Tracy knew she would need to knock Hastey Devoe out of his comfort zone if she hoped to get him to talk. She would have preferred to question him after she knew what Melton and Rosa had determined, but that wasn’t going to happen. She sensed they didn’t have much time before Lionel found out about the arrest, and she knew they wouldn’t likely get another opportunity to get Hastey alone anytime soon.
She was encouraged to see Devoe’s smirk evaporate when she entered the room with Jenny. Lionel may have warned him that a detective from Seattle was in town asking questions about Kimi. But beyond that, Devoe had to know that when the sheriff showed up to interview you personally, it was a bigger deal than just another DUI arrest.
“This is getting to be an old habit, Hastey,” Jenny said, sliding back a chair and sitting. Tracy took the other open chair in the room. No table separated them from Devoe, nothing to provide him a comfort zone. He smelled like a fraternity house the morning after a party.
Tracy recalled that in the photographs of Devoe as a younger man, the extra weight had given him an innocent, boyish appearance. Tracy suspected he had been the kid everyone laughed with when he took off his shirt and did cannonballs into the rivers and lakes, or belly danced as he chugged a beer. He’d likely been the class clown, one of the John Belushis, Chris Farleys, and John Candys of the world. But things didn’t end well for those men—drugs eventually killed Belushi and Farley; Candy had struggled with his weight and died of a heart attack. Those men had also been trained actors, and it was possible that they created their public personas to cover their insecurities and their demons.
From the look of Devoe, things weren’t going to end well for him either. Excess alcohol and overconsumption had turned his baby fat into sagging folds that overwhelmed the chair he sat in, and his boyish features had become pale and fleshy. His dress was slovenly, his khakis and blue polo shirt wrinkled and unkempt, with half-moon perspiration stains beneath each armpit and ringing his collar. His thinning gray hair was also disheveled and damp with perspiration.
Devoe’s gaze flicked to Jenny. “I’d like to make a phone call.”
“Just as soon as we’ve had a chance to talk and get you booked,” Jenny said.
“I’m not saying anything.” Devoe shifted his gaze to an empty corner of the room.
“Then you can listen.” Tracy inched her chair closer, forcing him to look at her.
“Who are you?”
“You know who I am, Mr. Devoe. I’m the detective from Seattle your brother told you about.”
“What do you want?” Devoe folded his arms across his chest.
“I want to talk to you about Kimi Kanasket.”
Devoe’s forehead wrinkled. “Who?” he said. It was not convincing.
Tracy slid closer, leaving less than a foot between their knees. “I want you to tell me about the night Kimi Kanasket disappeared.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Devoe had the damaged, gravelly voice of a man who abused his alcohol and his cigarettes.
“Sure you do. You went to school with her your senior year, and this weekend is all about that year. Beyond that, you were there that night. You were in the clearing. You, Eric Reynolds, Archibald Coe, and Darren Gallentine were inseparable. You were the Four Ironmen. Tell me what happened.”
Devoe wouldn’t look at her, but his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and he shifted and fidgeted in his chair. Though the room was air-conditioned, beads of perspiration began to trickle down the side of his face, following the contours of his sideburns. The feral odor in the room intensified.
“I don’t . . .” Hastey cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What size shoe do you wear, Hastey?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Thirteen, right?”
“Wrong,” he said. “Twelve.”
“You favored Converse in high school, like your buddy Eric.”
“I don’t—”
Tracy leaned forward. “Yes, you do, Hastey, and I’m going to prove it. I’m going to prove that you were in the Bronco when Eric ran Kimi over, and I’m going to prove that you and your brother Lionel, and maybe even your father, fixed the Bronco’s windshield and front fender. So don’t tell me you weren’t there or you don’t know anything about it.”
“I want to talk to my brother.”
“Your brother? I was betting that you’d ask to call Eric Reynolds,” Tracy said. “He’s been covering for you for forty years, hasn’t he? Of course he’s had little choice. The two of you share a common secret, don’t you? That’s why he put you on the company payroll, and that’s why he keeps you there. He even helped fund Lionel’s campaign to become chief of police for the same reason—to keep you quiet.”
Hastey looked like a man with heartburn after eating a spicy meal. The perspiration was dripping off of him.
“Stop me anytime I’m wrong, Hastey.”
Devoe didn’t speak.
“The thing about a lie, Hastey, is it’s never just one, is it? You think if everyone agrees to say nothing, then nothing can happen to anyone. But soon you have to tell another lie, then another, and pretty soon, you’ve told so many lies you don’t know what the truth is anymore.” Tracy tapped her sternum. “But deep inside, the truth lingers, and that soft, nagging conscience just keeps pecking away, fighting to get out. It just keeps pecking and pecking and pecking, until you just can’t stand it. You can’t sleep. You can’t function. You’re drinking too much, eating too much. You’re self-destructing. You’re wondering if you’re going to have a heart attack, or maybe lose it entirely, the way Darren Gallentine lost it.”
Devoe looked white as a sheet.
“And then that secret that seemed so simple has suddenly become a huge anchor around your neck, and it starts to pull you under because you no longer have the strength to keep your head above water. You start to drown. You’re going under, Hastey, and you know it. You’re drowning. Don’t you want to shake free of that anchor? Don’t you want to free your conscience? You didn’t kill Kimi Kanasket. You weren’t driving. You were just there. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens to every kid in high school. Tell me what happened. Tell me what happened, and I’ll do my best to help you.”
Devoe looked to be struggling to catch his breath, as if about to hyperventilate. Tracy could picture him doing something similar in a football huddle. Tired and exhausted, not believing he could play another down, but unwilling to let his teammates down. Unlike Eric Reynolds, who was the good-looking all-American, or Darren Gallentine, who was physically fit and smart, or even Archibald Coe, who had a plan to become an Army officer, football was all Hastey had. It was how he fit in—because being the class clown necessarily meant that while people were laughing with you, they were also laughing at you, and that could be painful. So Hastey would suck it up and go back to the line and slam his body into his opponents over and over again, beyond exhaustion, because that was how he fit in, how he was accepted. And being accepted was what he wanted, which is why Tracy knew, even before he opened his mouth, that Hastey Devoe would never say anything to implicate anyone, especially not the hand that had fed him all those years. He wouldn’t implicate Eric Reynolds.
“I want to talk to my brother,” he said.