dylan’s tired eyes. “You know, if you took your dealer to a hospital we’re going to find him. If you left him somewhere to die, his body will be discovered and then you’re on the hook for two murders.”

He knew they were trying to trip him up and make him more scared, acting like he had told them about a dealer and threatening him with two charges of murder. In his exhausted state, it was as intimidating as hell.

“In fact, when we hang two murders on you and include interstate weapons violations, I think the DA has to go for the death penalty by law.” The officer nodded, confident in his own understanding of the law.

Dylan was scared. Being handcuffed to a table and being questioned by the police was frightening, even for someone who knew they were innocent. He picked at the skin on his left palm, an old habit from his football days.

“I don’t have a dealer. I was walking my dog in the woods, he ran out and found the officer on the ground, and then I was kidnapped at gunpoint,” Dylan said, his voice revealing his agitation.

“Where did you get the car?” the officer asked. Next question; change of topic. The interrogator was trying to get him off balance. Even if he was confused, a direct answer to a simple question could get him in more trouble.

“It’s the kidnapper’s car. He forced me, at gunpoint, to drive him to the Canadian border. Once I knew he was gone, I went to the first building I saw and called 9-1-1,” Dylan growled back.

“Last chance for leniency. Why did you shoot officer Farley?” The cop spoke softly and Dylan had to make sure he heard the question right.

“I did not shoot officer Farley,” Dylan answered firmly.

Without another word, the officer rose from his chair and walked out the door.

As soon as Dylan began to drift off to sleep, a new officer came in. New face, same old questions and accusations. How long were they going to keep at it before some rational person decided that he had to be telling the truth? It didn’t matter; his story would never change, and he suspected he could recite the answers in his sleep.

By the time the nurse came in, Dylan was more sleep-deprived than he had ever been as a sober human. His head was pounding and his throat was dry.

“I hope you get time-and-a-half on Sundays,” Dylan said. He knew there was no warmth or humor in his tone.

“I do. Too bad for me it’s Monday morning,” the man answered as he pushed up Dylan’s sleeve and attached a blood pressure cuff.

It took more than a few beats for Dylan to realize that he had been more or less awake for forty-eight hours. He also knew that later in the day they would be approaching the total length of time they could hold him without charging him with anything. This little check-up could be a trick to keep him in custody while they worked on their case.

“You know they have not been letting me sleep. Sleep deprivation is a form of torture. I want to make sure that my lawyer gets a copy of these results,” Dylan said, even though he didn’t have a lawyer.

“We’re not recording any results. It’s just standard procedure for the shift change from the weekend team to the weekday team. We want to make sure you’re as healthy for the incoming team as you were for the team that brought you in,” the nurse replied stoically.

“Let me guess, you just need to establish a baseline,” Dylan said. “All the new guys coming on will want to ask me all the same old questions just so they can be sure they have all the right data.” Dylan expected a long day of more questions.

“I try to stay out of the police work. You seem healthy to me, a little stressed, but that’s to be expected. Relax, the justice system works.” The nurse snickered as he collected his things and turned to leave.

Before he got to the door it opened wide and a man in a black suit, white shirt, and a black tie walked in. The suited man’s face went from confident to startled and back to confident in the blink of an eye. Dylan assumed he was imagining things due to his exhaustion.

“I didn’t think anyone was in here.” The newcomer had what could be a hint of an accent.

“I was just leaving. He checks out medically, but I can’t promise he’ll stay awake,” the nurse said as he squeezed past and out into the hallway.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” the suit said absentmindedly as he pulled the door shut.

Dylan refused to speak first. At this point it had become a pride thing and one of his tricks for staying focused and consistent. He watched as the man pulled out a small notepad and a pen. The manila folder with all of Dylan’s history was conspicuously missing.

“What’s your name, son?” the suit asked coolly.

How the hell could this guy not know his name?
Dylan wondered.

“My name? Every other cop that’s come in here has a folder and knows more about me than I do. You wanna start with my fucking name?” Dylan said.

“I’m no small town cop. I’m agent John Smith with the FBI, and you’re right, I don’t give a shit about your name. What were you doing in Monson and what did your supposed abductor tell you?” The agent looked down his nose at Dylan.

Dylan listlessly recited the truth: “I was walking my dog in Monson and the guy told me to drive the car or he would put a hole in my chest.”

The agent remained standing. “We know you know about the lease. Did he offer you cash to hold it for him?” he asked.

This was a new line of questioning, and it didn’t make much sense to Dylan. Something felt familiar about the term “lease,” but he wasn’t sure what the guy was referring to. No one had offered him cash for anything, but his exhausted brain simply couldn’t deal with connections that felt like they made sense but didn’t.

“That doesn’t make any sense to me,” Dylan answered honestly.

The agent crossed the room in a flash, grabbed the back of Dylan’s head and slammed his face into the table. Pain and stars and adrenaline rushed through his body. Suddenly Dylan was not just awake but alert. He could feel the blood from his nose trickle onto his upper lip.

“Where are his papers?” the man hissed, inches from Dylan’s ear.

“In his car?” Dylan wasn’t sure what the papers had to do with the officer’s murder or why the FBI cared so much about them.

“And the medallion?” now the agent was whispering.

“Medallion? I honestly don’t know what that is. I didn’t take anything out of the car; hell, I didn’t even bring anything
into
the car. Whatever is in that car is yours; I won’t make a claim for anything.” Dylan thought that maybe the authorities were backtracking and looking for a way to keep themselves out of trouble once he was released.

“The medallion is a piece of sterling stamped with an image. Where is his car?”

“How the hell should I know where his car is? The last time I saw it, some Vermont statey was pressing my face against it while he was reading my rights.”

“If I find out that you know anything about the lease and didn’t tell me, you’ll regret it. You interfere with me or even show your face in the wrong place, and you’re dead, do you understand that?” Agent Smith spoke so slowly and clearly he took a breath between each word.

Dylan assumed it was a hallucination or a nightmare. This wasn’t the 1950s, the FBI can’t smash someone’s nose and threaten to kill them.
Had the agent shown him ID or a badge of any sort? Did any of the men and women who came in to question him prove who they were?

“I hope you find the lease or whatever it is you’re talking about, because you’re about to lose your job. When my lawyer gets here, you’re the first on my list of people who are going down,” Dylan snarled.

Without responding or even acknowledging that he heard anything, the man was at the door and on his way out. Dylan’s broken nose was starting to throb but his mind was surprisingly clear. They were laying the foundation for something, but what?

If the FBI really thought he had something they would charge him, not threaten him aggressively. It was starting to feel like a setup. The logic played out before him like a dream: If he was scared for his life, he would slip up and they could get the evidence they needed to convict him.

They were going to let him go and follow him in the hopes of finding the drug dealer to solidify their case. Except there was no drug dealer; at least, not one that Dylan knew of.