The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4) Read Online Free Page A
Author: T Patrick Phelps
three uniforms grabbed him and shoved him to the floor while one of the deputies angrily slapped cuffs on Bo.
“What the fuck?” Bo yelled. “Is this some kind of sick joke? What the hell are you doing?”
The lead deputy said, “It didn’t have to go down like this, Bo. I did give you an option.”
Bo was pulled off the ground by two deputies, then hurried towards the exit door. The remaining ten members of the fire department, many of whom had stood up when Bo was pushed to the ground, were left with clueless expressions on their faces. They heard the lead deputy reading the Miranda warning to Bo, their captain and odds on favorite in the upcoming chief’s election, as Bo and the team of deputies disappeared out the door.
ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ
“I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Bo was rubbing his wrists, trying to dull the pain caused by the handcuffs, when the sheriff’s department’s lead homicide investigator, Ken McCallion, reminded Bo that he was free to contact a lawyer.
“Suit yourself,” Ken said. Ken stood around five-ten and weighed a slender hundred and fifty-five pounds. His salt and pepper hair, crows feet wrinkles framing his eyes and smoker’s lines etched around his mouth, gave him the look that most would associate with a chain smoking accountant. He had been with the sheriff’s department for nearly twenty-two years, the last nine of which were spent in homicide. “You do understand you’re facing some serious charges, right Bo? Arson is the least of your worries. You’re looking at no less than double manslaughter. If you’re lucky and plea out, maybe arson and depraved indifference. No matter which way this turns, you’re looking at spending a long time under the watchful eyes of New York’s finest correctional officers.”
“I’m not looking at anything because I had nothing to do with Mack’s death, starting any fire or depraved anything. Now either tell me what the hell this is all about, or let me go back and finish my beer.”
Ken McCallion, always one for the dramatic cliche, dropped a thin manilla folder onto the table, then, slowly and deliberately, pushed the folder in front of Bo. “Go ahead,” he said, “open it up. See your handy work.”
Bo flipped open the folder, then slammed it shut. “Why are you showing me this? Was that Mack? Jesus Christ, that was a picture of Mack, wasn’t it?” The four by six-inch photograph showed an image of a man, burned well beyond recognition.
“You need to see what you did to him. Don’t you want see how he died?”
“You’re a sick fuck,” Bo snapped. “Mack was my friend. Why the hell would I burn his house down and kill him? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I have no idea why you did it, but let me tell you how we know you did it. First, we pulled the remnants of a flare out of Mr. Mack’s basement. There were three flares used in conjunction with fifteen gallons of high octane fuel used to start the fire. Most of the fuel was spilled across the basement floor and the gas cans they were in were sealed tight, each still holding enough fuel to create a nice explosion when the temperature got high enough. Thankfully, and luckily for us, one of the flares wasn’t reduced to ashes. It had a single fingerprint on its stem. Care to guess whose fingerprints we matched it to? Here’s a hint, it’s one of the two people in this room right now and the print wasn’t mine.”
“You’re a moron,” Bo said. “I’m the captain of the fire department and in charge of equipment for Station One. My fingerprints are probably on every flare in the department.”
“That’s true,” Ken said. “But our matching your print to the only one we found on the flare is just one of the reasons you’re sitting here with me. The second reason is the knife found in your couch. You remember, the one you allegedly sat on and stabbed a hole in your ass with?”
“Allegedly? You want to
“What the fuck?” Bo yelled. “Is this some kind of sick joke? What the hell are you doing?”
The lead deputy said, “It didn’t have to go down like this, Bo. I did give you an option.”
Bo was pulled off the ground by two deputies, then hurried towards the exit door. The remaining ten members of the fire department, many of whom had stood up when Bo was pushed to the ground, were left with clueless expressions on their faces. They heard the lead deputy reading the Miranda warning to Bo, their captain and odds on favorite in the upcoming chief’s election, as Bo and the team of deputies disappeared out the door.
ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ
“I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Bo was rubbing his wrists, trying to dull the pain caused by the handcuffs, when the sheriff’s department’s lead homicide investigator, Ken McCallion, reminded Bo that he was free to contact a lawyer.
“Suit yourself,” Ken said. Ken stood around five-ten and weighed a slender hundred and fifty-five pounds. His salt and pepper hair, crows feet wrinkles framing his eyes and smoker’s lines etched around his mouth, gave him the look that most would associate with a chain smoking accountant. He had been with the sheriff’s department for nearly twenty-two years, the last nine of which were spent in homicide. “You do understand you’re facing some serious charges, right Bo? Arson is the least of your worries. You’re looking at no less than double manslaughter. If you’re lucky and plea out, maybe arson and depraved indifference. No matter which way this turns, you’re looking at spending a long time under the watchful eyes of New York’s finest correctional officers.”
“I’m not looking at anything because I had nothing to do with Mack’s death, starting any fire or depraved anything. Now either tell me what the hell this is all about, or let me go back and finish my beer.”
Ken McCallion, always one for the dramatic cliche, dropped a thin manilla folder onto the table, then, slowly and deliberately, pushed the folder in front of Bo. “Go ahead,” he said, “open it up. See your handy work.”
Bo flipped open the folder, then slammed it shut. “Why are you showing me this? Was that Mack? Jesus Christ, that was a picture of Mack, wasn’t it?” The four by six-inch photograph showed an image of a man, burned well beyond recognition.
“You need to see what you did to him. Don’t you want see how he died?”
“You’re a sick fuck,” Bo snapped. “Mack was my friend. Why the hell would I burn his house down and kill him? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I have no idea why you did it, but let me tell you how we know you did it. First, we pulled the remnants of a flare out of Mr. Mack’s basement. There were three flares used in conjunction with fifteen gallons of high octane fuel used to start the fire. Most of the fuel was spilled across the basement floor and the gas cans they were in were sealed tight, each still holding enough fuel to create a nice explosion when the temperature got high enough. Thankfully, and luckily for us, one of the flares wasn’t reduced to ashes. It had a single fingerprint on its stem. Care to guess whose fingerprints we matched it to? Here’s a hint, it’s one of the two people in this room right now and the print wasn’t mine.”
“You’re a moron,” Bo said. “I’m the captain of the fire department and in charge of equipment for Station One. My fingerprints are probably on every flare in the department.”
“That’s true,” Ken said. “But our matching your print to the only one we found on the flare is just one of the reasons you’re sitting here with me. The second reason is the knife found in your couch. You remember, the one you allegedly sat on and stabbed a hole in your ass with?”
“Allegedly? You want to
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