Ponytail Express
Chapter 7: Having the Floor
Fred planned to spend another night in Deb's room, but he needed to go by his own first to pick up some things. Stratford Hall was a male only dorm and as he came onto his floor, the resident assistant was sitting in the lounge area. Upon seeing Fred, he stood, calling him over like a cop on valium. Fred forgot the guy's name; they had spoken little.
"Fred Markinson?"
Fred strolled over, trying to look intrigued. "That's me."
"Andy Ditmer." He offered a hand. Fred shook it, giving it a good grip. Andy's handshake had the consistency of soggy oatmeal.
"Hello, Andy." Fred waited.
"There's a man in your room. I think he's in law enforcement. Can you tell me anything about that?"
Fred's mind raced. He looked up and to the left as casually as possible. He shook his head to show he had no clue.
"I reported a traffic accident earlier today. Maybe that's it." Fred remained calm despite wondering who the fuck was in his room. It couldn't be law enforcement.
"Fred, I want you to know you can talk to me if you're having trouble. Think of me as a big brother." Andy's words rang hollow; still, Fred nodded, trying to look agreeable.
"Thanks Andy. I guess I'll have to see if that's what this is all about. Wish me luck." He grinned.
Andy gave him a smile that was all smarm. "Good luck!"
Fred walked to his room, then turned around to look at Andy, who was getting ready to leave to go do whatever he was going to do. Fred already couldn't remember his name.
"Say, Andy?" The RA turned to acknowledge Fred.
"Did he flash you any identification?"
Andy gave it a thought. "I'm pretty sure he did." He didn't look too sure about that.
Fred waved at him and flashed an empty grin. "Thanks again, Andy." Without stopping to wait for a reply, he went into his room. Before he did, he set his cellphone to record, then put it in his front pocket.
The man stood at about 5 feet, 10 inches and wore a three-piece suit typical of detectives. Fred smelled gun oil and knew he was carrying. He wore cologne that smelled good, but there was an undertone of old vinyl and the coppery scent of blood. Fred knew this man worked for Mr. Terry. He wondered how long he had been waiting in his room. He must have heard them talking outside. Fred played dumb like a fox. That wasn't too hard; until Sunday, he had been doing that for most of his life.
"Are you Frederick Markinson?" The man spoke with an air of authority.
"That's me, sir." Fred tried his best not to meet his gaze. He figured it would make himself look intimidated. Again, not too tough. He wanted to stall for time to see if his vaunted ScSc could influence this guy.
"My name is Detective Rogers. I'm working on the case and hoped you could answer some questions."
"Sure thing, sir." Fred walked over to him, showing he wanted to put his backpack on the desk. He was trying to invade the detective's space as much as possible. "Can I offer you a bottle of water?"
He waved it off. The man was shorter than Fred, but more powerfully built. He had small gray eyes with bushy eyebrows, and a crewcut. From what he could smell, Fred deduced the guy shaved less than an hour ago. So not cologne, but shaving cream.
"I'm good, Frederick."
"You can call me Fred." Fred sat on the opposite bed, trying to appear all fidgety.
"All right Fred. First question." Detective Rogers brandished a notepad and pen. Fred hoped he wrote a bunch of notes.
"How long have you known Mia Ryan?"
"Mia Ryan?" Fred asked, looking confused.
The detective took out a photo, setting it on the desk. Fred saw that as a great opportunity to come in closer to the guy. He moved in and craned his neck to look. Sure enough, it was a picture of Mia from a time when she looked happy.
"She looks familiar," Fred spoke, "but if I recall, her name was Grace, not... who did you say?"
"Mia." The man said, his eyes squinted in focus.
"Grace," Fred said. "Met her last night. Nice girl."
"Oh?"
"Yes sir. Met her at the Diamond, out at the casino, tending bar. She okay?" Fred wanted to sound unconcerned.
"She claims you hit her a couple times in the parking lot."
Fred considered the angle this guy was taking. He was trying to put Fred back on his heels, so he admitted something. They knew he was with her last night and they wanted to know what his connection to her was.
"Me? Assault?" Fred chuckled. "Grace would have broken me like a twig, sir."
"Mr. Rogers" sized him up, reconsidering. It was at that point Fred noticed the detective's small eyes unfocused somewhat.
Rogers nodded. "Regardless, we have to follow up." His eyes went glassy.
"Detective Rogers, I want you to tell me your first name."
"Rick... I mean, Ken," He looked unsure, but Fred wanted to play it cool. The guy still had a gun.
"Ken Rogers? Hope nobody gives you too much of a hard time for that name. Does anyone call you the Gambler?"
Ken sort of half-grinned; it was creepy enough to give Fred goosebumps.
"They don't... give me a hard time."
"Ken, you seem tired. You should sit down," Fred motioned at his chair, pulling it out as a polite gesture. Ken nodded agreement and sat.
"Ken, if the gun belt is awkward, take it off. You can give it to me, I'll hold it for you." Fred hoped he hadn't overstepped his bounds. Rick did what he was told. Fred took the offered belt and holster, hanging it off the bed at the other end of the room. Rick watched him do it, hands balled into fists as he yawned.
"I want you to hear my voice."
"I hear your voice."
