Sean let the quiet stretch, watching Crowell grow more agitated beneath it. Most suspects hated silence and rushed to fill it.
Sure enough, after another few seconds, he glanced up. “What?”
Neither Sean nor Brad answered. They kept their attention fixed on him until the man’s confidence began to crack. His shoulders shifted. His foot bounced beneath the table.
Brad pushed off the wall and stood across the table from their suspect. “Where were you this past Saturday night and Sunday morning?”
Crowell shrugged, forcing a careless expression that fooled no one. “I don’t know.”
Brad planted both hands on the table with a sharp smack that made the metal legs screech against the floor.
The young man jerked backward so fast his chair tipped on two legs.
“You’d better know,” the detective growled, his voice low and hard. “Because I’ve got a dead body you’re looking real good for.”
“What?” Beneath the faded streaks of dirt, Crowell’s face drained of what little color it had. His eyes darted from Brad to Sean and back again. “Wait a minute. I didn’t kill nobody. No way, man. You got the wrong guy. I never killed anybody.”
Sean stepped in before Brad could press harder, playing the good cop. It was an old routine, but it worked more often than not.
“Well, then help us clear you.” He kept his voice even, almost reassuring. “Tell us where you were Saturday night and Sunday.”
Crowell licked his cracked lips. “I... I don’t remember.”
Another sharp smack against the table made him flinch.
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” His gaze shot upward as he scrambled for an answer. “Sunday. Sunday, I was working most of the day. Yeah. That’s where I was.” Relief flickered across his face as the memory surfaced.
“Working where?” Sean asked.
“The Auto Palace in the Caldwell Shopping Center. I was there from ten in the morning till five.”
Leaning on his hands, Brad scowled at the suspect. “What about the rest of the day and late Saturday night between eleven and two thirty?”
“Before and after work, I was home. My mom can vouch for me. She saw me. And Saturday night... um... where was I?” Fingers drummed against the table as he frowned in thought. Then his face brightened. “Oh yeah.”
The relief vanished as fast as it came. “Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh?” Brad arched a brow. “What does uh-oh mean?”
“If I tell you, I’m screwed.”
The detective's voice sharpened. “And if you don’t tell us, you’re in even deeper trouble. Where were you?”
Crowell dropped his gaze to the table. “Man, this is so messed up. I was... I was over in Wanchese with a buddy.”
“And?”
Understanding clicked into place as Sean recalled what one of the arresting deputies had said about the tools found in Crowell’s possession. “And you were burglarizing a house.”
A reluctant nod confirmed it. It wasn’t the crime they’d hoped for, but it was enough to shift the interview into an official interrogation. Brad read him his Miranda rights, then asked, “Do you understand these rights?”
Crowell rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I’ve heard them before.”
“Are you willing to speak to us without a lawyer?”
“Whatever. If I don’t, you’ll pin the murder on me.”
Brad pulled a Miranda waiver from a folder, slid it across the table, and dropped a pen on top of it, waiting until the signature was in place. “What’s the address of the house?”
