The Tears Devourer

V

    "I think it's 'Padton' or I don't know... 'Pattund'?

    On the other side of the clear glass in the small interrogation room, two detectives shared opinions about everything they heard inside. And one of them recognized the onomatopoeic surname coming from Corie's lips.

    "'Pattund'?..." Detective Brendan Mondy repeated when he heard the girl's statement. "Is he not related to the old curmudgeon we arrested last week?"

    "The one who just moved in?" Detective Herrera replied, jotting everything down quickly in a notebook.

    "Yeah... the i***t who gnawed at fat Peak, in old Holmwood's tavern. Do you remember him?"

    "No..." Herrera smiled slyly. "Should I?"

    "I don't know... That guy gave me a bad feeling. It's not the behavior you would expect from someone who has just arrived in town, and suddenly, he seeks fights with the first i***t he provokes."

    "There are people who were born idiots, Mondy, it's that simple." Detective Herrera stopped scoring when Officer Garb stopped questioning Corie Cobrun and left the room.

    "Yeah, but I'm not often wrong about people, Dusty. Rarely. And that guy actually sneaked the hairs off my body when I saw him."

    "Who would say that a huge fellow like you would be afraid of... well, anyone, actually." The door swung open, and Officer Jarred Garb came in suddenly, his chest puffed out and his vanity growing.

    "How did I do it?" He asked, proud of their work. "Don't you think I'm ready for a promotion?"

    "You should have started with the suspect's name, you would have saved us a lot of time," Herrera criticized. "And if they give you a spoken portrait, make sure you have a cartoonist around... Now you would have to ask her to repeat everything to Benton again. Luckily, we already have the name."

    "And next time, if there is a next one," Brendan joked, "if you really wanna be a detective, ask every detail, and listen carefully. All details matter in an investigation, no matter how minute they may seem. You still have a lot to improve, Jarred." Mondy gave a consoling smile, trying to cheer up his colleague.

    "But at least I got the name, right?" He tried to defend himself as best he could, Officer Garb.

    "To be honest, the girl would have told anyone, but hey... Yes, Jarred, you got a name," Herrera commented, slapping the cadet on the back. "So do we follow your lead, Brendan? Do you want me to check the list of high school students?"

    "There's no need. I kinda know every around, and that's the only last name that sounds strange to me. Jarred," detective Mondy called him, "I need you to give me everything you have on this 'Pattund', and I think you'll find a match in the detainee files last week, so start there."

    Within minutes, Officer Garb brought up a lean file on one Mathew Patton, since it was the only last name that matched the sound Corie made when questioning her. The file contained only two things, the times he has been in prison, and the military service in Iraq that he attended for four years.

    Mathew Patton, born into an upper-middle-class family, in the green and fragrant fields of Ireland. With dual American / Irish nationality, thanks to his parents, he lived much of his adolescence and youth in Chicago. The widower of a seamstress named Judith Orellana, he moved to Tallahassee with his only son, Michael Patton, but due to behavior problems, he decided, after a while, to move to a quieter and smaller place. He hasn't been in prison for long periods of time, but many times. Since he returned from his service with the armed forces, he's been arrested for inappropriate behavior, disturbance of public order, driving while intoxicated, assaulting a police officer, among other things.

    "With that resume, I don't see why we'd have a problem talking to him face-to-face," Herrera joked.

    "His son follows the suspect's profile: he's sixteen and the last name fits. We don't lose anything, Dusty."

    "Does the boy have a police record?"

    "Nothing important... nothing, really. It says here that he spent short periods of time in foster homes, but has never had legal or attitudinal problems. Quite a quiet kid for such a stupid father."

    "I don't think you'd like to know that your son's a suspect in the disappearance of a minor, so in case this gets intense, I think we'll need some backup."

    They both looked at Officer Garb, and the latter, with a big smile on his face, agreed to take two more policemen and follow them on their way to the Patton house, and guard their backs in case the little conversation they wanted to have turned aggressive.

    They arrived in less than twenty minutes. Detectives Brendan Mondy and Dusty Herrera got out of the '70 Ford Mustang GT, which Mondy treasured so much since his college days, where he believed his calling was to be a lawyer, but he changed sides when he realized that catching bad boys, instead of defending them brought him more satisfaction and less burden of conscience.

    There was a knock on the door three times. A man not so tall and not so small, perhaps five-fifty-seven, suddenly opened the door. He had tremendous dark circles at the base of both eyes, a lit cigar between his lips, and from his scruffy appearance and foul odor, he gave the impression of not having showered in days.

    "How can I help you, officers?" Asked the beggar on the threshold of the door contemptuously.

    "Are you Mathew Patton?" Detective Mondy stepped forward, showing respect at all times.

    "Depends. Who's asking?"

    "W. D. P. D.," Dusty answered mechanically. "I'm Detective Herrera and this is my partner, Detective Mondy. May we come in and ask you a couple of questions?"

    "'Bout what? I haven't even left my house these last few days, so any complaint, they're making it up..."

    "Actually, Mr. Patton, the one we'd like to talk to is your son Michael," Mondy reported. "Is he at home?"

    "Dad?" A youthful voice sounded from within the hearth. "What's going on?"

    "Michael?” Herrera shook his head so that he could meet the boy's gaze. "Michael Patton?" The named nodded slowly with his face. "We need to ask you a couple of questions about Ariana Torres. You are identified as the last person who had contact with her. You decide where we do it, here, in the comfort of your living room, or at the police department."

    "You won't take my son anywhere... You at least have any proof of...?" Mathew yelled at them, still holding the door with his left hand, ready to slam it shut. "If you don't have any proof to justify this s**t, you better get out of my house..."

    "Okay, dad, no problem," the boy intervened, touching the old man's shoulder and preventing him from escalating the situation. "I know Ariana Torres, and it's true, I'm the last person who spoke to her."