Free Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. by John Turney

the stench of sweat and panic.
    Rye slapped the folder on the table. The prisoner jumped then exchanged combative glances with Rye, who plopped into the second chair and spent several seconds rotating the folder to be perpendicular to the table’s edge. The prisoner studied the folder.
    “I’m going to record this conversation,” Rye said, pulling a recorder from his pants pocket. “If that’s okay with you.” Not waiting for an answer, he centered it on the table and took a few more seconds toadjust its location. Rye leaned forward and turned on the recorder.
    “This is Chief of Police Rye Dawlsen of the Whiskey Police Department. I am interviewing a UDA on the morning of June 30 th .”
    Rye remained quiet, watching the prisoner fidget in the silence. He picked up the folder and leaned back, pretending to read its contents.
    “Not good,” Rye muttered, flipping back and forth between pages. He stopped and stared over the top of the folder at the man. “
¿Habla Ingles?
”
    “
Poco
,” the prisoner said. “Some.”
    Rye continued the pretense of reading the content in the folder. Whitewolf had included a page of Navajo jokes, and Rye forced himself not to smile. Rye withdrew photos of the diner and slid them across the table for the suspect to see. They were generic pictures of the diner, from a health inspection during the spring. But the suspect wouldn’t know that, and Rye hoped his ploy would play into the man’s fears.
    “
¿Por qué?”
Rye tapped the photos.
“Why?
”
    The suspect looked down, finding a sudden interest in the tiled floor.
    Rye smacked the table with the flat of his hand. The man started, but refused to look up.
    “Look at me!” Rye demanded.
    The man raised his head and glared at him.
    “You’re not a US citizen.” Rye’s words snapped like canvas in a desert wind. “Nonetheless, I’m going to read you your Miranda rights. Just to cover all my bases.” He pulled out his card, read the words printed there, and tossed the card on the table. “And it’s on the recording. Now answer my questions, or I’ll check out your papers.”
    The prisoner remained silent.
    “Before we go any further, would you like some water? Coffee? Coke? A candy bar?”
    The prisoner leaned back in his chair, maintaining a tough guy sneer.
    “I’ll take that to be a no.” Rye locked eyes with the prisoner. “Let’s start with something simple. Was that beat-up pickup yours?” He set the folder on the table for the prisoner to ponder its contents. Rye stood to loom large over the sitting man.
    The prisoner maintained his silent glare. Rye strode to the solitary door and leaned his back against it, lifting one leg so the sole of the boot rested against the door. Rye folded his arms, never taking his gaze off the prisoner. Rye did this to suggest to the prisoner that WPD provided the only way to freedom. To himself, Rye counted off a hundred “cold beers” before he proceeded.
    “Just to let you know, we’ve seized that truck as part of this investigation. The Yuma crime scene people will conduct a rigid investigation on that vehicle. Are there things you don’t want them to find? Like, hidden drugs; old bloodstains; DNA from a pre-teen girl? They’ll search for soil samples … easy enough on that rolling rust bucket. You want them to locate where you’re from and where you’ve been? Care to answer any of those questions?”
    Silence.
    Rye gestured. “Hey. Feel free to jump in at any time. It may make all the difference to whether we send you home as a prisoner. If so, I’ll make sure the Mexican police know you squealed like a rusted bearing.”
    More silence. However, Rye thought he detected a hint of worry in the man’s eyes.
Let’s raise this up a notch
. He pulled the photo fromthe murder scene out of his pocket. Holding it by the edges, Rye held it out for the prisoner to see it. He walked it over to the table and set it before the man.
    “Do you know these people?” Rye