Chapter Twelve
Katie
The bastard was right.
It’s Wednesday, technically Thursday now, and I’ve only seen Jonesy in passing since Saturday night.
The police have been processing more evidence whilst we’ve been sidelined until we have another meeting with Connor Maddox.
This time, at the high-security prison, Hodgkins River.
It sounds like a summer camp, but there are some seriously scary people behind those walls.
Including Thomas Vale. I interviewed him a lot at Hodgkins.
Maybe this is why I can’t sleep. The thought of seeing him again, although unlikely, frightens me.
He’s still writing me letters, and now there’s the appeal, in which I have been called as a witness.
I can prepare for that. But I can’t prepare to see him randomly whilst I’m supposed to be interviewing for another case.
I roll over, pushing the thought of Thomas Vale out of my mind by substituting him with Jonesy.
I picture him here with me, his breath against my neck.
I liked how his body could engulf mine. I felt so protected around him, like no one could hurt me.
I want to say that’s why I sleep better when he’s around, but I don’t think that’s it.
I think I just relax enough because I’m myself around him. Even if that’s my worst self.
I close my eyes as I curl my knees into my chest, imagining him tucked up against me. Finally, the shadows take me, and I’m running again.
◆◆◆
I march through the metal detector, handing over my phone and purse to the prison officer named Smith.
He gives me a stern nod of acknowledgment, letting me through to the waiting room whilst Jonesy gets patted down.
The prison is typical of most prisons in America.
The peeling gray walls scream monotony and federal budget cuts as the buzz of doors unlocking preludes the clanging of metal on metal.
Jonesy has his professional face on. Stern, unyielding, and alert.
As if a prisoner may jump out of their cell and take us hostage if he drops his guard for a second.
Prison, ironically, is probably safer than us being out on the street, where something is far more likely to interrupt our day.
You have to be aware of your surroundings during these visits, but unlike the movies suggest, prison is mostly monotonous and dull.
We’re escorted to the interview room where prisoners meet with their lawyers.
The space is open and allows prisoners to sit unchained as if they were conducting a business meeting.
We’re not allowed to touch, and if they so much as stand from their seats for any reason, a guard will come in, and they will be punished in accordance with their transgression.
In a place like Hodgkin's River, acting even remotely aggressively will land you in solitary confinement for an indefinite period of time. Even though Maddox only moved here a few days ago, I’m hoping he’s learned the rules by now.
“Has he had any visitors?” I ask the guard on duty as we take our seats in the interview room.
His uniform is pressed perfectly, almost rivaling the creases Jonesy has in his.
Light catches on his name tag, Traynor, as he checks his watch.
He lifts his head, and I note that the dark gray of his skin matches the walls of the prison.
The sun doesn’t shine down on the inmates or, apparently, the guards of Hodgkins.
“Two. A woman about his age, she cried a lot.”
“Who was the other?” I ask, pulling out my notepad and pen.
“Not sure, you’d have to have your detective buddy check the log. He was a soldier, though.”
“Do you know how old he was?”
He thinks for a moment, his lips flattening into a straight line. “Late thirties, I’d guess. Dark blond hair, had dog tags around his neck; otherwise, I wouldn’t have known he was military. He was different.”
“Different how?”
Before he can answer, we’re interrupted.
“Inmate incoming!” another guard’s voice rings out, and Traynor opens the door to let him in.
He walks Maddox around awkwardly, hands chained in front of him. “You gonna behave, son?” the old-timer guard asks gruffly.
Maddox nods, his face flushed with anger and irritation as he holds his hands out to the guard.
Traynor unlocks his cuffs, and he rubs at his wrists before taking a seat opposite Jonesy and me.
“We’ve not met before. I’m Jacob Jones. I work on the Seattle base, same as you.” Jonesy holds out his hand to shake Maddox’s.
“No touching the inmate,” Traynor’s voice scratches out through an intercom. He can’t hear us; we’ve been assured of that. But he can see us, and more relevantly, he can see Maddox.
“Sorry.” Jonesy holds his hands up in surrender to the camera before turning back to our suspect.
Jonesy introduces himself, explaining his role within the Seattle army base, and gives a brief summary of his time in Afghanistan, explaining the purpose of his role there.
Maddox’s eyes perk up at this, and I notice a glimmer of hope.
Jonesy introduces me, reminding Maddox of our previous interview at the police station. He nods, eyeing me cautiously.
“Are you here to help me?” the young man asks, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand.
“I’m here because you’re a soldier, and the colonel and judge agreed that a military representative may have a specific insight into your frame of mind.
Dr. Murphy here is the best at what she does.
She interviews people every day, including people who have committed crimes.
Please correct me if I’m wrong, Dr. Murphy, but you haven’t worked with soldiers before? ”
“I’ve interviewed soldiers before in relation to cases, but I haven’t worked with the military in any official capacity.
Usually, investigations are held within the military tribunal; however, you are an active soldier, and the crime that was committed was against a civilian. Therefore, our expertise crosses over.”
“Why are you telling me all this? Don’t you have questions for me?”
Jonesy leans forward, the sleeves of his army-issued camouflage shirt rolled up to his elbows.
Despite the uniform, he looks approachable.
He’s trimmed his beard, had his hair cut, so it’s short on the sides, longer on top, where it starts to curl at the ends.
He’s treating this as he would a normal patient of his.
And it’s working. Connor is talking, actively asking questions.
“We’re here to get to know you better. Are they treating you okay here?”
He nods, leaning his elbows on the table as he rubs his eyes. He looks almost as tired as I am, and that’s saying something, as I think I managed to squeeze out three hours of sleep last night.
“Okay. Dr. Murphy is going to ask you some questions, and I may jump in if I need to clarify anything. Is that okay?”
“Let’s just get this over with,” he mutters.
“Have you had any stressful experiences prior to being arrested?” I ask.
“Not any more than usual.”
I nod, jotting down another note. “When were you last working overseas?”
“I did a tour in Afghanistan. I was one of the last troops there before they pulled out. It wasn’t really an active operation at the time; we were training the Afghan army to protect itself. Obviously, that went to shit, and the Taliban took over again.”
“That must have been hard to accept. All that work to create peace for people, and it fell apart within a few days.”
“That’s life, I suppose. You do what you do, and how it plays out isn’t within your control.
” His chin lowers to his chest, and he focuses on his hands.
The dark circles beneath his eyes seem even darker with his head hanging low, as it is.
I get the impression we’re no longer talking about his time overseas.
“I don’t think you believe that,” I say. “The last time we spoke, you told me things that suggested you’re a man of action. You went after your girl because you knew you wanted to be with her. You’ve been promoted above your peers. You’re successful, by all accounts.”
“And look where it got me. It doesn't mean shit,” he spits angrily.
“Do you have trouble controlling your temper, Connor?” I ask gently.
He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t you? If you were in my position.”
“Oh, absolutely. I’d be furious. But I’m asking about before you were arrested.”
He pauses for a moment, watching me. His blue eyes faded into gray, as if the prison walls were sucking the life right out of him. Even in a few short days, he was losing himself.
“I wouldn’t say I was an angry person. I defend when I need to defend, but otherwise . . . otherwise, I’m just lucky. I was lucky, I mean.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing bad ever happened to me. Not really. My parents are great. My siblings and I all get along. We look after each other. Even all of my grandparents are still alive. The worst thing that happened to me before two weeks ago was that I got cheated on by my high school girlfriend. And who hasn’t been cheated on? ”
“Even though you had your heart broken, you still think you were lucky?”
He thinks for a moment, his eyes wide and watery.
“I was lucky because if she had never broken my heart, then I never would have met Hannah. She’s the love of my life,” he hiccups.
“And I’ve been waiting for the bomb to drop.
I’ve been waiting for my share of the trauma that my friends suffered when they were growing up.
I knew I was due something. I knew it. I just didn’t think it would be this. ”
Tears slip down his cheeks, and he sobs into his hands.
Jonesy
We sit quietly for a moment as Connor’s grief spills into the room. Is this a man who has come to accept he’s been caught for ruthlessly murdering a woman in cold blood? Or is this the genuine heartbreak of a man who has been wrongfully accused and set up?