Chapter 50 Part 50
Asher
Deputy Sheriff Mike Olsen arrived an hour later to take him to processing. It grated on his nerves, having his fingerprints taken, and standing in front of the camera; it made him feel like a criminal.
“Turn to your right,” he said.
Asher turned, and he could feel the bright flash against his skin. It was all in his head, but the flash reminded him of other flashes; flashes in the night, followed by the sound of rapid machine gun fire. Stun grenades. Dead, nameless men.
“Turn to your left.”
It was a repeat of his last tour, flashing through his mind. Dead friends, dead brothers. Bodies left in the sand. The whir of a helicopter’s blades as they were flown back to base, bruised, bloody, and sometimes broken.
“You can wash your hands over there,” Mike said.
Asher could feel the darkness clouding his mind, creeping along his spine, settling in his soul. He closed his eyes as he washed the ink from his fingers. He needed to breathe.
“Asher?”
The darkness pulled away a little, and Asher opened his eyes, closed the tap, and dried his hands. “Interrogation time?”
Mike almost smiled, but caught himself at the last moment. “Yeah, Sheriff Connely’s waiting for you.”
Mike walked behind Asher to the only interrogation room the station had, and opened the door as Asher stepped to the side. The inside of the room was bleak, all metal, with a cold, impersonal feeling to it.
Asher sat down, and nodded his head at Preston Michaels. Mike seemed unsure of what to do, and he left Asher uncuffed at the table. Sheriff Bill motioned for Mike to leave, and the door was closed again.
“Asher, I’ve read you your rights, and you indicated that you understood them,” Bill said.
“Yes, Sheriff.”
“Your lawyer’s present, so if there’s anything you want to go over with him before I start questioning you, I can give you some time alone,” Bill said.
“That’s not necessary,” Asher said. Preston looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.
“Alright then, let’s get started,” Bill said, and sat down opposite Asher. He had a standard brown folder in front of him, and he flipped it open. “Where were you last Saturday? From around 1 a.m. to 4 a.m.?”
“I decline to answer that, Sheriff.” Preston closed his mouth. He’d been on the verge of advising Asher not to answer that.
“Did you see Malcolm Walters that weekend?”
“No.”
“Asher, we found blood in your shed, and on the back of your truck. Do you have anything to say to that?”
“No, Sheriff.”
“Can you explain the blood?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Well?” Bill said.
“I decline to explain that, Sheriff.”
Asher could see the frustration on the sheriff’s face, but he wasn’t going to back down. He wasn’t going to give the sheriff even a shred of something to go on.
“You knew Malcolm Walters had come to town looking for Maggie, right?”
Asher nodded his head. “Yes, Sheriff. I already told you that when you questioned me at my house.”
“Without a lawyer present, Sheriff?”
“It was just a conversation,” Bill said, looking at his notes again.
“You said the man wanted to ‘have some fun with her’ before essentially kidnapping her,” Bill said.
“Yes. That was the conversation I overheard.”
“You moved Maggie and her daughter into your house, and just went about your normal lives?”
“The man was aware that Maggie worked at the ranch. I felt that it would be better if he came to the ranch where I was with Maggie. I planned on talking to the man, and finding out exactly what he wanted. He never showed up at the ranch, and I thought he’d left town.”
“Asher, you have to know things are looking bad for you. The man threatened your fiancée, he went missing hours later, and his body was found a few days later. There’s blood on the back of your truck, and in your shed, where you keep all manner of tools. There’s video footage from across the street. It shows a tall man, over six feet, wearing a cowboy hat, having an altercation with Malcolm Walters.”
“I’d like to see this video footage, Sheriff,” Preston said. He’d been quiet the entire time, making notes, but now he looked at the sheriff with eyes that clearly showed he wasn’t backing down.
Bill sighed, and left the interrogation room. He returned a few moments later, carrying a laptop with a memory stick in one of the USB ports. He placed it on the table, and turned the laptop toward Preston and Asher.
The black and white footage started playing. It showed the street front of a few shops on Main Street; the time frame was just after 1 a.m. Malcolm Walters came into view, and the tall cowboy was in his face, grabbing the lapels of his jacket, and clearly having a verbal confrontation with him.
The lighting was perfect for Malcolm Walters; it showed the shock on his face, but the cowboy’s face was obscured by the hat. It was clear the man knew there was a camera there, and there wasn’t much to go on in terms of making an identification.
“You can’t positively say that’s my client on that footage,” Preston said.
“No, I probably can’t, but a jury of his peers will look at all the evidence and say it could be him,” Bill said.
“I’ll have that footage thrown out so fast you won’t have time to blink,” Preston argued.
Asher kept staring at the frozen image. He knew exactly who it was. It was clear as day to see when you knew how that man moved, how he walked, and the way he’d gripped Malcolm Walter’s jacket in his hands.
“How long will it take for the blood tests to come back?” Asher asked.
“A few days,” Bill said, sighing again. “You’d make things a whole lot easier if you just confessed, son.”
“There are a lot of things I’m not telling you, Sheriff. I’m not trying to be a hardass here. The things I refuse to talk about are things I won’t discuss with anyone, not even Preston, but I can tell you one thing.”
Bill Connely shifted in his seat, leaning slightly forward. “Give me something, Asher.”
“I didn’t kill Malcolm Walters, and I’m not the man in that video footage.”