The first mistake Deputy Cole Mercer made was believing that a man in handcuffs had nothing left to threaten him with.
The second was believing that the man sitting across from him in Interview Room Two was an ordinary suspect.
And the third, the one that would eventually cost him his badge, his career, and possibly his freedom, was forgetting that every word spoken inside that room could become evidence.
The room was small, windowless, and cold. A rectangular fluorescent panel buzzed overhead. The gray walls had been painted so many times that the corners looked swollen, and a metal table stood between two chairs bolted to the floor. A dark observation window covered most of the wall behind the deputy.
Walter Hayes sat on one side of the table.
His wrists were cuffed behind his back. His lower lip was split, and a bruise was already spreading beneath his left eye. His gray hair was disheveled, his shirt collar had been pulled crooked, and one sleeve of his dark jacket was torn near the shoulder.
He was sixty-eight years old.
He had spent twenty-two years in the United States Navy, including deployments that he rarely discussed with anyone. His neighbors knew him as a quiet widower who repaired old radios, volunteered at the veterans' center, and walked every morning before sunrise.
The deputies in Pine Ridge County knew him by a different description.
Difficult.
Uncooperative.
A man who asked too many questions.
That evening, Walter had been arrested after an argument outside a convenience store. The official report claimed he had threatened a deputy, resisted detention, and refused to identify himself.
None of it was true.
Walter had been standing beside his truck when Deputy Cole Mercer approached him. Mercer had accused him of interfering with an investigation involving a stolen vehicle. Walter had asked to see a warrant or some explanation for why the deputy wanted to search his truck.
That question had been enough.
Mercer grabbed him, shoved him against the vehicle, and twisted his arm until Walter dropped to one knee. When Walter protested that his shoulder was injured, Mercer tightened the handcuffs.
Then came the second deputy.
Then the patrol car.
Then the station.
And now this room.
Mercer stood in front of him, breathing heavily.
"You think you're special?" he asked.
Walter looked up.
"No."
"Then why do you keep acting like you are?"
"I'm asking you to explain why I'm here."
Mercer laughed without humor.
"You've been told."
"You said I interfered with an investigation. I asked what investigation."
"Don't play games with me."
"I'm not."
Mercer walked around the table. He stopped behind Walter and grabbed the back of his jacket.
Walter's shoulders tightened.
"Let go."
"What was that?"
"I said let go of my jacket."
Mercer yanked him backward. The chair scraped across the floor.
"You don't give orders in here."
Walter closed his eyes for a moment. He was trying to control his breathing. His shoulder hurt, his wrists were numb, and the pressure from the handcuffs was beginning to make his fingers tingle.
He had learned a long time ago that reacting emotionally to an aggressive person rarely made the situation better.
But Mercer was not interested in a conversation.
He shoved Walter's chair forward, sending the older man into the edge of the table.
Walter gasped.
"That's what happens when you refuse to cooperate," Mercer said.
Walter slowly raised his head.
"I have cooperated."
"Then tell me who you were meeting."
"I wasn't meeting anyone."
"Who gave you the information about the stolen vehicle?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Mercer leaned down until his face was inches from Walter's.
"You were seen near the warehouse."
"I was driving past it."
"At eleven forty-seven at night?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because that's where the road goes."
For a second, Mercer stared at him.
Then he struck the table with his palm.
"You're a smart mouth."
Walter did not answer.
Mercer stepped away, picked up a folder, and threw it onto the table. Several photographs slid across the metal surface.
One showed a dark pickup truck parked near a warehouse. Another showed the warehouse entrance. A third showed a man standing beside a fence.
Walter glanced at them.
"That's not my truck."
"Don't lie."
"It's not."
"We have your registration."
"Then you have the wrong vehicle."
Mercer grabbed the front of Walter's shirt and pulled him out of the chair.
Walter's knees struck the table. His face tightened in pain.
"Listen carefully," Mercer whispered. "You are going to tell me what you know, and you're going to tell me now."
Walter looked directly at him.
"Is this an interview or an assault?"
Mercer's expression changed.
For a moment, the room was completely silent.
Then the deputy smiled.
"You're going to regret saying that."
He pushed Walter back into the chair.
Walter's head struck the wall behind him.
The sound was dull but unmistakable.