The Racketeer

interrogation room was sending the video across the commonwealth to a makeshift room outfitted with an astonishing supply of gadgets and technology. Four other agents sat with Westlake, all staring at the eyes and expressions of Mr. Rucker.
    “No way,” mumbled one of the other four. “This guy’s too smart for this. He knows we’ll find the trailer, the wallet, the fake ID, the Hummer.”
    “Maybe not,” mumbled another. “Right now, it’s just an escape. He’s thinking we have no clue about the murder. This is nothing serious.”
    “I agree,” said another. “I think he’s betting, playing the odds. He thinks he can survive a few questions, then get hauled back to jail and then to prison. He’s thinking he’ll call his cousin at some point and tell him to grab everything.”
    “Wait and see,” said Westlake. “Let’s see how he reacts when the first bomb hits.”

    At 2:00 a.m., Quinn said, “Can I use the restroom?”
    Delocke stood and escorted him out of the room and down the hall. Another agent loitered about, a show of force. Five minutes later, Quinn was back in his seat.
    Pankovits said, “It’s rather late, Quinn, you want to check in at the jail and get some sleep? We have plenty of time.”
    “I’d rather be here than in the jail,” he said sadly. “How much more time you think I’ll get?” he asked.
    Delocke replied, “Don’t know, Quinn. That’s up to the U.S. Attorney. Bad part is that they won’t send you back to a camp. Ever. You’re headed for a real prison.”
    “You know, Jesse, I sorta miss the camp. Wasn’t so bad after all.”
    “Why’d you leave it?”
    “Stupid. Why? Because I could. Just walk away and nobody seemed to care.”
    “We interview twenty-five guys a year who walk away from a federal camp. ‘Stupid,’ I think, is the best word.”
    Pankovits shuffled some papers and said, “Now, Quinn, I think we’ve got a handle on the time line here. Dates, places, movements, cash earnings. All of this will be included in your pre-sentence report. The good part is that you didn’t do anything exceptionally bad over the past three months. Some drug running, which of course will not help you, but at least you didn’t hurt anyone, right?”
    “Right.”
    “And this is the complete story, right? Nothing left out? You’re telling us everything?”
    “Yep.”
    The two agents stiffened somewhat and frowned. Pankovitssaid, “What about Roanoke, Quinn? Did you spend any time in Roanoke?”
    Quinn looked at the ceiling, gave it a thought, and said, “Maybe I passed through once or twice, but that’s all.”
    “Are you sure about that?”
    “Yes, I’m sure.”
    Delocke opened a file, scanned a sheet of paper, and asked, “Who is Jackie Todd?”
    Quinn’s eyes closed as his mouth fell open slightly. A soft guttural sound, one from deep inside, came out, as if he’d been struck somewhere below the belt. His shoulders dropped. If he’d been white, he would have turned pale. “Don’t know,” he finally said. “Never met him.”
    Delocke continued: “Really? Well, it looks like Mr. Jackie R. Todd was arrested on Tuesday night, February 8, at a bar in Roanoke. Public drunk, assault. The police report says he got in a fight with some other drunks and spent the night in jail. Next morning, he posted a cash bond of $800 and walked out.”
    “Wasn’t me.”
    “Is that so?” Delocke slid across a sheet of paper, and Quinn slowly picked it up. It was a mug shot, clearly one of himself.
    “Not much doubt about it, Quinn, right?”
    Quinn laid down the sheet of paper and said, “Okay, okay. So I had an alias. What was I supposed to do? Play hide-and-seek with my real name?”
    “Of course not, Quinn,” Pankovits said. “But you lied to us, didn’t you?”
    “You’re not the first cops I’ve lied to.”
    “Lying to the FBI can get you five years.”
    “Okay, I fibbed a little.”
    “No surprise there, but now we can’t believe anything. I guess we’ll have to start over.”
    Delocke said, “On February 9, one Jackie Todd walked into aused-car lot in Roanoke and paid $24,000 cash for a 2008 Hummer H3. This ring a bell, Quinn?”
    “No. Wasn’t me.”
    “Didn’t think so.” Delocke slid across a copy of the bill of sale. “And you’ve never seen this before, have you?”
    Quinn looked at it and said, “No.”
    Pankovits snapped, “Come on, Quinn. We’re not half as stupid as you think we are. You were in Roanoke on February 8,