“WE KNOW SHE KNOWS SOMETHING,” Stevens told his wife. “We just don’t know how to get her to tell us what it is.”
Nancy Stevens unwrapped a sandwich and passed it to her husband. Dug in a paper bag for a carton of fries. She’d dropped by with lunch, and to check in on his progress, and Stevens had to admit he was grateful for the break.
He’d spent a few more fruitless hours in the interview room with the mystery girl and Maria Zeklos, trying in vain to convince her she was safe. The girl had stayed silent. She hadn’t responded. She’d huddled up in her chair and begged Stevens to leave her alone.
“She’s afraid,” Stevens told his wife. “I can’t come within fifteen feet without her tensing up.”
Nancy Stevens took a bite of her own sandwich. Chewed. “You said this poor girl was filthy.”
“That’s right,” Stevens said.
“She hadn’t eaten. Doesn’t speak any English.”
“Uh-huh.”
Nancy looked around the sheriff’s department. Watkins sat in his office, eating his own lunch from a brown paper bag. The deputies lingered by the coffee machine, talking baseball. “Let me talk to her,” Nancy said.
Stevens blinked. “What?”
“All this poor girl’s seen are men, Kirk,” she told him. “Big, burly policemen. She’s probably terrified. She opened up to me earlier, a little bit. Let me try again.”
“You want to try to interview her.”
“She could stand to talk to a woman, Kirk,” Nancy said. “You see any others around?”