The Taking of Libbie, SD (Mac McKenzie #7)

The water came in a plastic bottle with a blue label. I tried not to drink it too fast and failed. I asked for more. The officer gave me a kind of screw-you look, but my appearance must have changed his mind, because he quickly brought me two more bottles.

I had always been contemptuous of the bottled-water crowd, especially those good folks who always seem to have a jug with them, sometimes carried in a little pouch like a pet. The municipal water system had always been good enough for me—that’s where most bottled water comes from, anyway. Also, I’d never much believed the myth, fiercely propagated by the bottled-water industry, that we should drink eight bottles every day in order to properly hydrate ourselves. I just couldn’t see any health benefit in going to the bathroom seventeen times a day. Nor did I take pride in knowing that Americans have the clearest and most expensive urine in the world. Instead, I’d generally heeded the advice of my dad, who said you should drink only when you are thirsty and never pay for anything that’s free. On the other hand, I didn’t think Dad spent much time in the trunk of a Ford Taurus on a sweltering day in July.

I stood up, testing my legs. They seemed to work fine. I took a step in one direction and a second in the other—that was all I could manage with my wrist chained to the table, yet it filled me with confidence. I looked at myself in the one-way mirror. Red splotches on my shoulder and waist looked like large and dangerous bee stings. Half of my hair was plastered to my head; the other half stood out at awkward angles. I was in need of a shave, and despite the naps I took in the trunk, my face had the droopy look of someone who needed a good night’s sleep. My blue shorts were damp, and the sour odor of urine mixed with the aroma of fried chicken. It wasn’t a pretty smell, but it reminded me of how long it had been since I had last eaten, just the same.

The officer returned to the room.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I’d rather stand,” I said.

“Sit down.”

There was an angry expression on his face, so I sat. I didn’t feel strong enough to defy him.

He stepped over to the table. He took the empty water bottle and left the half-filled twin.

“What’s that smell?” he said.

“Where am I?” I said.

The officer looked at me as if he thought I was putting him on. “The police department in Libbie,” he said.

“Where is Libbie?”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Do I look like I’m trying to be funny?”

“You’re back in South Dakota, asshole.”

“Back? I’ve never been in South Dakota. Not once in my life.”

“Is that right?”

“Why have I been brought here against my will?”

“Why is anyone brought here against their will?”

“Look, pal. I heard you say that neither the city nor the county had any paper on me. So either release me or charge me. If you charge me, you had better read me my rights and let me contact an attorney.”

The officer smirked and gave me a slow head shake. “Not this time, chiseler,” he said. “You’re not walking away this time.”

This time?

I asked him what he meant. He left the interrogation room without answering, closing the metal door behind him.