Page 65 of Head Room (Caught Dead in Wyoming #15)

Shelton had started without me, but I didn’t complain when the nice young woman deputy escorted me to the room that allowed observation of Interview Room One.

I joined Mike and Richard Alvaro as Kyle-of-many-names said, “—and I didn’t do any of those things they said I did. I’m a good cop. A cop’s cop.”

“With Haus gone and James turning him down, we had to wait for a lawyer from out of town,” Richard murmured.

Kyle and the nondescript lawyer faced us, with Shelton’s and Russ Conrad’s backs to us.

From their postures, Shelton had the lead, so I wasn’t surprised when he spoke.

“That can be a thankless job, being a cop’s cop.”

Having primed him, Shelton sat back and let him go.

Not physically sat back, because Shelton’s posture didn’t change. The position of his head didn’t change. I couldn’t see it from this observation window, but I’d bet his expression didn’t change, either.

Still, I knew that’s exactly what he was doing.

Kyle Vaughn Quetcher Moser didn’t and the more he talked, the more certain of his invincibility he became.

He spilled details of what the videos showed and more. Shelton eased him into talking about using different names and he blabbed there, too. Without the lawyer saying a word.

“I could help this place fight off the lowlifes trying to take over like they do everywhere. All I did was good. But they left me to hang out to dry because they’re weak-assed—”

He added a string of uninventive curse words.

“Because a bunch of whining candy-ass—” More uninventive curses. Plus, I noticed referring to people’s derrieres appeared to be his fallback position. “—criminals—”

“Kids,” I said.

“Juveniles,” Russ Conrad said at the same time from inside the interview room, setting himself up as the authority Kyle and Shelton had to band together to fight.

“FFA,” Kyle said with a sneer. “Future Felons of America. And you’re all coddling them instead of making them straighten up and fly right.”

“Coddling by obeying the law and our constitution?” Conrad slid in.

“Damn right. They’re whining and moaning about their rights. We — the strong — need to keep the rest of them in order.”

He made eye contact with Shelton with one of those arrogant, fleeting smiles. Inviting him to join his duper’s delight.

“We — and our citizens — demand that our law enforcement obey the law and the constitution.” Shelton waited a beat for that to sink in. “And more.”

The jig was up.

Kyle Vaughn Quetcher Moser had no answer, so he fell back on an unimpressive smirk.

Conrad spelled out the consequences for lying on a Cottonwood County Sheriff’s Department application as well as in an official interview.

He also made it clear that all of his names were now part of the official record as well as the register designed to prevent him ever getting another law enforcement job.

We ducked out as they wrapped up.

KWMT-TV’s report would not include the details Mike and I got to enjoy. Still, watching this was a nice wedding present.

As Diana said, the old wedding softie.

* * * *

At the cookout, somehow the topic of the Jardos cabin fire came up while I . . . happened . . . to be talking with Tom’s neighbor, Clyde Baranski, another volunteer firefighter.

“It was a weird one, all right,” he said. “The radio was crackling from the start. Miles saying he was lead, Ned saying no, he was. And then it was like a race.”

“Is that usual?”

“Nah. It’s usually understood it’s who can get there first. Miles got a real good start, but you can’t make up the miles.

Besides, Ned has more experience.” He shook his head slightly.

“Ned buttoned up the scene, left guys there to watch for flares overnight. But they were still wrangling the next day when those folks were relieved. And then they found the body and—”

He’d lost my attention, not because I wasn’t interested, but because Connie had arrived with two passengers — Thomas and Vanessa Burrell, Tom’s parents.

I excused myself and started toward them.

Tom was there first.

I saw no hugs.

As I neared, Connie nodded toward me, he turned and scooped me to his side with one arm around my shoulders.

He made the introductions. Succinct and formal.

His father said, “Hello.”

His mother and I made eye contact. I held out a hand and she took it in both of hers, with warmer phrases. I added my other hand.

After a long moment, we parted awkwardly.

Connie — bless her — filled in with chatter.

My father-in-law slid into a momentary silence to say, “Connie says Burrell Roads business is down.”

Tom showed nothing, which said everything.

Connie rolled her eyes. “I said it had nearly returned to the level it was at before those corrupt—”

She didn’t need to say more because my parents arrive then. Bless them, too.

Their warmth and sociability bridged to the moment when Mike called Tom over to the grill.

By then, old neighbors and friends of the senior Burrells filled in around us.

Jean-Marie arrived, giving her parents hugs, then taking my arm and saying I was needed in the kitchen, which all who knew me knew was a fib.

Inside, I hugged her, but there was no time for more as the gathering’s flow carried us apart.

The first meeting was past. It had to get better from here, right?