The next interviewee came in with none of the same cocky confidence.
Jon Egan had been another member of Pierre Michaud’s poaching crew. Unlike Roland, though, he hadn’t escaped a term in prison. Pellerin had observed him selling drugs to teenagers. It was his second stay in the joint. He’d only gotten out, Kellam told me, three years ago.
“He never talked, though,” said Stan as we stood together behind the mirror. “You’ve got to admire that.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t break and give up his friends.”
“That isn’t a code of honor,” I said. “It’s a code of stupidity.”
Before Kellam could respond, Zanadakis ushered Egan into the interrogation room.
The first thing that struck me about Jon Egan, aside from his diminutive height and the shock of red hair, was how many layers of clothing he was wearing. In this heat, he wore a green chamois shirt over a hooded sweatshirt over a tee. His baggy work pants hinted at long johns underneath. And his boots were tall neoprene LaCrosses. For all the padding, his stomach remained perfectly flat. Jon Egan had a lower body fat percentage than a marathon champion from the Horn of Africa.
“How is he not sweating?” I said to no one in particular.
The little man didn’t sprawl in his seat, as Roland had done, but perched on the edge, his hands on his knees under the table. Almost at once, he began rocking back and forth.
“Can I get you something to drink, Jon?” asked Zanadakis.
“Milk maybe.” His voice was deeper than I had expected.
The request amused Kellam. “Milk! That’s a new one.”
The detective said that there was, alas, no milk to be had, at which point he launched directly into his interview.
“Why did you decide to stop at the Valley View?”
“I used to plow the lot for Emmeline and do odd jobs and stuff. I have to pass the motel to go anywhere since I live at the end of the road in Allagash. I got in the habit of checking on the place even after Emmeline died.”
“Why?”
“I knew it was Angie’s legacy. That’s the wrong word. I knew it was her inheritance. She hoped to sell it, and I didn’t want kids accidentally burning it down.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“I don’t know about that.”
With his rust-red hair, his small stature, and his restlessness, I understood why he reminded Kellam of a red squirrel, but I had expected him to be feistier, more combative. This nervous man seemed one harsh word away from breaking into tears.
“Maybe you had a crush on Angie?” said the detective.
“She’s just a kid!”
“She was past the age of consent.”
“I’ve got a new family. I’ve got a baby boy.”
Zanadakis opened a folder on the desk between them. “I’d like to believe you, Jon. I really would. Unfortunately, I have your criminal records. I have the transcript from your first trial—the one that sent you to prison when you were twenty.”
“I was drunk,” said the jittery man. “It was an accident.”
“You accidentally removed your erect penis from your jeans in Riverside Park while a troop of Girl Scouts just happened to be there picking up trash.”
“I had to piss. I get hard if I hold it too long.”
“You couldn’t have waited to use the port-o-potty?”
“That’s all ancient history,” he said.
“Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it. That’s a quote from Santayana.”
“I don’t listen to that kind of music. I prefer country.”
“Getting back to this morning. Who knows that you have a habit of checking the motel parking lot?”
“My wife. Maybe some of the guys at Two Rivers.”
“That’s the diner in Allagash?”
“Yeah.”
“Does Roland Michaud eat there?”
“Sometimes. When he’s around. Lots of people do. The food is good.” He brought a hand out from under the table to gnaw at his cuticles. “Why would I have reported the body if I’d been the one who’d strangled her? Especially when people know my history with the motel.”
“That’s an excellent point,” said the detective. “One answer might be that you were counting on your connection to the Valley View to exculpate you. You counted on the police saying, ‘Who could possibly be so dumb as to do that? It couldn’t have been Egan.’”
“I ain’t dumb,” he said.
“So we should consider you as a suspect, you mean?”
“Now you’re just trying to confuse me.” He lifted the other hand from under the table and began to rub his shoulder as if he had a knot in the muscle.
“Where were you last night, Jon?”
“I went into Fort Kent to pick up a prescription and some Cadbury eggs for Dorothy, my wife. I got the receipts somewhere in my truck. I can prove I ain’t lying.”
“So you passed the motel on your way back home?”
He hadn’t stopped massaging his shoulder. People under stress engage in what are known as self-soothing behaviors. We stroke the backs of our necks. We absently knead our legs.
“That’s right.”
“Did you check the parking lot?”
A light came into his eyes. He looked like a drowning man being thrown a life ring. “I did!”
“And Angie’s car wasn’t there?”
“No.”
“What time was this?” asked Zanadakis.
“Eight o’clock, thereabouts. Not quite dark but close enough that I watched for deer and moose the whole way. They come out of the woods this time of year to get away from the bugs.”
I pressed the intercom. “What kind of truck do you drive, Mr. Egan?”
The man nearly leaped out of his skin. He seemed to have been utterly unaware of being watched through the mirror. He actually pivoted both ways in his seat, not knowing where the voice had come from.
“Toyota Tacoma.”
Too small to have been my monster.
The detective paused before forging ahead again. “Did Angie call you yesterday to tell you she was coming back to St. Ignace?”
“Why would she?”
“So you were surprised this morning to find her car there. Did you recognize it as hers?”
“I never seen it before. Last time I seen her, she was driving a Honda Civic.”
“Tell us
