Page 43 of Serial Burn

Jesslyn snorted. Andrew coughed again.

“Oh for the love of—” Nathan sighed and chose to ignore the comment. “Does he have a name?”

“Not that he’s sharing. Maybe you can get it out of him. He’s in room three. He’s also changed his mind about a lawyer and medical attention. I had him sign a statement to that effect.”

“He say why the change of heart about the lawyer?”

“Nope. Good luck.”

Nathan nodded, took a deep breath, and walked into the room with only a slight limp, but his face was two shades paler than normal.

Jesslyn watched from behind the mirror. The room had a rectangular table and two chairs facing each other. The prisoner sat in one, hands resting on the table in front of him, cuffed.

Andrew stood next to her. “All right, partner,” he said, “scratch your nose to signal you can hear me.”

Nathan complied, then after identifying himself, took a seat opposite the man. Jesslyn could tell it took a lot for him not to grimace in pain. He leaned back, hands gripping the seat on either side of his thighs. His pose said he was relaxed and had all the time in the world.

The prisoner sat silent, eyes downcast, his face made of stone.

“He’s so young,” Jesslyn said. “He doesn’t look older than seventeen or eighteen.”

He had a lean and agile build and was about five feet ten. His short, dark brown hair matched the scruffy beard that needed a good trim. His green eyes darted to Nathan, then back to his clasped hands. Hands that were rough with calluses and chapped from the cold weather. He wore an older watch on his left wrist that had a cracked face. She wondered if that happened when he jumped from the building.

She also noted the faded scar that ran from the corner of his left eye and disappeared under the mustache and was curious where he’d acquired that. He wore a faded black T-shirt under the worn-out green jacket, jeans that had seen better days, and scuffed boots.

“You’re welcome, John,” Nathan said.

The man blinked. “Um ... what?”

“You won’t tell us your name, so it’s John Doe until we learn otherwise. And I saved your life, so, you’re welcome.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Nathan rubbed his lips. A sure sign he was holding back certain words and searching for substitutes. He finally lowered his hand. “What’s your name, kid? Don’t you think you owe me that?”

The young man shook his head. “I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me. I mean, we’re going to find out eventually. We have your DNA, your prints, your face. When we put you on the six o’clock news asking for an ID, how long do you think it’s going to take for the phone to ring with your name, age, and address?”

The prisoner groaned and dropped his forehead into his palms. “Kenny,” he mumbled.

“Kenny?” Nathan asked.

“Yeah.”

“Kenny what?”

“Davies.” More mumbling, but she caught the name.

Nathan closed his eyes for a short second as though gathering the shredded remnants of his patience—or trying to push past the pain he had to be in. “You asked for your lawyer but refused to call him. Or her. Would you like to do that now?”

Kenny shook his head.

“Let the record show,” Nathan said, “the suspect responded with a nonverbal no.” Nathan leaned forward. Carefully. “If you don’t want a lawyer, that’s your choice, but do you think you could look up and tell me how you know Jesslyn McCormick?”

---