Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

She looked Dean over carefully. He wasn’t anything to write home about. Maybe the fear in his eyes and his trembling chin made him seem insignificant and ordinary.

“We need to have a nice long talk about Claudia,” she said as a uniform led him away.

“Claudia Spalding?” Griffin mumbled lethargically, his eyes blinking rapidly in the harsh afternoon light. “Man, I built her house.”

“It’s such a small world, isn’t it?” Ramona replied cheerily.

K im Dean was scared, but he wasn’t stupid. He asked for an attorney and immediately dummied up. Ramona took him directly to the county jail, booked him on a murder one charge, and left him with a detention officer. The officer let Dean make his phone call to a lawyer and put him in an isolation cell, the first step on the way to being processed, fingerprinted, and strip-searched.

Ramona used the time to fill out additional booking forms on Dean, charging him with drug trafficking, conspiracy to commit murder, accessory to murder, forgery, distribution of controlled substances, and possession with intent to distribute. Although it only counted as a misdemeanor, she threw in an evading arrest charge for good measure.

She had a detention officer bring Dean to an interrogation room where she read off the additional charges, Mirandized him again, and asked if he’d like to make a voluntary statement.

Dean shook his head and said no.

Ramona knew his refusal barred her from asking questions, but that didn’t stop her from talking.

“Just in case you’re interested,” she said, “each prescription you forged counts as a separate charge. Let’s be conservative and say you did fifty. That’s a hundred and fifty years, if a judge sentences you to consecutive terms. Throw in all the other counts and I’m guessing you’ll get about 250 years in the slam. Of course, you may get time off for good behavior.”

“I want to talk to my lawyer,” Dean said. Color had come back to his face and his rosy cheeks clashed with the orange jail jumpsuit. He sat with his feet crossed under the table and his hands hidden from view.

Chief Kerney thought that Dean might break easily under interrogation, but it wasn’t happening. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of bully who pushed people around to hide his own inadequacies. Maybe, instead, Dean was the control freak type who got off on dominating and manipulating people.

About six feet tall, Dean had light brown hair that receded over his temples and exposed his tiny ears. He had a long, slightly turned up nose that gave him a haughty look. But his rapidly blinking brown eyes signaled underlying stress.

“When the lawyer comes,” Ramona said, gathering her paperwork, “ask him about the federal sentencing laws for drug trafficking, possession, and distribution.”

“Why should I do that?” Dean asked.

Ramona stared past Dean at the dull gray concrete wall of the room. Jail was a grim place nobody ever really got used to. It always gave her the willies.

“The feds have harsher penalties,” she replied curtly. “You may want to deal with us instead of them.”

She left Dean and went to check in with Matt Chacon, who’d booked Mitch Griffin into custody. Ramona stepped into the interrogation room and found that big, buff Griffin had waived his Miranda rights and was talking.

He had a pretty face with even features. Combined with the day-old stubble on his chin, he vaguely resembled a country music singer who’d been a teenage heartthrob some years back before quickly fading into obscurity.

Ramona wondered if Mitch had ever slept with Claudia Spalding. She asked him about it, and he shook his head. Matt Chacon told her Mitch was willing to testify against Dean on the drug trafficking charge if he could cut a deal.

“You didn’t promise him anything?” Ramona asked, eyeing Griffin.

“Nada,” Matt replied.

“Let’s hold off on asking the assistant district attorney to make any offers until we search Mitch’s house. I’ll call for a warrant.”

“Why do you want to do that?” Griffin asked, his glance nervously flitting from Chacon to Ramona.

“Do you ever gamble at the Indian casinos, Mitch?” Ramona asked.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“Then you know what a punt is, right?”

“Yeah, you bet against the banker in faro and games like that.”

“Consider me the banker in this game,” Ramona said, smiling cheerfully at Griffin. “Depending on the amount of product we find, you may be facing the possibility of life without parole. If I seize enough to put you away for life, I’ll be holding all the cards. So, there will be no plea bargain until I know exactly what your maximum bet is going to be.”

Griffin slumped in his chair. “How much stash do you have to find?”

Ramona waved a finger at Griffin. “No fair asking, Mitch. That’s cheating.”

Ramona stepped into the hallway to the sounds of an opening door and footsteps down the corridor. Chief Kerney, an ADA, and Dean’s lawyer walked in her direction. The ADA peeled off into the room where Mitch Griffin was parked, and Ramona directed the defense attorney to the room where Dean waited.

“Where are we?” Kerney asked.

“Dean’s not talking,” Ramona said.

“How many charges did you lay on him?” Kerney asked.

“Seven felonies, including multiple counts of forgery,” Ramona said, “plus one misdemeanor.”

“That should get him talking eventually,” Kerney said with an approving nod. “A DEA team is at the pharmacy. I told our people to stay and assist.”

The ADA poked his head out the door of the interrogation room. “You’ve got Griffin’s voluntary permission to search his house,” he said. “His drug stash is in a cabinet above the refrigerator.” He handed Ramona a signed search release form.

“What did you promise him?” Ramona asked.

“Nothing,” the ADA replied in a voice loud enough for Griffin to hear. “He wants immunity from prosecution. He isn’t going to get it. At least, not yet. Maybe not ever.”

The ADA retreated into the room and closed the door.

“I want Griffin to do time,” Ramona said. “Lots of it.”

“He probably will,” Kerney said. “I asked the ADA to play him for a while to see if he knows anything about the Spalding murder. If that doesn’t pan out, we can use what he tells us to nail down the drug charges on Dean and round up his customers.”

“We’re not backing off on the murder charges against Dean, are we, Chief?” Ramona asked.

Ramona’s tight voice gave away her apprehension. Kerney smiled reassuringly. “Not at all. I want him to roll over on Claudia Spalding. We can go to trial without Dean testifying against her, but we’ll have a much better chance at a conviction if we have him in our pocket.”

“What will the DA offer Dean?”

“He’ll drop all but the murder one and drug trafficking charges if he cops a plea and gives us Claudia.”

“Has Dean’s lawyer been advised?” Ramona asked.

“No, and he won’t be until after the preliminary hearing and bail has been set. Since Dean’s a flight risk, Sid will request that he be held without bond.”

Ramona flashed a pleased smile.

“One more thing, Sergeant,” Kerney said. “Remember, the DEA can file against Dean in federal court on the drug and forgery charges that we drop, and I fully expect that they will. His lawyer should snap to that immediately, and listen hard to any plea bargain offer.”

“That won’t happen until a couple of days from now,” Ramona said.

“Exactly. Use the time wisely, Sergeant. If Dean doesn’t play ball, you’ll need as much as you can get on Claudia Spalding to make a strong case.”