Page 67 of The Fragile Ones

“Yeah, why?”

He shrugged.

Crap.

Katie realized that if McGaven had noticed her jitters and stress, then Rodriguez would too. She loosened up her shoulders and neck, breathing deep, and readied herself. This was her moment to shine and to move the investigation forward.

A correctional officer with “Bush” printed on his ID tag motioned for Katie to go into the first interview room. It was the largest room, and had the best facilities to restrain detainees with potential for violence. She thought it odd for Rodriguez, so she stopped and said to the officer, “Is there a problem with him?”

“He’s clever. Tried to escape twice. Be on your guard when you interview him. If you need anything, holler.”

She nodded and moved toward the door. The correctional officer stood at attention outside and waited.

Katie stepped into the room as McGaven shut the door behind them. She had never used this room before, but it had built-in cameras and microphones. The atmosphere upped her angst, but at the same time, she felt energized and wanted to get to work.

Darren Jonathan Rodriguez, thirty-nine years old, with a mixed bag of offenses and a live warrant, sat at the table in the traditional California orange jumpsuit, head down, wrists shackled and attached to metal loops. His jet-black hair, greasy and over-long, hung down around his face. He clenched his hands into fists and then released them on an endless loop.

McGaven slowly pulled out the metal chair, the legs screeching a horrible high-pitch scream. He paused, and then sat down staring at Rodriguez without saying a word.

Katie glanced to the left where there was a two-way mirror and saw her reflection.

“Mr. Rodriguez,” she began.

There was no movement or response from him. He didn’t raise his head or look at her.

Katie raised her file and notepad and slammed it down on the table to get his attention.

Rodriguez slowly lifted his head. His dark brown eyes, almost black, stared right through her. He was in desperate need of a shave.

“Why are we here, Mr. Rodriguez?” she said.

He finally spoke. “You tell me.”

“Oh, but what fun would that be? I want to hear what you have to say.” She remained standing so that he had to look up to talk to her.

“How long have you lived in Rock Creek?” she continued.

“A while.”

“Eight, nine years?”

“Something like that.”

“I like Sissy,” she said, letting him know they had been in his apartment.

He looked away.

Got him.

“She talked a lot about you—even though you annoyed her, she liked you. You owe her two hundred bucks.”

“I told her I would send it in a couple of weeks.”

“Did you tell her where you were going?”

“No.”

“Is that because you didn’t know where you are headed? Or were you waiting for your orders?”