C. Box: Breaking Point

“Then we’re cool?” Nate asked.

Joe was unclear how to answer.

Nate said, “I saw Marybeth’s post on that website, asking me for help. You don’t understand or want to know my situation these days, but when I saw that she asked for help I dropped everything and showed up. So cut me a fucking break, Joe. I did it for you.”

“And I appreciate it,” Joe said.

“We can always go back,” Nate offered. “I could blow him away and burn his house down.”

Joe shook his head and said, “I’m tired of fires. Plus, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

He drew his cell phone out and called Marybeth at home.

“Honey, are Hannah or Pam Roberson still there?”

“Hannah is here, of course,” Marybeth said. “Pam’s going over her statement for the press conference later. I think there will be plenty of press, based on the calls we’ve received.”

“Good for her.”

Another call flashed on the screen of Joe’s phone, and when he saw who it came from, he said to Marybeth, “I have to take this-it’s Sheriff Reed.”

“Call later.”

“I will.” Then: “Sheriff.”

“Joe, you were right. We pulled him over as soon as he crossed the county line and he’s sitting in my interrogation room, demanding his lawyer.”

“Was he packing?”

“He had a loaded twelve-gauge shotgun in the backseat.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Joe said, and punched off.

Nate had an expectant look on his face.

“It worked,” Joe said. “The press conference flushed him out.”

Nate nodded with satisfaction. He said, “Drop me off at your place. As much as I’d love to go with you and brace that asshole, I can’t be seen by all the coppers.”

Joe agreed and smiled to himself.

It worked.

Joe pushed through the double doors of the vestibule into the reception area of the Twelve Sleep County Sheriff’s Department and nodded a greeting to Wendy the dispatcher, who waved back. The walls inside were decorated with elk, deer, and antelope heads as well as mounted trophy trout that needed dusting.

“Mike in?” he asked.

“He’s in his office waiting for you,” she said. Then, looking him over: “It’s strange not to see you wearing your uniform.”

“Feels strange, too,” Joe said. He strode around the counter and saw Sheriff Reed wheel out of his office to greet him.

“He’s in there?” Joe asked, gesturing toward the closed door of the interrogation room.

“We’re watching him on the monitor,” Reed said. “He’s fidgety, to say the least.”

Reed backed his wheelchair into his office and Joe followed. Deputy Justin Woods, evidence tech Gary Norwood, and Dulcie looked up from where they sat on folding chairs in front of a television monitor. The black-and-white image was of Juan Julio Batista seated at a bare table. He was aware of the camera lens above him and glanced at it furtively.

Dulcie looked concerned. She was a famously by-the-book county attorney. Joe grinned at her in an effort to reassure her she’d have a clean prosecution, that not too many rules had been broken. That this might flirt with entrapment but not quite cross over the line.

He held up his digital recorder. “It was Blevins working with Batista.”

To Norwood, Joe said, “When you transcribe this, you’ll want to leave out the threats.”

Norwood smiled and Dulcie moaned.

“Don’t worry, Dulcie, you can lose the tape and the transcription later. You won’t even need it.”

Joe turned to the image of Batista. He looked small, pale, and nervous. There was an ugly red welt over his right eye.

As if reading his mind, Reed said with transparent insincerity, “He forgot to duck when we put him in the cruiser. He doesn’t like to be in handcuffs. Apparently, he still doesn’t think much of us small-town Barney Fifes.”

“Has he talked?”

“No,” Reed said. “And I don’t suspect he will for a while. That may change when he realizes he may not get out right away.”

Dulcie said with caution, “He refused to answer questions and he immediately demanded his lawyer so we backed off. From what I understand, his counsel is flying up from Denver as we speak.”

Joe said, “Good thing I don’t have to care about that kind of thing anymore.”

“Joe. .” she said, her voice trailing off.

“I promised you ten minutes with him if he showed up and no more,” Reed said to Joe. “So you better get in and get out. Be quick.”

Joe nodded. “Are you going to watch on the monitor?”

“Yes, and it’s being recorded,” Dulcie said, obviously uncomfortable with the arrangement. “So don’t. .”

But Joe had already turned and marched out of the office for the interrogation room.

Juan Julio Batista looked up at Joe like a trapped animal. His cuffed hands were on top of the table, his fingers interlaced. His eyes narrowed as Joe sat down across from him.

Batista said, “I’m not saying a word to anyone until my lawyer gets here. You have no right to question me any further. I know my rights.”

Joe shrugged. “I’m not a cop. Those rules don’t apply to me. I resigned, remember?”

“Then why are you here?”

Joe said, “I’ve found it’s more efficient to do some things when you don’t have a badge.”

Batista looked puzzled.

Joe plucked the recorder out of his pocket and placed it on the table between them. He hit the play button of his conversation with Blevins. Batista’s face drained of color while he listened. Joe turned it off as Blevins said Please, dear God, get him off me.

“That’s what was driving me crazy all along,” Joe said. “How you knew to send the agents up here so quickly when Butch started working again. Now I know.”

“That was obviously coerced,” Batista said, his voice not as strong as he’d probably intended it, Joe thought. “It will never stand up in court.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Joe said. “Blevins will cut a deal and throw you under the bus to save himself. And proving you called him repeatedly will be a matter of getting your agency phone records. My buddy Chuck Coon with the FBI is in the process of obtaining them now. You’re going to prison, Batista. Rawlins, Wyoming, will be your new home. And no one deserves it more than you.”

Something went dead in Batista’s eyes.

“My wife is really smart, and she put together a timeline,” Joe said. “Tell me if she got anything wrong, okay? We want to make sure we understand the whole story.”

Batista didn’t speak.

“You grow up in Chicago as a dweeb named John Pate. No one likes you much because you’re not a likeable boy, but you have a burning desire to make something of yourself and show them someday. So you can’t wait to leave all that behind you and you go to college out of state in Fort Collins. You kind of reinvent yourself there, right? College is a good place to do that. Am I right on so far?”

“This is ridiculous,” Batista said.

“I’ll take that as a yes. You major in sociology and something called environmental affairs. As a senior you act like a big shot. During orientation week for newbies, you notice a very cute and naive freshman girl fresh from Douglas, Wyoming. She looks like she’s right off the ranch and she’s at this big school with no friends. Her name is Pam Burridge. You become infatuated with her, and because she feels over her head at such a big school, she appreciates the attention from you for a while.”

Batista broke off his gaze and swiveled his head away. Joe took it as a good sign.

“But you came on too strong with her. You were too domineering. You didn’t want her to make any new friends, and you spooked her when you would go on and on about your future lives together. You told her her job would be to support you and look good on your arm. If she so much as talked to another male, you would go into jealous rages. You didn’t know it at the time because you had such a high opinion of yourself, but she was desperately looking for a way out. She met that way out at a club in Old Town in Fort Collins. His name was Butch Roberson, a redneck construction worker who barely graduated high school, and he was passing through town on his way back to Saddlestring. He was the kind of guy you despised-blue-collar, rough around the edges, no sophistication. A rube.”