They carefully reconstructed his movements over the past three months, and Quinn did a surprisingly thorough job of recalling dates, places, and events. The agents were impressed and commended him on having such a fine memory. They paid particular attention to his earnings; all in cash of course, but how much for each job? “So, on the second run from Miami to Charleston,” Pankovits said, smiling at his notes, “the one a week after last New Year’s, Quinn, you got how much in cash?”

“I believe it was six thousand.”

“Right, right.”

Both agents scribbled furiously as if they believed every single word uttered by their subject. Quinn said he’d been living and working in Norfolk since mid-February, about a month. He lived with his cousin and a couple of his girlfriends in a large apartment not far from the Velvet Club. He was being paid in cash, food, drink, sex, and pot.

“So, Quinn,” Delocke said as he tallied up a pile of numbers, “looks to me as though you’ve earned about $46,000 since you left Frostburg, all cash, no taxes. Not bad for three months’ work.”

“I guess.”

“How much of this have you spent?” Pankovits asked.

Quinn shrugged as if it really didn’t matter now. “I don’t know. Most of it. It takes a lot of money to move around.”

“When you were running the drugs from Miami and back, how did you rent cars?” Delocke asked.

“I didn’t rent them. Someone else did, gave me the keys. My job was to drive carefully, slowly, and not get stopped by the cops.”

Fair enough, and both agents happily concurred. “Did you buy a vehicle?” Pankovits asked without looking up from his note taking.

“No,” Quinn said with a smile. Silly question. “You can’t buy a car when you’re on the run and have no papers.”

Of course not.

At the Freezer in Roanoke, Victor Westlake sat before a large screen, frozen at the image of Quinn Rucker. A hidden camera in the interrogation room was sending the video across the commonwealth to a makeshift room outfitted with an astonishing supply of gadgets and technology. Four other agents sat with Westlake, all staring at the eyes and expressions of Mr. Rucker.

“No way,” mumbled one of the other four. “This guy’s too smart for this. He knows we’ll find the trailer, the wallet, the fake ID, the Hummer.”

“Maybe not,” mumbled another. “Right now, it’s just an escape. He’s thinking we have no clue about the murder. This is nothing serious.”

“I agree,” said another. “I think he’s betting, playing the odds. He thinks he can survive a few questions, then get hauled back to jail and then to prison. He’s thinking he’ll call his cousin at some point and tell him to grab everything.”

“Wait and see,” said Westlake. “Let’s see how he reacts when the first bomb hits.”

At 2:00 a.m., Quinn said, “Can I use the restroom?”

Delocke stood and escorted him out of the room and down the hall. Another agent loitered about, a show of force. Five minutes later, Quinn was back in his seat.

Pankovits said, “It’s rather late, Quinn, you want to check in at the jail and get some sleep? We have plenty of time.”

“I’d rather be here than in the jail,” he said sadly. “How much more time you think I’ll get?” he asked.

Delocke replied, “Don’t know, Quinn. That’s up to the U.S. Attorney. Bad part is that they won’t send you back to a camp. Ever. You’re headed for a real prison.”

“You know, Jesse, I sorta miss the camp. Wasn’t so bad after all.”

“Why’d you leave it?”

“Stupid. Why? Because I could. Just walk away and nobody seemed to care.”

“We interview twenty-five guys a year who walk away from a federal camp. ‘Stupid,’ I think, is the best word.”

Pankovits shuffled some papers and said, “Now, Quinn, I think we’ve got a handle on the time line here. Dates, places, movements, cash earnings. All of this will be included in your pre-sentence report. The good part is that you didn’t do anything exceptionally bad over the past three months. Some drug running, which of course will not help you, but at least you didn’t hurt anyone, right?”

“Right.”

“And this is the complete story, right? Nothing left out? You’re telling us everything?”

“Yep.”

The two agents stiffened somewhat and frowned. Pankovits said, “What about Roanoke, Quinn? Did you spend any time in Roanoke?”

Quinn looked at the ceiling, gave it a thought, and said, “Maybe I passed through once or twice, but that’s all.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Delocke opened a file, scanned a sheet of paper, and asked, “Who is Jackie Todd?”

Quinn’s eyes closed as his mouth fell open slightly. A soft guttural sound, one from deep inside, came out, as if he’d been struck somewhere below the belt. His shoulders dropped. If he’d been white, he would have turned pale. “Don’t know,” he finally said. “Never met him.”

Delocke continued: “Really? Well, it looks like Mr. Jackie R. Todd was arrested on Tuesday night, February 8, at a bar in Roanoke. Public drunk, assault. The police report says he got in a fight with some other drunks and spent the night in jail. Next morning, he posted a cash bond of $800 and walked out.”

“Wasn’t me.”

“Is that so?” Delocke slid across a sheet of paper, and Quinn slowly picked it up. It was a mug shot, clearly one of himself.

“Not much doubt about it, Quinn, right?”

Quinn laid down the sheet of paper and said, “Okay, okay. So I had an alias. What was I supposed to do? Play hide-and-seek with my real name?”

“Of course not, Quinn,” Pankovits said. “But you lied to us, didn’t you?”

“You’re not the first cops I’ve lied to.”

“Lying to the FBI can get you five years.”

“Okay, I fibbed a little.”

“No surprise there, but now we can’t believe anything. I guess we’ll have to start over.”

Delocke said, “On February 9, one Jackie Todd walked into a used-car lot in Roanoke and paid $24,000 cash for a 2008 Hummer H3. This ring a bell, Quinn?”

“No. Wasn’t me.”

“Didn’t think so.” Delocke slid across a copy of the bill of sale. “And you’ve never seen this before, have you?”

Quinn looked at it and said, “No.”

Pankovits snapped, “Come on, Quinn. We’re not half as stupid as you think we are. You were in Roanoke on February 8, went to the bar, got in a fight, went to jail, bonded out the next morning, went back to your motel room at the Safe Lodge, back to the room you paid cash for, got some more cash and bought yourself a Hummer.”

“Where’s the crime in paying cash for a vehicle?”

“None whatsoever,” Pankovits said. “But you weren’t supposed to have that much cash at that point.”

“Maybe I was wrong with some of the dates and some of the cash payments. I can’t remember everything.”

“Do you remember where you bought the guns?” Delocke asked.

“What guns?”

“The Smith & Wesson .38 we found in your trailer and the Glock 9-millimeter we found in your storage unit, about two hours ago.”

“Stolen guns,” Pankovits added helpfully. “More federal offenses.”

Quinn slowly locked his hands behind his head and stared at his knees. A minute passed, then another. Without blinking and without moving a muscle, the two agents stared at Quinn. The room was silent, still, tense. Finally, Pankovits shuffled some papers and raised one. He said, “The preliminary inventory shows a wallet with $512 cash, a fake driver’s license from North Carolina, two prepaid Visa cards, a prepaid cell phone, the aforementioned Smith & Wesson .38, a bill of sale and a title for the Hummer, a lease agreement for the mini–storage unit, an insurance certificate for the vehicle, a box of bullets for the .38, and a few other items, all taken from the mobile home you were renting for $400 a month. From the mini–storage unit, we have inventoried some clothing, the Glock 9-millimeter, a pair of combat boots, some other items, and, most important, a metal box with $41,000 in it, cash, all in $100 bills.”