Page 22 of The Grave Between Us
The US marshalsbrought Ingram from the prison to the local FBI office, a small resident agency nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians, near the Tennessee state line. The walls were beige, the carpet beige, the blinds beige, everything beige and boring and staid. Like every FBI office, the boring, bland environment was supposed to convey to visitors, criminal and noncriminal alike, that it was a serious place, a place of order.
Ingram was escorted from the prison transport van and up into the FBI’s secured interrogation room on the third floor, a windowless space with a single table and two blue chairs. The Appalachian RA was a newer office, and the interrogation rooms were wired for subtle audio and video recording. Cole didn’t have to worry about a camcorder on a tripod staring Ingram in the face.
He watched Ingram on the video feed piped into the RA’s operations room. Michael, on speakerphone, was watching the feed from his office in Quantico. The SAC at the RA, Hank Hillary, and his ASAC, Julie Pressman, and the other agents, including Special Agent McHugh, the man who had tried and failed to crack Ingram, were there, crowded around Cole as they gave him their opinions on Ingram’s character, his motivations, and his responses—or lack thereof—to their attempts to get him to open up.
Their words broke over Cole without penetrating. He watched as Ingram tipped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, not so much bored as indifferent to what was happening. His eyes closed. One foot crossed over the other.
That morning, Cole had taken an FBI Cessna 182 from Reagan National to the Virginia Highlands Airport, a single runway in the gnarled foothills of rural Virginia. He’d watched the attempted interviews of Ingram on the flight, getting through eight minutes of questions and silence before speeding through the rest.
The agents reeked of frustration. It was evident in their irritable tones, their rolled-up sleeves, their attempts to bargain with Ingram. Next, Cole had pored through the file on Ingram’s past. It was worryingly thin. Ingram had no prior convictions—had never even been arrested. No drunk driving. No assaults. No Peeping Tom charges. Nothing from when he was a juvenile. He had a short military record, an honorable discharge, and an active paramedic’s certification. And that was it. Google searches turned up next to nothing. No social media presence. No Facebook or Instagram or Snapchat. No Twitter handle. Ingram was quiet in the world, it seemed.
For the last hour of the flight, Cole watched the horizon waver in and out of the clouds, watched the bend of muddy waters flow down through the mountains and the open expanse of a lake appear beneath him.
“Cole,” Michael said, over the phone line. The rest of the agents shut up. “Do you have what you need? Is there anything you want before you begin? We can send another agent in if you want to see Ingram’s interactions in person before you make your play.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Pressman snorted. McHugh, who had spent the most time in the room with Ingram, scrubbed his hands over his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.
“Get going, then,” Michael said. He ended the call.
The agents motioned to a table of props: stacks of file folders bursting with papers, photos of Ingram’s truck with the foot dangling out of his tailgate and the other evidence they’d seized. Most of the papers were blank, only there for show. They were meant to overwhelm Ingram. To try to impress upon him the—fake—immensity of the FBI’s case.
McHugh had tried to smother Ingram with those props. He’d tacked more and more photos around the interrogation room as the days went on, until it seemed the room was wallpapered in evidence. He’d lined one wall with file boxes with Ingram’s name on the front.
Ingram never even looked twice. He’d smiled when McHugh had said, “Look, I don’t have time to show you all the mountains of evidence we’ve developed against you, but you can see the volume for yourself. And you can’t argue about what we have in these photos. Your truck, and a dead body. If you want to help yourself the best you can, talk to me. Let’s start a dialogue. Help me understand this.”
Silence from Ingram, for days.
Cole had asked that the room be stripped bare. No photos. No file boxes. No props. “No, thanks,” he said, when Pressman offered him a file folder.
“You going in empty-handed?” Hillary frowned.
“I am.”
Muttering, and a few curse words. One agent made a comment, just loud enough for Cole to hear, about the bullshit of the BAU and their hocus-pocus nonsense. Cole ignored him. He walked out, headed down the hall, and stood in front of Ingram’s interrogation room door.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Cole pushed his way in and lazily nudged the door shut. He grabbed a chair and sank into it, sighing as he looked at Ingram. He arched one eyebrow at the man and slouched. Crossed one leg over the other, mirroring Ingram’s no-fucks posture.
Ingram stared back at him.
Cole’s gaze tracked slowly over Ingram. He was nondescript in every sense of the word. Brown haired, brown eyed, with a square face and a Roman nose. A shade under six feet, and strong, with muscles cording out from beneath the sleeves of his prison jumpsuit, the fabric tight across his well-built chest and narrowing around his trim waist. His hands were well kept, nails trimmed, lips unchapped. No tattoos or scars, according to the FBI file.
He was a man who could blend into a crowd. A man Cole might see at a bar and not think twice about. Not particularly handsome, but not noticeably off, either. If he’d hit on Cole, Cole would have flirted back. He had a gravitas about him, something that was instantly attractive. Not from an aesthetic perspective, but something that made Cole want to know more. There was a reason Ingram was able to connect with his victims, get them into his truck. He clearly had no problem picking men up.
“I’m Special Agent Cole Kennedy, from Quantico. FBI headquarters. My boss called me to come down,” Cole said, sighing again. “I didn’t want to. I had plans.”
Something crackled in the room, like a whip of lightning arcing between them.
“I had to take a four-seater prop plane down here. Do you know how shitty those things are? I felt every single bump of turbulence, like we were driving on gravel the whole way. Actually, I think I could have gotten here faster in my car. God, that flight was terrible.” He shook his head. Closed his eyes and rolled his neck. In fact, it had been a smooth flight. He didn’t get to ride in the FBI’s private planes very often. Never on his own before.
Ingram’s stare burned the surface of his skin.
“There’s a bunch of guys on the other side of the door waiting for me to come out and give them some woo-woo bullshit about how I’ve managed to crack into your mind and get you to talk. The big magic from Quantico, right? Behavioral analysis.” He waggled his eyebrows. “They think there’s something special or unique about you, and they begged my boss to send someone down. I haven’t told them I’m still in school. Let them think they got someone worthwhile, right?”
Cole straightened his legs, then crossed them the other direction. Looked Ingram up and down and shook his head. “I’m just going to sit here for a few minutes. You don’t have to say anything. In fact, I hope you don’t. You can keep the strong, silent vibe going. It works for you. And I’d like to get out of here pretty quickly. There’s a chance I can fly home today if I can get the debrief knocked out. We’re helping each other, really.”
