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The Auburn Police Department had its headquarters in a one-story cinderblock building fronting a small harbor, just south of where the lake met the dam. The station was painted white, with a flat, built-up roof, and it had its name in stenciled-on black letters. The hardware on the front door looked like it had come from a church jumble—antique and mismatched, and probably worth about seventy-five cents.
Inside wasn’t much better. Every cramped inch of the main room huddled under aggressive fluorescents. Desks were shoehorned into the available space. Trays were choked with paperwork, and ancient computers looked like they’d last been updated during the dot-com boom. At least one of the deputies was a smoker, the stink of tobacco strong. A window A/C unit churned the air sluggishly, fluttering its little plastic streamers, but all it did was recirculate the smell of cigarette smoke and mildew and Pine-Sol.
Tean and the other men were directed to a single row of chairs, their ripped vinyl upholstery patched with duct tape. There weren’t enough chairs, but that didn’t matter. The big man, Emery, refused to sit, ignoring the man who was clearly his partner. He paced on the narrow strip of linoleum instead, and his partner stood with his back to the wall, arms folded, and watched. Shaw sat on North’s lap, looking miserable as North rubbed his back. The man with the longish hair sat, and the conference’s photographer sat, and Jem and Tean sat, and then there was nothing to do but wait. Jem took out the Goosebumps paperback he’d had folded in the back pocket of his shorts—Night of the Living Dummyhad become a favorite, and, Tean guessed, a comfort read. Tean considered the tiny side table with its old magazines—Field & Streamfrom May of 1993. The art of stalking trout. America’s bird: the truth about chokes, load, safety, and calls. Big bucks by bike.
“That’s my new business model,” Jem whispered.
In spite of himself, Tean managed a smile.
“It’s going to be ok,” Jem said. “It’s a misunderstanding.”
Tean shook his head.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” Shaw said, although he sounded as miserable as he looked. “Emery’s going to fix everything. Right, Emery?”
Emery didn’t seem to hear him. When Shaw opened his mouth again, North laid a hand flat on his back, and Shaw closed his mouth slowly.
“Do you know what the rate of wrongful conviction is in Missouri?” Tean asked.
Jem’s eyes were a storm of blue, but he didn’t look away. After a moment, he shook his head.
“Nobody does,” Tean said. “That’s the whole problem. Most people who are wrongfully convicted don’t have the means to prove their innocence.”
“Or they weren’t wrongfully convicted,” Emery said, the words low and thrumming with the potential charge of his anger. “How about that?”
Tean shot him a look, but after a moment, he shook his head and sank back into his seat.
“Missy’s going to be fine,” Jem said. When Tean stayed silent, Jem added, “We’re all going to be fine. We just need to ride this out.”
“Ride it out,” Emery muttered. “Jonas couldn’t find his ass in a paper bag. If he thinks she did it, it’s because there’s so much evidence that even he can’t fuck it up.”
“Hey,” Jem said, but Emery didn’t seem to hear him.
Tean sank lower into his chair. His mind kept going back to the hotel, to when he had moved toward Missy, the way the officer had put her hand on her gun. This wasn’t Salt Lake City. This wasn’t Utah. There was no Ammon he could call if things got bad. If things got bad. That made a laugh knot in his throat. There wasn’t muchifabout it.
“Did you know seventy-jillion percent of Missouri police officers get their first arrest wrong?” Jem whispered.
“That’s false,” Emery said without slowing his pacing. “Seventy-jillion isn’t a number, much less a percent.”
But Tean fixed his attention on Jem. Jem gave him an encouraging nod, and after a moment, Tean let the reins slip. He’d been working on this. He’d been trying not to. For the girls. And, if he were being honest, for Jem, although Jem, for the most part, rolled with it.
“Did you know that Missouri has the eleventh highest rate of police killings in the United States? I looked it up before we left.”
“Of course you did,” Jem murmured.
“And Missouri police officers are rarely held accountable for those killings. Last year, only one officer was charged with murder in connection with a fatal shooting, and he was acquitted.”
“Maybe it was a good shoot,” Emery said. He stopped his pacing and stared at them. “Did you think about that?”
“The rate of police killings in Missouri is five times the rate in Utah,” Tean said. “And it’s almost double the national average.”
“Hey,” the younger guy said in a worried tone, “you’re ok. You don’t need to freak out.”
“Where are you getting those numbers?” Emery asked.
“Ok,” the blond man said, pushing off from the wall.
“Maybe police in Missouri face a higher rate of violent offenders. Did you think about that?”
