Chapter 12

Behind the half-closed slats of the Venetian blinds in the sheriff’s office, I notice Philip pacing back and forth in front of his picture window, his right fist pumping the air signaling a heated discussion with somebody on the phone.

I look to where Samson glares at me with his stony stare. His chest heaves.

Taking charge, I lock eyes with the bullish man and say, “Deputy Samson, you know why I’m here. I stop in every day at this time to bring Philip some lunch. I’d like to see him, please.”

I hear the bodies in the room shift uneasily. Someone coughs mechanically; chairs scrape across the lino; and lingering murmurs fill the room.

“He’s busy at the moment,” Deputy Samson says, as if he were in charge.