CHAPTER SIX HUNDRED and THIRTY-NINE
Thursday morning — 9:00 a.m.
Seth O’Malley knocked on the interview room with his foot. A uniformed officer opened the door and nodded. Seth went into the room carrying two cups of coffee.
“Coffee?” Seth asked.
The man in the interview room looked up at him and then nodded. Seth sat down across from the man. For a minute, they both took long drinks from their coffee cups. Seth set his down and looked at the man across from him.
In his day, this man — Gerald Whitestone — must have been a giant. Well into his 90th year, he still held himself with the powerful look of someone to be reckoned with. Thick chest and biceps pushed through the man’s tailored suit. His skin wasn’t quite brown and wasn’t exactly black. His eyes were on the brown side of hazel. What hair the man had left was combed back across his dome.
They had both been tested for Covid-19 before they entered this room. Neither was seemed to have the disease.
“The detectives tell me that you’ve made it through a physical and psychological evaluation,” Seth said.
Gerald Whitestone nodded.
“You’ve had your Miranda Rights read,” Seth said. “Any questions?”
Gerald Whitestone shook his head.
“We’re taping this interview,” Seth said. “Audio and video.”
“Got it,” Gerald Whitestone said.
“What would you like me to call you?” Seth asked.
“Whitestone,” Gerald Whitestone said. “You mind if I call you, O’Malley?”
“Most people do,” Seth said with a grin.
“You know ’bout the cancer?” Whitestone asked.
“I’ve got about three months to live,” Whitestone said.
“That’s why I’m here,” Seth said.
“You aren’t po-lice anymore, are you?” Whitestone asked.
Seth shook his head.
“I work special investigations, cold cases,” Seth said with a shrug. “They let me talk to people like you.”
“Why’s that?” Whitestone asked.
“They think that you’ll talk to me,” Seth said with a shrug. He held the cup to his lips. “Two old men in a room.”
Whitestone laughed. The men finished their coffee. Seth replaced his facemask and waited for Whitestone to do the same.
“That detective is older than you,” Whitestone said.
“More miles,” Seth said.
Seth gave Whitestone a long look.
“When I was a kid, I used to spend my weekends playing at the swing clubs in New York City,” Seth said.
“Big Daddy,” Whitestone said, softly, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear.
“I took jazz lessons from his father-in-law,” Seth said, not willing to give up the name of his mentor to the police detectives behind the mirrored glass.
Whitestone’s indicated that he knew who Seth was referring to.
“I spent a lot of my youth in those clubs,” Seth said.
“You can’t charge me for the swing club,” Whitestone said. “Or selling alcohol. They aren’t crimes any longer.”
“Murder,” Seth said. “You’re here for murdering your wife as well as another male, Mrs. Jones and a child.”
“Fair enough,” Whitestone said.
Denver Cereal continues tomorrow...
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