Page 40 of We Are All Guilty Here

The technique was textbook, designed to gradually destroy the suspect’s sense of control. You set the tone. You chose the topics. You told them where to sit, where to stand, when to talk, when they got to eat, when they could pee, and eventually, they broke down out of desperation and confessed. It was a variation of good cop/bad cop meets Stockholm syndrome, but from where Emmy was sitting, Dale Loudermilk wasn’t buying it.

He wasn’t sweating. He wasn’t pleading or begging. He wasn’t shaking and crying. His leg wasn’t jiggling. His hands weren’t wringing. For all intents and purposes, he could be in a student–teacher conference where a parent was trying to get him to change a grade.

Dale wasn’t going to change anything.

“Dad, this is crazy.” Emmy couldn’t hold back her irritation. “Faulkner’s been doing the same yo-yo back and forth for the last three hours. Dale hasn’t cracked an inch. Why isn’t he using any of the information we gave him?”

“Don’t know,” Gerald said.

“Look at him.” Emmy waved at Dale’s imperious face on the monitor. “He still thinks he’s walking out of here. Faulkner needs to start turning the screw. Talk about Cheyenne’s phones, the SIM card, the sex, the drugs, the CCTV from the school. Half the FBI is busy tearing up Dale’s house and car, doing a colonoscopy on everybody he’s ever met. Faulkner needs to start making it clear that Dale’s entire world is closing in on him. Madison could still be alive.”

“Frustrating,” Gerald said.

“You’re damn right.” Emmy felt her temper ramping up. “Can’t we go in there?”

“Nope.”

“Dad, he needs to throw the book at him.”

“Book’s not always heavy enough.”

“What does that mean?” Emmy demanded. “You’ve always told me if something isn’t working to try something new. Madison could be baking in the trunk of a car or tied up in a hunting cabin. How long can she last in this heat without water?”

Gerald didn’t answer. He was laser-focused on the monitor that showed Dale Loudermilk sitting in the catbird seat. Emmy was about to press her father for an assignment that got her out of this stifling, dark room when a sharp cough rattled the speaker. Dale’s hand went to his mouth. He coughed again.

Emmy watched Lionel Faulkner point to the plastic cup on the table.

He told Dale, “Drink some water.”

Dale made a show of lifting up the cup. He sipped loudly. Smacked his lips. Returned the cup to the table.

Emmy squeezed her hands together until she felt the bones shift. She kept thinking about holding Madison’s hand under the oak tree. She had failed the girl once. Now she was watching another cop fail her again. Dale was never going to tell Faulkner where they were. It took every ounce of her willpower not to run down the hall, burst into the interrogation room and slap the pompous look off his face.

Lionel said, “You recruited Cheyenne and Madison when they were ninth graders.”

Dale gave a heavy sigh. “It’s not a recruitment. I hold auditions. Any child can try out. Cheyenne is a solid contralto. Madison has a very rich tessitura that goes well with my senior tenors.”

“That’s just a fancy way of saying she’s a good singer, right?” Lionel waited for Dale to dip his head in a nod. “They’re pretty girls, aren’t they? Cheyenne in particular.”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“Madison, though …” Lionel clicked his tongue against histeeth. “Got those nice curves on her. Gives you something to hold onto.”

Emmy felt the acid burning in her stomach.

Lionel said, “Madison was in your show choir. You took her to the state championship in Atlanta last year.”

“I took an entire busload of students on that trip. Madison Dalrymple was but one of them.”

“You stayed in the same hotel as Madison. The Marriott Marquis on Peachtree Center Avenue. Your room was right next to hers.”

“My wife was right next to me in bed.” Dale seemed to enjoy the wordplay. “Mrs. Loudermilk helped chaperone the trip. You can talk to her. She’ll tell you she didn’t see anything.”

“I dunno if Esther is the best judge of character.” Lionel let a sense of familiarity play in his tone. “After all, she had no idea she’s been living with a pedophile for twenty years.”

Dale’s hands had drawn into fists. He slowly extended his fingers, a kind of reminder to himself that he needed to stay calm. “You had no right to talk to my wife without my permission.”

“I feel like you don’t understand the situation you’re in,” Lionel said. “You’ve been arrested for possessing child pornography. You were caught red-handed.”

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