Jamie sat with Dillon in the sheriff’s office, waiting as patiently as he could manage while Brandon chugged down a gallon of coffee. When he realized they were both watching him, Brandon looked up with an apologetic grin.
“Sorry about that. I was up all night trying to wrap up this case.”
“I know. Nate called me.” Dillon gave Jamie a hesitant glance before continuing. “He also said you had something to tell us.”
“Yeah, and I appreciate you coming down here before school. I know it’s damn early, but I wanted you to hear this from me before Morgan decides to make another little ‘announcement.’”
Jamie cringed, remembering all too well Dan Morgan’s last nasty surprise. “Did you ever figure out how he knew about Ben?”
Brandon made a face. “He and I had a discussion about that very thing. Morgan claims he heard it through the student grapevine. After ever so politely telling him I think he’s full of shit, I had a nice long chat with Morgan about what will happen the next time he leaks information about an ongoing investigation.”
Dillon grinned. “Translated, that means you ripped him a new one.”
“Let’s just say I made no secret about my displeasure, or the fact that I’ll take great joy in locking his ass up for obstruction if he does it again.” Brandon sighed. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t. Guys like Morgan think they know everything and have no problem sharing what little knowledge they’ve actually gleaned with the rest of the world. That’s why I wanted you to hear this from me first.”
Jamie’s whole body went rigid. He felt Dillon take his hand, but, as comforting as that was, Jamie didn’t even look at him. All his attention was focused on the sheriff and what he was about to say.
Brandon didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “As soon as we found Ben’s body, I contacted every auto-repair shop within a three hundred mile radius, asking them to get in touch with me if anyone came in with extensive front-end damage and/or a story that didn’t quite add up. Yesterday evening, I got a call from a shop over in Naperville, a place called Clyde’s Customs. A guy had popped in early Monday morning, almost the minute the owner, Clyde Shire, got the doors open. He was driving a Ford Taurus, and claimed he’d hit a dog which was lying in the middle of the street. The minute Clyde saw the amount of damage to the guy’s grill, bumper, and undercarriage, he felt sure the man was hiding something, but he had no idea what. He might have just dismissed his suspicions altogether if it hadn’t been for the man’s behavior. He was nervous, agitated, and insistent on getting the work started that day. When Clyde told him it would be a week before he could even get the parts, the guy freaked out and took off. That’s when Clyde called me and gave me the guy’s tag number. The guy never did give Clyde his name.” He paused long enough to take another swig of his coffee before looking to Jamie again. “Now, before I tell you the rest of it, you need to know that this investigation is far from closed, so I’m only gonna be able to give you the details that the D.A. is releasing to the press this afternoon. I got permission to go ahead and give Ben’s friends and family an advanced warning. I’ve spoken with Nora already, so now it’s your turn to here this, as unpleasant as it is.”
Dillon gripped Jamie’s hand tighter as Jamie said, “I understand, Brandon, and I’m grateful for the heads up.”
“Like I told Dillon, Nate and I want to help you guys any way we can, James.” He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “That having been said, here are the details I can give you. My men traced the tag number to a woman named Marcy Sledge.”
Jamie wondered if he looked as confused as he felt. “I thought you said a man brought the car into Mr. Shire’s shop?”
“I did. Marcy Sledge may be the registered owner of that car, but there’s no way she was driving it.”
“How do you know?”
“Mainly because she’s been dead for seven months. We at the Reed County Sheriff’s Department frown on deceased persons operating motor vehicles. They tend to veer to the left.” Brandon reached for the top file on a stack of about twenty located on the right side of his desk. “Marcy Sledge may not be with us any longer, but her son is.” Brandon removed a picture from the file and handed it to Jamie. “Meet Mr. Barry Sledge, age forty seven.”
Jamie’s free hand shook as he took the picture. “He’s the one who--”
Brandon’s eyes filled with sympathy. “Yes. Technically, the investigation is still ongoing, but he’s the one who hit Ben. There’s no doubt.”
Jamie felt Dillon lean over to better see the photo, but Jamie’s eyes never left it. He searched every inch of the ordinary face in the mug shot: the slightly crooked nose, the brown eyes, the graying hair. It was plain from his deep wrinkles and many scars that Barry Sledge was no stranger to hard living, but nothing in the photo indicated that the man was a killer. He looked just like someone you’d meet on the street or in a bar. Nothing sinister about him. For some reason, that angered Jamie. This guy was responsible for taking Ben’s life. How dare he look so normal?
Brandon leaned forward and took the picture from Jamie’s hand. “I know that look, James, and I know what you’re feeling.”
Jamie doubted that. “You do?”
“Yeah, I do. You were expecting the man to be some kind of monster, maybe have red eyes or some horns. How could a normal, average Joe have taken Ben’s life? You’re thinking there must have been some kind of mistake.”
Okay, so he did know. “Yeah. It doesn’t fit.”
Brandon put the picture back in the file. “Let me tell you something, kid. Between my time with the F.B.I. and my stint here, I’ve been a cop for almost nine years. I’ve arrested more people for more crimes than I can even count, but I have to tell you that I haven’t seen a perp yet who fit that ‘monster description.’ Oh, I’ve arrested some truly evil bastards, but not a one of them looked the part.” He moved the file back on top of the stack and leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him. “Because any arrests and/or convictions a suspect has that don’t fall into the juvenile category are a matter of public record, I can tell you that Barry Sledge is the epitome of the town drunk. Three D.U.I. convictions--the last one of which landed him in jail for twenty-two months--six arrests for public intoxication, two mandatory commitments to a state-funded drug rehabilitation center, and a five-year suspension of his driver’s license. The guy’s a walking statistic.”
And now Ben was a statistic, too. A dead one. Jamie shook himself, wanting to free his body of the grief and anguish, but it didn’t help. Ben’s death meant nothing, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Brandon spoke again. “Look, James, if you’re not ready to hear the rest of it, this can wait.”
“No, Sheriff, please. I need to hear this.” Jamie felt Dillon squeeze his hand.
Brandon nodded. “As soon as I ran the plates and found out that Marcy Sledge was dead, I looked for her next of kin. That’s how I found out about Barry. I showed his mug shot to Clyde Shire who made a positive I.D. The actual arrest was text book. Sledge was still living in his mother’s house, so we didn’t even have to hunt him down. We found the Ford in back, behind an old shed and covered over with a tarp. Good old Barry was in the house, stone drunk. We impounded the car, hauled Sledge down to the station, and then waited for the guy to sober up. The minute Barry Sledge’s head cleared, he was ready to cut a deal. He gave a full confession, and we have several witnesses who saw him tossing back tequila shots in a bar not far from the accident scene. So, with any luck, this thing is a done deal, and we won’t have to take it to trial.”
Jamie’s head shot up. “What do you mean it won’t go to trial?”
