Liar Liar by Blair Howard

Author:Blair Howard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blair Howard

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tuesday morning, 11 a.m.

It took just over an hour and a half to drive the ninety-five miles from Tulsa to the Oklahoma State Penitentiary in McAlester. Our appointment was at eleven, and we arrived twenty minutes early and had to wait. Not the most pleasant experience I’ve ever had. The waiting room was sparsely furnished with metal tables and chairs. The walls were bare and painted white, and I had to wonder what the cells were like.

Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait long before a corrections officer came and escorted us to a large open room furnished with maybe a dozen round, steel tables and chairs where Mercer was waiting.

He was older than I’d expected. Well, he looked older. Closer to my age. Rough around the edges. His skin tone was gray, and his mousey brown hair was thinning enough to show his scalp, and it was untidy.

He was clean-shaven, which surprised me. His thin features were accentuated by high, prominent cheekbones and a sharp, almost pointed chin. And he was smiling; not a nice smile, an unsettling smile. Small, just the corners of his mouth.

As it turned out, Dylan Mercer had been on good behavior and therefore enjoyed relaxed restrictions, including visitation rights.

I could tell by the look on Heather’s face that she was unimpressed by Dylan Mercer, and to be honest, I was feeling exactly the same way.

“Not that anyone ever visits me,” he said as he led us to one of the tables in the common room. “But it’s nice to stretch my legs out here.”

“No family?” Heather asked as we sat down opposite him, her eyes scanning the room. A handful of other inmates were similarly seated, talking to friends and family.

Mercer shook his head as he sat. “Nah! Ma died before I went to trial. Esophageal cancer. I have an older half-brother, and he’s up in Wyoming State,” he said casually, the smile still at the corners of his mouth.

So crime runs in the family, I thought.

“That’s unfortunate,” I said, settling in and getting ready to take mental notes. Pens, pencils, my little notebook with the metal spiral; none of that was allowed.

He sat slumped forward, his forearms resting on the table, his hands clasped together.

“So,” he said amiably, “to what do I owe this visit? Not that I’m ungrateful for it, mind you.”

I waited, knowing that Heather would take the lead.

“We want to talk to you about Bryce Manning,” she said.

“Whoa!” Mercer reeled back in his chair as if she’d slapped him. He looked back and forth between us, frowning, his eyes narrowed to mere slits.

“Manning?” he snapped. “I don’t know any Mannings. Aren’t you from Chattanooga?”

“We are,” I confirmed. “And so are his parents. So was he.”

Mercer snorted through pursed lips, making a sound like he was breaking wind. “Hah! Hah! Thought it was strange you coming all the way here from there. I’ve never been to Tennessee.” He crossed his arms, the too-large jumpsuit rumpling. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he continued.

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