Chapter Thirty-seven
Paul Henderson was escorted into the conference room. His shackles were removed and he dropped into the chair on which Ron Van Cleave had been sitting.
He was an unpleasant young man, emboldened by his physicality, and mean-spirited. He reminded me of a snake, his reptilian black eyes flashing, coiled and ready to strike at any moment. He glowered at us.
“As I mentioned to Mr. Van Cleave, we’ve invited you here to participate in an informal discussion regarding your association with Henry Carson and your participation in the play parties he organized. You’re not under arrest and you’re not a suspect in Mr. Carson’s murder.”
“But you busted me and dragged me in here just the same.”
“We wanted to insure confidentiality.”
“Who are you?”
“Deputy Sheriff Steel.”
“Well, Deputy Sheriff Steel, I don’t much care for your methods. I didn’t do jack. I didn’t kill anyone. Maybe I fucked a few girls, but I’m eighteen years old and when I last looked, that wasn’t a crime. Turn me loose.”
“Were the girls you had sex with eighteen also?”
“How would I know?”
“I’d have thought their age would have been your primary concern.”
“For what reason?”
“So you’d be clear about the difference between consensual sex and illegal sex with a minor.”
He didn’t say anything, although a perturbed look did manage to cross his face.
“Have you anything else to say?”
Apparently, he didn’t, as he sat silently.
“Then, thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Henderson,” I said. “Upon your return to your cell, you will officially be placed under arrest and your rights read to you. Just FYI, you’ll be charged with unlawful sex with a minor and suspicion of murder. Congratulations. You just turned an informal little chat into a capital offense charge. I guess Coach Maxwell was wrong.”
He looked at me questioningly.
“He said you were smart.”
I nodded to Al Striar. We both stood. “See you at the arraignment.”
We stepped out of the room. The guard asked if we wanted Henderson returned to his cell.
“Not yet,” I said. “Let him stew in there for a while. Let me know when he starts calling for me.”
“You think this bozo is going to call for you?” Striar asked.
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because once he processes what just went down, he’ll realize his options are limited.”
It took about fifteen minutes before the guard stuck his head into my office. “You sure called that one right, Buddy.”
I smiled. “I want to detain him for a while longer before I talk with him again. Are you able to turn up the heat in there?”
“You mean with the thermostat?”
“Yes.”
“Sure.”
“Do it. Turn it to high. Let me know when he breaks a sweat.”
“Cool,” the guard said and left.
Marsha Russo knocked as she entered the office. “You bleated?”
She sat down across from me.
“I want to know the ages of all the women’s swim team members.”
“I have them on my computer. What do you want them for?”
“This Henderson idiot may have just incriminated himself.”
“How so?”
“He bragged about having had sex at Henry Carson’s play parties.”
Together we walked to her cubicle where she fired up her desktop. After several moments of clicking and scrolling, she called out, “Got it. Two are seniors, seven are juniors, and three are sophomores.”
“Ages?”
“Two are eighteen, six are seventeen, and the three youngest are sixteen.”
“Can you print out a list of which is which?”
She opened a different window and pressed the print button. The device on her counter whirred into life. She handed me the printouts. “How do you plan to identify which of the girls had sex with him?”
“Tomfoolery.”