They all shook hands before gesturing for Memphis to follow them. He took only a few steps before he turned and looked at Preacher. “Aren’t you coming?”
“We’d prefer to question you alone,” Manchester said, hands on her ample hips.
Memphis rounded his shoulders, glancing up at Preacher from under long dark lashes. “I don’t really give a shit what you’d prefer,” he said, presumably to Manchester, though maybe he was telling Preacher his presence wasn’t a request. It was hard to tell with Memphis.
“Do you want me to come?” Preacher asked, needing to be sure he wasn’t imagining this complete one-eighty reversal from just moments ago.
Memphis nodded before looking at the detectives. “There’s nothing you can’t ask me in front of him.”
Manchester and Filmore exchanged glances before Filmore said, “I wasn’t aware you two knew each other.”
“We don’t,” Preacher confirmed. “Are we doing this or what?”
Memphis gave the tiniest hint of a smile, the corners of his wide mouth hooking upwards just enough to let Preacher know he’d somehow scored points, even if he didn’t know why.
Once seated, Filmore ran a hand over his balding head and adjusted his loosened tie. He clicked a button on the microphone in the center of the table, and they all went around introducing themselves and giving their title. Once Filmore gave the case number, the questions began.
The first few were easy. Name, rank, serial number type questions. The kind of information cops most likely already had but used as a sort of truth telling baseline. With those out of the way, they moved onto the real questioning.
Manchester tapped her short glossy nails against the manila folder in front of her, a small black notebook and pen beside her. “Mr. Camden, how long has it been since you’ve seen any member of your family?”
Memphis sat slouched low in his chair, legs wide, head down, hands deep in his pockets. “A little over ten years.”
“Why is that?” she asked, jotting down notes like the recording wasn’t there.
“Because my father is an abusive piece of shit and a criminal, and I wanted no part of that.”
Well, there was no mincing words there. Preacher didn’t doubt Memphis was telling the truth, but everything about him from his posture to his tone made it seem like he was testing them as much as they were him. It was like he was playing chicken with an electric fence. If the cops really weren’t in his father’s pocket, nothing he said would come back to haunt him, but if they were in his pocket, he might be putting the last nail in his own coffin.
“Did you know your older brother had temporary custody of your younger brother…Knoxville?” she asked.
“No.”
“Did you know your father was in prison?”
“No.”
Manchester pulled a piece of fuzz from her shirt, tone bored. “To your knowledge, is your brother involved in any illegal gang activity?”
“If he’s anything like my father, yeah, probably up to his fucking eyeballs.”
Filmore frowned. “You seem awfully sure of that for somebody who hasn’t seen or spoken to his family in ten years.”
Memphis scoffed. “You guys live a stone’s throw from Rexford. Are you going to sit here and pretend you don’t know who Tennessee Camden is or what he’s capable of? You people know just as well as Rexford PD all the shit that man gets into. You know it now, you knew it ten fucking years ago, but you didn’t do shit about it. You won’t do shit about it this time either.”
Preacher wanted to press a hand to Memphis’s back. He wished he had some way of letting him know the world wasn’t his enemy, but there was nothing he could do. Besides, he clearly wasn’t wrong. Both the detectives looked flustered, and Manchester’s hand sort of lurched towards the recorder before she pulled it back, like she realized that would be the wrong play.
“We work the special victims unit under major crimes. We’re not narcotics or a gang related unit,” Filmore said.
Memphis flicked his gaze between them. “It doesn’t matter who you are. You know who my father is and what he’s capable of.”
Manchester shook her head. “Mr. Camden, I assure you there’s no cover up here. We are eager to find your brother’s attacker, but that would be easier if he’d cooperate with us and tell us who was holding him prisoner in that house.”
“You know it was my brother, Nash.”
Filmore sighed, leaning forward to tap his finger on the table. “What we know and what we can prove are two different things. If we can’t get Knoxville to talk, we’ll have no way of keeping him from your brother, should he dare to show his face.”
“I could ID him,” Preacher said. “I was the one who saw him threatening the puppy. I heard the boy call him Nash.”
