At the sheriffs office we went right in. Dan waved at the desk Sergeant who, in turn, motioned us to follow and took us to the back of the station; to receiving. The back of the station wasn’t anything you will ever see in a cop movie. There was a bench with steel eyes in the concrete floor to which “customers”, as the sergeant termed arrestee’s, were manacled until their disposition or cell was made ready. That was it. One door and what appeared to be just old plywood walls. Certainly not the atmosphere of San Francisco’s Mark Hopkins. Sitting there was Amos, hunched over. He looked up at Dan and I when we came in. As he did so his expression changed from one of boredom to one of deep and utter contempt laced with deep and abiding hate. I remembered, long ago, seeing a mug shot of Charles Manson with wide, satanic eyes. I couldn’t imagine seeing worse but the eyes of Amos were burning right through us. “If looks could kill” is an expression which fell short because it doesn’t mention the method of killing. Amos’ eyes said he wanted to peel strips of skin from me and pour acid on the open wounds all the while suffocating me with filthy, excrement laden rags. It did, in fact, make me nauseous.
The sergeant, seeing sweat break out on my brow, told me not to worry, “He ain’t going anywhere. You can put the blood back in your face.” Dan chimed in:
“What’d you guys find out there?”
The sergeant looked around almost furtively then whispered, “I ain’t supposed to tell anyone this but”….hesitation and more looking around…”We think we found the mom and dad.” He then shut up as the sheriff, who had been out at the farm most of the day, came in.