room where the police officer led him smelled of coffee and cigarettes and made Fenton long for both, but the young man offered him nothing.
“Have a seat right here.” The officer was clean-cut enough to be a Davis and Lee boy, but his “right here” came out more like “rat cheer.” He motioned toward a table outfitted with a massive tape recorder. Two wooden chairs faced a metal one with dents in it, like it had been thrown a few times.
“Thank you, officer; you are most kind. All the good things I’ve heard about our local police force appear to be true.” The officer scrunched his brow and left him on his own.
The longer he sat in the room, the tighter and more cramped it grew, like what he imagined a cell would be. Fenton would have no legal counsel with him today, but not because he hadn’t tried. Darrell, Ruby’s husband, was the only lawyer he knew, but he was a retired tax attorney.
“I’ll have to dig around for some names,” Darrell had said, as if attorneys who defended someone like Fenton burrowed underground. “Give me a day or two.”
He had thought of calling the police station and trying to delay the interview, but Gen said she worried that would look bad, like the avoidance tactic it was. “Wear your navy three-piece,” she’d advised. “Think about anything but Mark.”
Fenton rarely wore the suit because the vest gripped him like a straitjacket, and now he tugged at it uncomfortably. He’d resisted wearing a lighter blue pocket handkerchief to match his tie and socks for fear that would make him look too debonair—too much of a fairy.
A lanky, silver-haired man bearing the name tag “A. MAYNARD” and carrying a file folder entered the room, followed by a shorter, less formidable officer. Fenton had pictured the police chief with a barrel chest, a jowly face and country drawl, but this man didn’t fit the bill.
“Mr. Page, thank you for coming down to see us on such short notice.” Maynard’s voice exuded charm, as if Fenton had dropped in for a friendly visit. “I am Chief Maynard and this is Sergeant Hills.”
Fenton recognized the name “Hills” from somewhere, maybe the Gazette. Or maybe Mark had mentioned him. He blinked quickly to dismiss Mark’s face.
“Be warm and polite,” Gen had counseled. “Whatever you do, don’t let them see your peevish side.” By that, he knew his friend meant the part of him that jumped to sarcasm when he was annoyed or angered.
When the men sat, Fenton reminded himself of his actor’s training. “How can I help you, gentlemen?”
From habit, he started to cross his leg at the knee but noticed Hills observing his every movement. A voice played in his head—Men don’t sit like that. His father would issue the admonishment right before he slapped him across the face so hard it left finger marks. Fenton planted both feet on the floor.
“We’re hoping you might shed some light on an investigation we’re starting up,” Maynard said, opening his folder. With the file’s contents upside down, Fenton couldn’t make out any of the type, even if he squinted.
“Do you mind if we tape our conversation?” Maynard asked.
Fenton’s eyes followed Hills’s stubby index finger as it hit the record button on the reel-to-reel. He had to look away from the machine’s turning, turning, turning, which threatened to mesmerize him.
For the record, Hills introduced himself and Maynard, gave the date and time, and then instructed Fenton to state his name, address, and occupation. When Fenton hesitated at first, Hills said, “Just a formality.”
Maynard continued, “Now Mr. Page, you know about the arrests we had to make on Labor Day?”
Fenton nodded.
“For the tape, please, Mr. Page.”
“Yes, I read about that in the paper.”
“A colleague of yours at Baines, Mr. Mark Patton, was involved.”
“I have many colleagues at Baines,” Fenton said, but he immediately worried that sounded too confrontational. Plus, he couldn’t outright deny knowing Mark. The lie could easily come back to harm him so he hurried to retract. “But of course, yes, I know Mr. Patton. Knew, I should say. He was let go a few weeks back.”
“You’re friends,” Maynard said, glancing up from the file in front of him.
“We crossed paths, as you do when you work in the same building with someone. But he’s not among my close friends.”
Maynard held his eyes, his face expressionless, and Hills jumped into the fray. “Patton told us y’all liked to hang out at his place. Is that what ‘crossed paths’ means?”
Fenton opened his mouth but closed it while he considered his answer.
“I don’t recall being in Mr. Patton’s apartment,” he said slowly so the P’s wouldn’t trip him up. He’d drilled himself to correct his boyhood speech impediment, but it resurfaced whenever he was nervous or a shade less than truthful.
“Really?” Maynard pressed him. “Not ever?”
Fenton’s lips formed a tight line, as if he were trying his best to dredge up a distant memory. “Wait a minute. Is his place over on Willow?”
“It is,” Maynard said after consulting the file.
“You know, I think I may have been there once.” Was that too little to admit to? “Twice at the very most. So many faculty members throw cocktail parties, and it’s considered bad manners not to attend. I forgot Mark had several over the course of a few years.”
“So you only went to parties there.”
“Yes.”
Maynard flipped some pages. “And do you recall what went on at these parties?”
The question threw Fenton for a moment, but he recovered without too much delay. “Honestly, no. Like I said, there’ve been a lot of parties, and they’re a bit of a blur. I’m sure there was drinking. I’ve never met a faculty member who didn’t like to imbibe.” As intended, the light reply brought a smile to the chief’s face.
“Anything else?” Hills chimed in.
Fenton was stymied. Could the interview be over so soon? “Anything else . . . about Mr. Patton?”
“About the parties you say you attended.”
The addition of “you say” stood out, and Fenton cleared his throat—a trick he’d picked up when he needed to slow down and control his stutter.
“There was probably music, but that’s just a guess.”
“Any games?” Hills went on.
“I don’t know what you mean. Like . . . charades?”
“Like looking at photographs, say. Magazines.”
Fenton drew in a breath as he realized where this line of questioning was headed—Mark’s impressive beefcake photos and physique magazine collection.
