Page 87 of Silent Bones
The interrogation roomwas colder than usual. Not by temperature, but in mood. All that was inside was sterile gray walls, a humming vent, and a steel table that seemed designed to absorb confessions. Noah sat at one end, a yellow envelope in front of him. McKenzie leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Neither had spoken in more than a minute.
They used silence to their advantage. It made suspects feel uncomfortable. It often made them talk.
Across from them, Mack Hawkins rested his cuffed hands flat on the table. A fresh scrape bloomed across his right knuckle from when he resisted stepping into the cruiser. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer. He hadn’t said anything at all.
Noah slid the first photo across the table.
The gutted deer.
Then the second.
The bag of crystals from the ATV.
Then a third, larger print, the interior of the second Airstream. Tubes, burners, containers. Every sign of a mobile meth lab carefully documented in frame.
Mack didn’t blink. He barely breathed.
“You’ve been quiet all morning,” Noah said. “So let’s skip the usual dance.”
He tapped the last photo.
“This alone is enough to bury you. Forget the poaching charge. That’s just a ticket. This is years, Mack. Federal territory. Production, contamination, intent. You know how it looks?”
Mack kept staring forward, unfocused. His right thumb twitched once, then went still again.
McKenzie stepped forward.
“We can do this two ways,” he said, calm but clipped. “We bring in the DA. You get the full weight of this dumped on your back. Or you help us understand what the hell was going on in those woods, who you work for, and maybe someone cuts you a deal.”
No response.
McKenzie opened a smaller envelope, slid out one last photo. It was grainy, taken from their drone footage last week, an image of the silver Airstream parked near the Strudwell site, just visible beyond the tree line. Different from the lab trailer, but similar enough to make a point.
“This isn’t the only Airstream you own, is it?” McKenzie said. “You’ve got more stashed around the county. Cook trailers. Drop sites. Right?”
Mack’s lip curled, not in defiance, but in something like disgust. “You think I’m some kind of kingpin?”
“No,” Noah said. “I think you’re a tool. The question is, whose tool?”
That made Mack’s eyes shift. The first sign of attention.
“You’re out there keeping these rigs warm, watching game trails, making the rounds,” Noah continued. “You’re not the one calling shots. You’re running errands. And now you’ve been cutloose from the leash, you’ve got no cover. You think whoever’s behind this is going to bail you out?”
Mack’s mouth twitched, a tired smile with no joy behind it. “I ain’t asking for bail.”
“Good,” McKenzie said. “Because there isn’t any.”
Noah leaned forward.
“This is your one chance. Talk to us. Who’s paying you for this? Who are you working for? Is it Luther Ashford?”
Mack stared at the table. His voice, when it finally came, was low and slow, like he was unspooling it from someplace deep inside.
“The product ain’t mine.”
Noah exchanged a glance with McKenzie. A line that could’ve been literal. Or code. Or just a man too afraid to say more.
“Who does it belong to?” McKenzie asked.
