The first thing anyone noticed in the interrogation room at the Kansas City Police Department was the heat. It wasn’t just warm — it pressed. The air was heavy, stale, clinging to skin like guilt. The ceiling fan above didn’t spin; it only creaked, mocking the men who kept trying to ignore it.
The light overhead buzzed with a dying pulse.
The hum was constant — electric, nervous, like the room itself was waiting for someone to confess.
Jaxson Lee sat in the center of it all, calm as a man in church. His dark gray suit looked out of place against the battered metal table and the chipped concrete walls. He could’ve walked straight out of a magazine ad — pressed cuffs, silver tie clip, expensive watch still ticking even though his night had stopped around 2:00 a.m.
He had been found sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Savoy at sunrise, drinking black coffee like it was just another morning. No weapon, no blood, not a burn mark on him. And yet, less than two miles away, an entire warehouse belonging to Frank Haldoran had collapsed in on itself, flames chewing through the bones of Kansas City’s West Bottoms.
And somewhere under all that ash, there was a body.
Detective Dan Whitaker entered first, carrying a legal pad and a thermos that smelled like stale bourbon pretending to be coffee. His partner, Ray Mendez, followed — younger, sharper, a man whose patience had been replaced by caffeine years ago.
They closed the door.
Whitaker set down the file and stared at the man across from him. “Hell of a night to be near the river, Mr. Lee.”
Jaxson smiled slightly. “The river’s the only thing that still moves in this town. Everything else just pretends to.”
Mendez snorted. “You always talk like that, or just when the cops show up?”
“Only when I’m being recorded,” Jaxson said.
Whitaker sat down opposite him. He clicked on the recorder.
“Interview with Jaxson Lee, July 3rd, 1994, Kansas City Homicide. Case file 94-1837, concerning the Mercer Street warehouse fire and the recovered remains found therein. Time: 8:42 a.m. Present: Detectives Whitaker and Mendez.”
He glanced up. “You understand you’re not under arrest, Mr. Lee. You’re just helping us clear a few things up.”
Jaxson’s smile widened — polite, calculated. “Of course. I like clarity.”
Mendez leaned forward, arms crossed. “Then maybe you can clarify why three witnesses saw a man matching your description running from a burning warehouse at two in the morning.”
“I’m curious,” Jaxson said. “Did any of them mention if I looked good doing it?”
Mendez’s jaw tightened. “Cute.”
Whitaker stayed quiet, flipping open his notebook. “Let’s start simple. You know a man named Joseph DeCarlo?”
Jaxson’s gaze didn’t flicker. “Should I?”
“Maybe. His car — a cherry-red 1994 Corvette — was parked outside that warehouse when the fire started.”
“Beautiful car,” Jaxson murmured. “Shame about the paint job.”
“You know what else was inside?” Whitaker said. “A body. Burned so bad we’ll need dental records. But odds are, it’s DeCarlo.”
Jaxson leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. “And you think I put him there?”
Mendez jumped in. “You tell us. You were seen leaving the scene before the roof collapsed.”
“Seen by who?”
“Witnesses.”
Jaxson tilted his head. “Witnesses are like ghosts, Detective. They appear when people need stories to make sense.”
Whitaker scribbled something on his pad. “You and DeCarlo ever meet?”
“I meet a lot of people.”
“This one worked for the Giannettis,” Whitaker said. “Ran small-time errands. Collected money. Had a habit of showing up in expensive places he couldn’t afford. You strike me as someone who might run in the same circles.”
Jaxson smiled. “Circles are useful. They make it easier to keep people out.”
Whitaker’s pen paused mid-stroke. “So you’re denying it.”
“I’m not denying anything,” Jaxson said. “I’m just not confirming your story. It seems rude to finish someone else’s sentence.”
Mendez shifted, frustration flickering behind his eyes. “You’re dancing around this, Lee. You were seen. You were close to DeCarlo. Haldoran’s warehouse burns down, and suddenly you’re the only one who comes out clean. You expect us to believe that’s a coincidence?”
“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” Jaxson said softly. “Belief is personal.”
Whitaker looked up, eyes narrowing. “You ever do business with Haldoran?”
“Business?” Jaxson considered the word. “Frank Haldoran’s business is owning things. Property, people, silence. We’ve spoken, yes. But I’m not on his payroll.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t work for men like him,” Jaxson said. “They hire mirrors — people who reflect what they want to see. I’m not reflective enough.”
Mendez smirked. “You sound like a philosopher for hire.”
Jaxson’s tone stayed even. “Everyone sells something, Detective. Some of us are just better at it.”
Whitaker leaned back in his chair, watching the man in front of him like a puzzle with missing corners. There was something rehearsed about Jaxson — but not fake. Controlled.
Every answer was a trap he disarmed before they could spring it.
“You know,” Whitaker said finally, “most people would be scared right now.”
Jaxson’s gaze lifted to meet his. “I’ve learned not to waste fear on the wrong things.”
“And what’s the right thing?”
“People who smile when they lie.”
Whitaker’s pen stopped moving.
The room went quiet again — the hum of the light, the soft rattle of a pipe behind the wall, Mendez’s restless tapping against the table.
Then Whitaker said, “You strike me as a man who’s seen more than he admits.”
“That’s what makes me interesting,” Jaxson said.
“You think you’re untouchable?”
Jaxson smiled thinly. “I think you haven’t decided whether I’m guilty or useful.”
Mendez set his coffee down hard. “We’ll decide when we have the lab results.”
“Of course,” Jaxson said. “Science before intuition. A noble approach.”
Whitaker watched him for another long beat before clicking off the recorder. “Interview suspended at 9:07 a.m.”
The room exhaled with the silence.
Whitaker stood first. “You’re not leaving town.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Jaxson said, standing too. He straightened his tie, calm as ever. “Kansas City still owes me a few conversations.”
As the detectives left, Mendez muttered, “He’s hiding something.”
Whitaker didn’t answer. He watched through the one-way glass as Jaxson adjusted his cufflinks and smiled faintly at his reflection — like a man seeing an old friend he didn’t trust anymore.
“Yeah,” Whitaker said finally. “And whatever it is, it started long before that warehouse burned.”
© 2025 James William Jackson III. All rights reserved. “Jaxson Lee” and all related content are original fictional works created by James William Jackson III. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locations is purely coincidental.
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