Normally visitors have to walk through a metal detector, but cops, detectives, PIs, and attorneys get to walk in without the hassle. It’s nice, because I don’t want to part with any of my weapons, but I’m acutely aware that anyone else we meet will also have their tools.
“He’ll be in room 2B,” the officer says. “Walk straight down the hall until you reach it.”
Miles and I are buzzed in through the electronic door and enter a massive hallway devoid of windows. The cheerless gray walls, stagnant air, and narrow space add together to create an anxiety-inducing atmosphere. I hate this place. I’ve only been here for thirty seconds, and all I can think about is leaving.
“What’s wrong?” Miles mutters under his breath as we walk down the hall.
“Nothing,” I reply, my gaze locked onto the corrections officers who walk past.
“Why are we talking to this guy? That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“I’m already regretting it, but I wanted to speak with him.”
“Who is he?”
“Shannon’s father.”
The information gets Miles quiet. For the rest of the walk, neither of us says a word.
Room 2B is nothing special. It’s a heavy metal door with a small viewing window, exactly the same as the twenty doors we passed in order to get to it. A corrections officer opens the door as Miles and I get near, and he motions us in with a jerk of his head.
I enter to find a single circular table and four flimsy plastic chairs in an otherwise drab room. Sitting in one chair, in the farthest corner, is some sad sack with heavy rings under his eyes, wearing the jail uniform—tan scrubs. He sits with a pronounced slouch and doesn’t bother to straighten himself when I draw near.
There’s a one-way mirror on the opposite side of the room, but I ignore it. I doubt anyone is going to spy on this riveting conversation between a PI and some asshole who shot his wife.
Once the door shuts, I clear my throat.
“McMillian?” I ask.
The man nods. He has Shannon’s unruly brown hair, but his is drenched in a week’s worth of unwashed natural oil.
“I’m a private investigator with the Michael Shelby Private Investigator Agency.”
He glances up, a hint of confusion in his features. “I spoke to my attorney,” he mutters. “I’m going to plead guilty. What’re you even investigating?”
“I just need to ask you a few questions.”
Again, he nods. Not much fight in the guy as he returns to his slouch, his attention square on the table in front of him.
“Anyone come to visit you in here lately?” I ask.
“Visit me?” McMillian narrows his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Who?”
“My attorney. Some family. Why?”
Although I should probably focus all my efforts on figuring out these traffickers, I’ve become curious. “Have you seen your daughter?”
“Shannon?” No change in his voice. He’s just as melancholy as when I entered. “No.”
“You planning on telling her what happened?”
He shrugs. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
I give Miles a sideways glance. He returns the look with one of bewilderment. I guess Miles hasn’t had to deal with many people who are on the verge of suicidal, but they always have similar tells. Not thinking about the future is one of them.
“Don’t be a complete piece of shit,” I say. “At least think about her before you do anything else you’ll regret.”
McMillian jerks his gaze up to meet mine, a flare of hate and life that wasn’t present before. Miles steps in front of me and interjects with “What Pierce is trying to say is—Shannon asks about you all the time! Maybe you should talk to her.”
“What’re you saying?” McMillian snaps. “You spoke with Shannon?”
“Yes,” Miles continues, cutting me off before I can say anything. “She asked if you were okay and when she’ll be able to see you again.”
“She said that?” McMillian whispers, his face twisted as he looks away from me and returns to staring at the table.
“Maybe you could call her. I think she wants to hear from you more than anything else.”
“I… don’t know what I would say.”
“Say you’ve been thinking about her. Say that you want to be a good father.”
“No kid wants to hear from their jailbird father.”
“I did,” Miles states, an earnest conviction in his voice. It takes me by surprise. His father—what little I saw of him—is garbage.
When McMillian remains quiet, Miles continues, “My dad went to jail a few times when I was younger. I wanted to hear from him. I wanted to think he thought of me from time to time. Even if he was in jail.”
Eh. Kids. They’re like a dog that loves their abusive owners no matter what. I guess kids eventually grow up into resentful adults, unlike animals, but still. It’s sad sometimes to see loving devotion poured onto someone who doesn’t deserve it. Miles’s father sure as fuck didn’t deserve a kid who wanted to hear from him.
“All right,” McMillian mutters. “I’ll call when I get the chance.”
Miles relaxes a bit and nods. “I think that’s for the best.”
For the first time since we entered the room, McMillian straightens his posture and holds his head up, like he finally has something to look forward to. I nudge Miles. There’s nothing left for us here, and I don’t even know what questions I could ask to point us in a new direction. I doubt McMillian is on the target list for people to sell, and it’s not like he’s getting out anytime soon.
“Thanks for your time,” I say to the guy as I exit the room. The corrections officer enters after to take McMillian back to his cell.
“So Roslyn isn’t here and we don’t know who took her?” Miles asks as we make the long walk back to the lobby.
“We have information to sift through,” I say. “And that’s what we’ll do.”
“SO ANY of these attorneys could be the connection we’re looking for?” Miles asks.
I took twenty-three pictures, which seems like a small number when I think about it, but when
