Death Trap by M. William Phelps Read Free Book Online Page A

became clear: Jeff McCord was not your typical cop. He had never been part of the blue crowd.
    “They told us he was a loner. Strange person. Kept to himself.” Not your traditional blue blood. Jeff was that guy who didn’t say a lot but always seemed to have something heavy on his mind. We all know someone like this.
    By 2:45 P.M ., Jeff McCord arrived to clock in for his shift.
    “His superiors told him to come in and talk to Miss Williams,” someone close to the case later said. “There’s a . . . question about whether or not it was voluntary.”
    Primarily, Williams and Vance wanted to create some sort of timeline for Alan and Terra, and find out what piece of the puzzle Jeff McCord could bring to the table. Simple stuff. Common questions Jeff had probably asked suspects himself as a police officer. There wasn’t going to be any dark room, a chair in the middle of the floor, lights in his face. Just three cops talking. Getting to the truth.
    At least for the time being.
    Immediately Jeff came across as standoffish and aloof. He had an attitude about him that said, You got a lot of nerve questioning me! Kind of odd for a fellow cop to be so cagey and unhelpful. Then again, Williams understood, she didn’t know the guy. She had nothing to base her judgment on. Maybe this was Jeff’s general demeanor? The way he acted around everyone.
    “You always want to try and build a rapport first with a witness,” Williams explained in her clear Southern accent. “This way you can tell how he answers questions.”
    With Jeff, that was not going to be easy; he did not want to talk.
    Jeff was concerned about speaking with two investigators from another state regarding a case that they did not want to divulge any information about. Jeff asked Williams why she needed the information, and Williams danced around that issue. She wasn’t about to show her cards. Both Williams and Vance weren’t saying much more than how they were looking for Alan and Terra Bates. On top of that, Jeff had been up most of the night with his wife. He was playing on a short fuse. He’d slept for a few hours that afternoon, but for the most part, he hadn’t slept in the past two days.
    Jeff’s chief pulled him aside, according to what Williams later said. “You’re under no obligation to talk to these investigators,” the chief told his officer. Yet, there was something in the chief’s voice, a look, letting Jeff know in not so many words that it might be in his best interest to tell them what they needed to know.
    “I understand,” Jeff said.
    As the interview went forward, the tone remained informal. Very brief, too. Williams asked Jeff where the kids spent the previous night.
    “The kids, oh,” Jeff said as though he’d had a memory lapse, “I supervised them packing for the weekend. They were supposed to be picked up by Alan at six. When Alan failed to show up, we dropped them off at their grandparents [Dian and Albert Bailey, Jessica’s mother and stepfather], somewhere near six forty-five.” Dian and Albert lived on Whiting Road in Hoover, Jeff explained, about a half mile from the McCords’ house on Myrtlewood. The drive took minutes.
    Williams nodded and wrote that down. 6:45.
    They stood inside the same interview room the Pelham police used to interrogate suspects and witnesses. Jeff sat. He had his uniform on. His weapon holstered. He kept looking at his watch. He needed to get ready for his shift.
    Williams asked where Jessica was at the moment.
    “Her mother’s house.”
    “What was supposed to happen yesterday?” Williams wanted to know. She asked Jeff for the day’s schedule. What was the McCord plan and how had they carried it out?
    Jeff shrugged. Didn’t want to respond to that.
    “Did the Bateses show up for the depositions?”
    “Yeah,” Jeff answered freely. “They did.” But Jeff wasn’t there. He said he was at home with the kids.
    “Did you personally have any contact with them