“Shut up, Rodney.” Let the cops figure out how Buford got the bracelet off.

Bill sent word for the Sproleses to come in. We introduced them to Weatherly.

“Why are we here?” Sproles asked. “We already told the police everything we know.”

“We need you to look at a video. It might convince you to change your story.”

I started the video on Rodney’s laptop and turned it around so Mr. and Mrs. Sproles could watch it. Marsha showed no reaction to the video. Sproles himself didn’t speak either as the video played. But he turned an ashen shade of gray when he saw the service van pull up next to the Rolls.

When the video showed him getting out of the van, he said, “I think I need a lawyer.”

“This is not an official interrogation,” Weatherly said. “You haven’t been charged or read your rights. Nothing you tell us can be used against you. We’re just trying to tie up some loose ends, this visit to Overbee’s car being one of them.”

Sproles just sat there, saying nothing.

“If you don’t want to talk to us, that’s okay,” Bill said. “Just listen to what we have to say.”

Sproles sat there with his lips tightly closed and his arms folded, glaring at me.

“We know you are in witness protection,” Bill said.

Sproles reacted visibly.

Bill continued. “We know Vitole used to be a handler. We know that he had been blackmailing witness protection clients. We know that he had been having an affair with your wife.”

Bill slid copies across the table of the pictures I had taken of Vitole and Marsha. Sproles looked at the pictures, put his face in his hands, and rocked from side to side. Marsha Sproles still didn’t react.

“And we know from this video that you planted the murder weapon in Overbee’s car.”

“I do need a lawyer,” Sproles said.

“Yes, you do,” Weatherly said. “So don’t talk if you don’t want to. But listen.”

Bill continued.

“This can go several ways. If the feds see this video, or if we charge you with this murder, tampering with evidence, or anything else, you’re out of witness protection and back in prison.”

“And dead,” Sproles added. “Marsha too. They’ll figure she knows what I know.”

“Who’s they?” Weatherly asked.

“Drug dealers in Baltimore,” Sproles said. “The guys I am testifying against.”

“So you see what’s at stake here,” Bill said. “If you want any kind of deal, you better talk to us now. You can get a lawyer if you want, but as soon as that happens, all deals are off the table and you get charged with, at the very least, accessory after the fact. At the worst, first degree murder. A date with the needle.”

Marsha Sproles spoke up for the first time. “That video. You can’t tell that it’s William. The details are blurred.”

“That’s because we’re watching the raw version,” I said. “The enhanced version is still being processed. It will show not only your husband’s face but the license plate numbers too.”

“Uh, Uncle Stanley—” Rodney said.

“Not now, Rodney.”

“But—” he said.

“Clam up and observe,” I said. He did. I wanted them to believe that the lab could do what they’d seen done on CSI, NCIS, and other cop shows countless times. It was all bullshit, but they didn’t know that.

“What kind of deal would you offer?” Sproles asked.

“You confess, and we prosecute you under your new name. The Baltimore crowd never finds out it’s you. We take the death penalty off the table. We intervene with the feds on your behalf to maintain your protection. You do twenty-five to life.”

Marsha started crying. “Prison? For twenty-five years? No, I won’t let that happen.”

“Marsha, don’t,” Sproles said.

“No, William, I have to.” She reached over, put her hand on her husband’s arm, and looked at Bill. “I shot Mario Vitole,” she said. “William didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Mirandize both of them,” Weatherly said. “Now.”

Bill read William and Marsha their rights. Then he said, “You realize this makes William an accessory. We’ll have to deal with that.”

“I understand,” she said. “But it’s better than murder.”

“Do you want to waive your right to legal counsel?” he asked.

“Yes, I waive them.”

“How about you, Mr. Sproles?”

“Yes,” Sproles said.

People are dumb about giving up their rights. If I was a suspect, I wouldn’t say squat to the cops without a lawyer. Bill and I had used this kind of ignorance to get confessions and close cases many times.

Bill turned on the voice recorder on his cell phone and put it in the middle of the conference table. He said the date and time, his name, the names of the others in the room, and that the Sproleses had been read and had waived their rights. Then he said, “Proceed with your statement, Mrs. Sproles. Start with your name and address and then tell us everything that happened.”

She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and started in. “My name is Marsha Sproles. I live at 512 Cherokee Avenue, Delbert Falls, Maryland.  About three months ago, Mario Vitole visited me during the day. He said he knew my husband and I were in witness protection. He said if I’d have sex with him during the day, William and Stella didn’t need to know, and he wouldn’t tell the people in Baltimore where we were.”

This was what I had suspected. But up until now, it had been only a hunch. Now, I would have shot the asshole myself.

“I had no choice but to succumb,” she said. “I told him every time that I didn’t want to do it, but he made me do it.”

“How did you happen to shoot him?” Bill asked.

“Every time he wanted to see me, usually two or three times a week in the morning, he’d call to say he was coming up. Sometimes I’d have company in, maybe another housewife in the neighborhood, but I could only use that excuse sometimes. Finally, I had enough. When he called that morning, I went out into the street as if to greet him. When he was close enough, I shot him.”

“Where did you get the gun?” Bill asked.

“It was his. He used to carry it in his pocket. He had put it on my nightstand one time when he undressed. I guess he forgot it. I hid it in a drawer, and he never asked about it.”

Bill turned off the voice recorder.

“Probably his drop gun when he was on the job,” Bill said.

“What’s a drop gun,” she asked.

Bill nodded to me, and I explained. “Sometimes cops carry untraceable guns for when they shoot an unarmed person. They drop the gun on the perp so it looks like he was carrying. The practice makes righteous shoots out of on-duty mistakes.”

She shook her head and looked at the floor. Bill turned the recorder on again.

“How did your husband get involved?” Bill asked.

“I called him and told him what happened and why. He came home, took the gun, told me to call the police and report the body. Then he left.”

Bill spoke into the recorder. “This next question is addressed to Mr. William Sproles. Mr. Sproles, please state your name and address.”

“William Sproles, 512 Cherokee Avenue, Delbert Falls, Maryland.”

“Tell us what you did with the gun after your wife gave it to you.”

“I went back to work and got the master key set for Rolls Royces. Then I took the gun to Mr. Overbee’s car, opened the trunk, and put the gun in the trunk.”

“How did you know to put it in Overbee’s car specifically?”

“Marsha had told me a white Rolls had been parked there earlier that morning.”

“How did you know where the Rolls would be?”

“A coincidence. When I was coming home, I drove past Belksdales and saw it pull into the parking lot ahead of me. You tend to notice a Rolls.”

“And did you know that Mr. Overbee owned a white Rolls?”

“No. I don’t know him, never met him, never heard his name until you guys arrested him.”

“Why didn’t you just toss the gun in the river?”

“I might have been seen on the bridge in the van. This way, it would just look like a service call for somebody who locked their keys in the car. And that if you guys found it, it might divert suspicion away from Marsha.”