Chapter Sixteen
Wes pressed his lips together as he sat at the desk in the interrogation room at the sheriff’s office. The FBI asked to borrow the space. He’d never been on this side of the table before. A deputy sat across from him, his expression stoic. At least he wasn’t handcuffed. He wondered if Hartung knew he was there.
A principle of good interrogation was patience. Sitting alone in quiet usually made the target want to talk to fill the air with words. Wes could appreciate that now. He watched the clock, wondering how long it would be before his attorney arrived. But his overwhelming thoughts were about Eleanor.
An hour in, the door opened. Special Agent in Charge Stewart Forsyth introduced himself and took a seat beside the deputy. A familiar face from the past, Preston Galloway, sat beside Wes.
Wes chuckled, “Isn’t this a show? I get to be interrogated by a SAC, and, Preston, is this part of your redemption tour after you hung Cassie Chase out to dry? Or is SAC Forsyth counting on you to stay mute when he tries to screw me over?” Wes forced down his anxiety and set the tone of the meeting.
“Currently you are not under arrest,” Forsyth began flatly.
“That means I’m free to go,” Wes said.
The door opened again, and a large bearded man with a reddened nose and a belly riding over his belt flipped a chair around and sat at the head of the table. “Well, boy, my lieutenant told me you were smart. How does a smart man like you end up in my interrogation room?”
“I assume you are the sheriff?” Wes looked at the uniform.
“A smart ass. I am Sheriff Roland Jeffries.”
“Well, Sheriff, I was just asking, since I’m not under arrest, may I leave?” Wes asked.
“Do you think that’s in your best interest, Wes?” Forsyth added drolly.
Irritated by Forsyth’s tone, Wes kept up his bravado. “Ask away, Stewie.”
“I see this is how it’s going to be. We know you are in charge of the Chase Center for Training. How many acres is it?”
“Anyone who can google knows I’m in charge of the center. We have ninety-five acres. To save you a question, we have approximately one hundred seventy-five staff present. If you want a completely accurate number, I’d need to call my executive officer.”
“And those cabins? How many of them are there?” Galloway asked.
“They are all on the forty acres we purchased in February. I am aware of five, but I have not gone deeper into the trails on the east side.”
“Why?” Forsyth asked.
“Why didn’t I go deeper into the trails? We closed on the property in February. The area is heavily overgrown. I was consumed with building and renovations. I also was out of town on an assignment. We did a drone flyover and documented the five. Frankly, it wasn’t a pressing need.”
“Where was your assignment, and why were you assigned?” Forsyth asked.
Wes knew questions like that were meant to trip him up. They likely had the answers. “I was in New York. You’ll have to ask my boss why I was assigned.”
“The assignment included working in an adult hotel. Were you assigned because you’re good with a whip? Master Alamo, the whip master. You get off whipping women. Don’t you?” Forsyth taunted.
“I’m good with a whip. I’ve never engaged in any sexual activity without the consent of my partner.”
“Using a whip gets you off?” Forsyth pushed.
Wes let out an exasperated breath. “Being a Dominant, I gain my pleasure from my partner’s enjoyment. A submissive woman can choose not to make any decisions, and her responsibilities can be let go. One step further is pain; it brings my partner deeper into her head, blocking out all the crap she deals with on a daily basis, often bringing on a release. One word from her and all activity stops. I can arrange some lessons for you.”
The questions continued for two more hours. Wes sighed. “Why don’t you get to why you really have me here? I’m sure my sexual activities and preferences, my relationships with my family, friends and my employees are utterly fascinating to you, but really?”
Forsyth frowned. He opened a file and pulled out a stack of photographs. One by one, he laid them on the table in front of Wes. It was a display of eleven young women.
Wes lifted the fifth photo. “This is Eleanor West. She is the director of the Center’s equine therapy program. Why is her photo here?”
“That’s not Eleanor West. That’s her twin sister, Belinda. This is the Eleanor West we found in a Fredericksburg barn, fifteen months ago on January fourth.” Forsyth handed Wes a photograph. The only thing recognizable was long blonde curls. Her face was bruised, and her lower lip was split. A second photograph showed her bloody hands and the skin on both wrists avulsed. The photos continued, showing her torn and dirty clothing, bloody knees and shins and cut bare feet. The last photograph, taken by someone standing above her, showed her lying in a puddle of blood.
“The photo op was more important than her?” Wes looked between Forsyth and the photos. “You think I did this?” Wes realized they had no idea of her and Lindy’s Witsec deposition. He thought Eleanor was only the twenty-five-year-old kidnap victim, found years later.
