“Get off me!” Kenny screamed. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Matt had been so focused on the chase, he hadn’t realized Bree was right behind them. She jogged to a halt next to him. Breathing hard, she handed Matt a set of handcuffs. Matt worked Kenny’s hands behind his back. Kenny thrashed, resisting as Matt snapped on the cuffs. Once secured, the man stopped fighting. Out of breath, Kenny wheezed, and his chest heaved.
Leaning her hands on her thighs, Bree asked, “Kenny McPherson?”
Kenny flailed. “Fuck off.”
Matt rolled him onto his back. “What the hell? We just want to talk. Stop fighting. Are you Kenny?”
“Yeah.” Kenny frowned at them. Sweat shone on his bald head and soaked his T-shirt. Distrust tightened his face. “If you think I’m going to talk to you, you’re wrong. I learned my lesson the last time. I won’t cooperate so you can arrest me for something else I didn’t do. Get a fucking warrant.”
“I’m Sheriff Taggert.” Bree gestured to Matt. “And this is Criminal Investigator Matt Flynn. You’re on parole. You know we don’t need a warrant. All I need to do is call your parole officer.” Parolees were technically still serving out their prison sentences.
“Fuck me,” Kenny said.
Bree gestured. “Let’s get out of the street.” She reached down, picked up Kenny’s phone, and shoved it in her pocket.
Matt grabbed Kenny’s elbow and hauled him to his feet. Then he steered him back to Mrs. Weir’s yard.
“Do you want to talk in your place”—Bree motioned toward the apartment—“or at the station?”
Kenny frowned, indecision all over his face. “If I let you in, you’re liable to plant evidence.”
“We can take you to the station and search your place anyway,” Matt said. If Kenny had been set up, Matt empathized with him. But the falsified charges were also the motivation that made him a potential murder suspect.
Bree stopped at the base of the staircase that led to Kenny’s apartment. “I’m going to give you the choice. Where do you want to talk?”
“Fine. Here then.” Kenny started up the steps. “Fucking cops.” At the top of the stairs, a still-handcuffed Kenny stepped aside and nodded. “You’ll have to get the door.”
She opened it and walked inside. Matt followed Bree and Kenny into a studio apartment smaller than the average hotel room. In the main area, sheets were neatly folded on the arm of a futon. A small TV sat on the floor facing the futon. There was no table or chairs. The kitchenette consisted of a sink, a mini fridge, and a narrow electric range, separated by two feet of counter space. Matt spied one open door on the other side of the room. He could see a pedestal sink, a toilet, and a shower stall the size of a phone booth.
Kenny stopped in the middle of the living area. “I’m not talking unless you record the interview. I won’t have you putting words in my mouth.”
That was a first. Matt had never had a suspect request they record the interview.
Bree drew out her phone, tapped the screen, then set it on the wooden arm of the futon. “OK. I’m recording.”
Kenny relaxed.
“Do you live alone?” Matt asked.
Kenny nodded toward his futon. “Are you serious? You think I could squeeze a roommate in here? I barely fit. Not that I’m complaining about Mrs. Weir. I appreciate everything she’s done for me.”
Matt had seen much worse. “I’ve seen plenty of felons stuck in rooming houses, so this isn’t bad.”
“Not bad?” Kenny mashed his lips. His face reddened as if his blood pressure were rising. “I went to prison on bogus charges. I never did drugs. I never hit anyone. Those deputies faked it all. It was a setup. I was innocent.” He heaved a huge sigh. “Can you take these cuffs off?”
“You’re not going to try to run?” Bree asked.
Kenny rolled his eyes at Matt. “What would be the point? I’d never get past Hercules here.”
Matt circled a hand in the air. “I understand your previous experiences with law enforcement might not have been positive, but Sheriff Taggert will be fair.”
Kenny turned around, and Matt removed the cuffs.
“Why did you run?” Bree began.
Kenny rubbed his wrists. “The last time I didn’t run from the sheriff’s department, they set me up for a crime I didn’t commit and sent me to prison.”
Bree gave him a respectful nod. “Did you resist arrest?”
“No.” Kenny flushed. “I mean, I got mad and yelled. Who wouldn’t? They planted a bag of drugs in my car. But I never hit or shoved either one of them.”
“If that’s true, then we’re not unsympathetic,” Bree said. “But we still have a job to do. It’ll be easier for all of us if you cooperate.”
“Whatever.” Kenny snorted, a resigned sound. “Once the cops get hold of you, you’re helpless. I learned that the hard way.” He brushed a hand across his skull. “But I was lucky in some ways. People stood by me. My employer believed me from the beginning. When I got out, he gave me my old job back right away.” He gestured to the window at the front of the studio. “My landlady is an old friend of my mom’s. She knows I never did anything too. This place isn’t much, but it’s a hell of a lot better than a rooming house full of ex-cons. Plus, she only charges me enough to cover the electric bill. If she wasn’t on a fixed income, she wouldn’t charge me anything. I need to put away some money before I can get a place of my own.” Bitterness narrowed his eyes. “I used to have a nice little house. It wasn’t fancy, but it was mine.”
“Didn’t the parole board make you admit your guilt?” Bree asked.
“The whole system is a scam.” Kenny crossed his arms. “I would have said anything to get out of prison. Trust me, so would you.”
Matt didn’t doubt it. Survival took a back seat to pride. “Why would the deputies have faked charges against you?”
“I don’t know.” Kenny rubbed his scalp. “I could never figure it out.”
“If they set you up, they went to a lot of effort to do so,” Matt pointed out.
“Right?” Kenny agreed. “Why would they do that? I didn’t know any of them.”
“They ruined your life,” Bree said. “You have every reason to be angry with them.”
Clearly, Kenny wasn’t the brightest bulb on the light string, but he finally asked, “Why are you here?”
“Because one of those deputies”—Bree paused for effect—“retired Deputy Oscar, was murdered.”
“Shit.” Kenny paled.
“You didn’t know?” Matt asked.
“How would I know?” Kenny’s voice rose in protest.
“It was on the news,” Matt explained.
“I don’t have time to watch the news.” Kenny’s eyes were shifting around, as if his brain were playing catch-up. “When did he die?”
Bree said, “Between eight p.m. Sunday night and eight a.m. Monday morning.”
“Figures.” Kenny’s head shook in disbelief. “The one frigging night I wasn’t at work.”
“Where were you?” Bree pulled a notebook from her pocket.
“Here.” Sweat rings broke out under Kenny’s arms. “Watching TV. If I had known I would need an alibi, I would’ve made plans.” His voice thickened with sarcasm.
Matt thought of the old Buick in the garage under the apartment. “Do you own a vehicle?”
“No.” Kenny closed both fists at his sides.
“How do you get to work?” Matt pressed.
“Mrs. Weir lets me use her car. She doesn’t like to drive anymore. Her eyesight is going. So, I do her shopping for her and take her where she needs to go.”
“That’s nice of you,” Bree said.
“I am nice,” Kenny insisted. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
“You got into fights in prison.” Bree tilted her head.
“One fight.” Kenny’s temper snapped. “And I didn’t really have a choice. The other guy came after me. Either I defended myself or I’d be a target for the rest of my time.”
He had a point, thought Matt. “Do you have any proof that you were here all night?”
“How the hell would I prove that?” Kenny’s forehead furrowed, then his eyebrows shot up with an idea. “The GPS on my phone?”