Leeper glared at Slater as if he might reach across the table and grab his throat, but Slater was not the least bit worried.
“You’ve heard of the Miranda rights, haven’t you, Mr. Leeper?” Slater continued.
“Yep.”
“Of course you have. I’m sure you’ve been in many of these rooms over the years,” Slater said with a nasty grin. Leeper was not grinning. Capshaw was already taking notes.
Slater continued: “First of all, you’re not required to talk to us. Period. Understand?”
Leeper shook his head, yes.
“But if you do talk to us, then anything you say can be used against you in court. Got it?”
“Yep.”
“You have the right to a lawyer, to legal advice. Understand?”
“Yep.”
“And if you can’t afford one, which I’m sure yo
u cannot, then the State will provide one for you. Are you with me?”
“Yep.”
Slater slid the sheet of paper close to Leeper and said, “If you sign here, then you agree that I’ve explained your rights and that you are voluntarily waiving them.” He placed a pen on top of the paper. Leeper took his time, read the words, fiddled with the pen, then finally signed his name. “Can I have some coffee?” he asked.
“Cream and sugar?” Slater asked.
“No, just black.”
Slater nodded at one of the uniformed officers, who left the room.
“Now, we have some questions for you,” Slater said. “Are you ready to talk?”
“Maybe.”
“Two weeks ago, you were in prison in California, serving a life sentence for kidnapping. You escaped through a tunnel with six others, and now you’re here in Strattenburg.”
“You got a question?”
“Yes, Mr. Leeper, I have a question. Why did you come to Strattenburg?”
“I had to go somewhere. Couldn’t just hang around outside the prison, know what I mean?”
“I suppose. You lived here once, correct?”
“When I was a kid, sixth grade, I think. Went to the middle school for a year, then we moved off.”
“And you have relatives in the area?”
“Some distant kin.”
“One of those distant relatives is Imelda May Underwood, whose mother had a third cousin named Ruby Dell Butts, whose father was Franklin Butts, better known out in Massey’s Mill as ‘Logchain’ Butts, and ‘Logchain’ had a half-brother named Winstead Leeper, ‘Winky’ for short, and I believe he was your father. Died about ten years ago.”
Leeper absorbed all this and finally said, “Winky Leeper was my father, yes.”
“So somewhere in the midst of all this divorcing and remarrying, you came to be a tenth or eleventh cousin of Imelda May Underwood, who married a man named Thomas Finnemore and now goes by the name of May Finnemore, mother of young April. This sound right to you, Mr. Leeper?”
“I never had any use for my family.”
“Well, I’m sure they’re real proud of you, too.”
The door opened and the officer placed a paper cup of steaming black coffee on the table in front of Leeper. It appeared to be too hot to drink, so Leeper just stared at it. Slater paused for a second, then pressed on. “We have copies of five letters April wrote to you in prison. Sweet, kid stuff—she felt sorry for you and wanted to be pen pals. Did you write her back?”
“Yep.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know. Several times, I guess.”
“Did you come back to Strattenburg to see April?”
Leeper finally picked up the cup and took a sip of coffee. Slowly, he said, “I’m not sure I want to answer that question.”
For the first time, Detective Slater seemed to become irritated. “Why are you afraid of that question, Mr. Leeper?”
“I don’t have to answer your question. Says so right there on your little piece of paper. I can walk out right now. I know the rules.”
“Did you come here to see April?”
Leeper took another sip, and for a long time nothing was said. The four officers stared at him. He stared at the paper cup. Finally, he said, “Look, here’s the situation. You want something. I want something. You want the girl. I want a deal.”
“What kind of a deal, Leeper?” Slater shot back.
“Just a moment ago it was Mr. Leeper. Now, just Leeper. Do I frustrate you, Detective? If so, I’m real sorry. Here’s what I have in mind. I know I’m going back to prison, but I’m really tired of California. The prisons are brutal—overcrowded, lots of gangs, violence, rotten food—you know what I mean, Detective Slater?”
Slater had never been inside a prison, but to move things along he said, “Sure.”
“I want to do my time here, where the slammers are a bit nicer. I know because I’ve had a good look at them.”
“Where’s the girl, Leeper?” Slater said. “If you kidnapped her, you’re looking at another life sentence. If she’s dead, you’re looking at capital murder and death row.”
“Why would I harm my little cousin?”
“Where is she, Leeper?”
Another long sip of coffee, then Leeper crossed his arms over his chest and grinned at Detective Slater. Seconds ticked away.
“You’re playing games, Leeper,” Detective Capshaw said.
“Maybe, maybe not. Is there any reward money on the table?”
“Not for you,” Slater said.
“Why not? You give me some money, I’ll take you to the girl.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Fifty thousand bucks, and you can have her.”