Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4) Brian Shea (black authors fiction txt) 📖

few minutes in silence, Kelly ran through his checklist of questions for Collins. Preparation was an integral part of any investigation, never more so than when dealing with the interrogation of a potential suspect. The questions asked were an important part of the process. Equally important was the interpretation of body language and the subtle physiological clues a suspect presented. Kelly slugged back the last bit of coffee, hoping the final jolt would give him the acuity needed for the mental chess match awaiting him inside the prison walls.

Kelly prided himself on being able to read deception. He'd come to the conclusion early on in his career that everybody lied, and not just the criminals he arrested. Sometimes these were white lies or fibs, but everybody did it. The truth was a fickle beast, incredibly difficult to find when wrangling with a wrongdoer. Criminals layered their lies deeply, sometimes distorting the truth so much that they began believing their own lies. Kelly had arrested murderers with boxes full of evidence confirming the cold hard truth, yet many denied their involvement until their last breath. Sadly, a conviction without a confession stole that final opportunity for closure, and the criminals took whatever peace they could offer the families to the grave. It was their final act of awfulness.

After they identified themselves to the gate guard, Kelly pulled the Caprice into a lot marked for law enforcement and corrections personnel. He and Barnes walked through the main doors and were greeted by a solemn Hispanic guard seated at the main desk. The nametag on her dark blue uniform read Cruz.

"Detectives Kelly and Barnes, BPD Homicide. Here to speak to inmate Liam Collins."

The guard looked unimpressed at the credentials Kelly pressed against the plexiglass. "Did you get authorization?"

"We've been cleared to speak with him."

Cruz’s expression remained unchanged. She picked up a phone and ten seconds later had her confirmation. "Officer Anderson will take you in."

A door to the right opened. Anderson was the size of a house and had a gleam to his bald head that would have made Mr. Clean jealous. "Follow me, Detectives."

The hallway they walked was lined with offices instead of cells. The inmates were not granted access here without a guard escort. They passed several offices before Anderson stopped in front of an interview room. Extending a key from the lanyard on his duty belt, the hulking guard unlocked the door.

He motioned them inside. A medicinal odor, like the kind found in a doctor's office, permeated the windowless room’s recycled air. In the center of the eight-by-ten room sat a steel table with legs bolted to the floor. The poorly mopped rubberized coating covering the concrete floor soured the air. The walls were painted a subtle beige. The color choices inside prisons were selected not for their aesthetic qualities but for their subliminal ones. Everything inside the supermax prison was in place for a reason. Psychologists had long ago discovered the effect colors had on human behavior. Marketing companies had been using this concept for decades, motivating consumer purchase through packaging. Correctional institutions used the softer, more subdued tones to influence inmates and subliminally manipulate mood. All this and much more was done to curb violence behind the walls.

"You can have a seat. Collins will be brought in shortly. They're bringing him up from solitary." The guard's deep voice echoed in the chamber. "When he comes in, I'll flip the switch and you can have your interview recorded if you'd like. Admin will make sure you get a copy on your way out."

"Sounds good, thank you." Kelly stretched, loosening the tension in his back before taking his seat.

"All right, it'll be just a minute. I'll leave you to it," the big man said, leaving and closing the door behind him.

"Fingers crossed this gives us something usable." Barnes took a seat next to Kelly.

"Well, it's nine o’clock and I haven't heard from Langston or Salinger. Still no word about what they gathered during their interview. So much for keeping us in the loop."

"No call from Lexi?"

He smiled at her not-so-subtle teasing about their ATF counterpart. "No, but maybe I should call her. She probably wants to discuss it over dinner." He punctuated his snarky response with a friendly wink.

A few minutes later, the clang of keys outside the room silenced their hushed conversation. A thud sounded as the reinforced door lock released. The guard who opened the door was not the oversized Anderson but a shorter, thinner man with wire-rimmed glasses and dark hair who stood in the doorway next to the prisoner he escorted.

A dull gray chain connected the prisoner’s wrist cuffs to his ankles. Collins had the beginnings of a gut that pushed against the midline of his bright orange jumpsuit where his interlaced hands rested. Twenty-three years of confinement had transformed the young man Kelly had seen in the mugshot last night into a wraith. A scar stretched in a zigzag pattern from the left side of his neck just beneath the jawbone up the side of his face, disappearing into his hairline above the temple.

The bright red hair had faded and was now the color of rust, red intertwining with bits of white and gray. Time hadn't changed everything for Collins. He managed to keep his mutton chops.

Collins shuffled into the room, holding his hands in front of his waist and pulling the chain up so that it didn't drag on the floor. He stutter-stepped across the rubber-coated flooring to the opposite side of the table, then sat facing the two detectives. The guard quickly connected Collins’s wrist restraint to a steel hoop underneath the table. The ankle shackles were connected in a similar manner to a bolt in the floor. The guard quickly double-checked the cuffs before stepping back. "You're all set, Liam."

"Thanks, Tony." Collins spoke without bothering to look at the guard. He never broke eye contact with Kelly.

"Detectives, we'll be on the other side of this door. Give a shout when you're done."

"Sounds