Page 33 of Last Girls Alive

“Yep, when I first started on the force I used to transport prisoners from the jail to here.” He studied the area. “Nothing’s changed.”

Katie followed the signs for visitors and law enforcement personnel. There were several police cars and a transport van already parked, but she managed to find a space. She grabbed her small notebook, but left behind her cell phone and personal items.

McGaven followed Katie’s example, emptying his pockets of personal items but keeping a file folder with notes and information.

They both exited the vehicle and adjusted their suit jackets, covering their badges and guns, before walking to the visitor entrance.

Standing at the first entrance waiting, Katie spied three cameras all focused on visitors and the parking lot. Goose pimples ran down her arms and the back of her neck; an alert system within her, warning her that she was entering a potential enemy territory and that several secure doors would be bolted behind her—with no easy escape if something went terribly wrong.

“Identifications, please,” came a voice.

Katie and McGaven showed their badges in the direction of one of the cameras.

“Detective Katie Scott and Deputy Sean McGaven are here to interview inmate Shelly McDonald,” she said.

There was a pause and then a loud buzz unlocking the first set of doors.

Katie pulled the door open and they entered. She expected it to be cooler than outside, but it was, in fact, warmer and the air was quite stale.

A correctional officer waited for them in a booth behind bulletproof glass. He barely looked up as he said, “Relinquish your weapons,” as he must have had said hundreds of times before to various visiting police officers.

Katie looked to her right to find a long row of locker-type storage units. She put her Glock 17 inside one of the cubbyholes, closed the small door, and retrieved the key. Putting it into her pocket, she waited for McGaven to do the same.

They waited for the next set of doors to open for them. There were several sets of metal detectors as a last resort before visitors moved deeper into the prison. As they walked through one set, briefly waiting to hear the loud metal doors secure behind them leaving an echo bouncing off the walls, they were immediately faced with another.

When they finally reached the area where the interview rooms were located, Katie concentrated on her breathing and ran questions through her mind. Thinking about McDonald’s character, she thought it best for McGaven, as a man, to take point on the interview.

Another correctional officer joined them and unlocked a door.

Katie put her hand on McGaven’s arm. She whispered quietly to him, “I want you to run the interview, okay?”

His eyes widened but his demeanor told her that he understood. “You got it,” he said.

Katie would be merely an observer but would intervene if necessary to move things forward or to pose a question that hadn’t been asked.

They moved into the small room with a metal table stationed in the middle with two chairs on one side, and a single chair on the other.

The door closed behind them.

Katie took her seat next to McGaven and waited. She glanced around the room, which seemed unexpectedly clean. The four off-white walls appeared to have been painted recently.

They didn’t wait long to hear the door unlock and a guard entered, escorting Shelly McDonald in a prison jumpsuit. She looked a bit older than she did in her mug shot, but nonetheless, it was easy to see that she’d tried to hold onto her looks, even in prison. Her hair was neat and she wore some makeup.

The guard guided her to the empty chair, unlocked her handcuffs and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Shelly looked at McGaven, smiled, and then brought her focus to Katie, scrutinizing her for a moment, before settling her attention back on McGaven.

“Mrs. McDonald,” he politely addressed. “I’m Deputy McGaven and this is Detective Scott. We’re working a homicide investigation.”

The woman’s eyes lit up and she dramatically leaned forward as if to hang on every word McGaven said. “What does that have to do with me, darlin’?” she said with a slight southern accent.

McGaven referred to his notes, but Katie knew that he already had memorized most of the information. He wanted to cut eye contact to keep the woman interested. “You were the managing caretaker for the Elm Hill Mansion home for foster girls? Correct?”

Her demeanor changed; leaning back, she stiffened her posture. “Yeah,” she said. “I never thought I’d hear about that place again.”

“You didn’t like your job?”

“It was okay, if you like spoiled brats.”