“May I speak with Micki Simmons,” Jackson said. “Who might ah say is callin’?” “Ah, Mr. Jackson. Matt Jackson. I’m calling from Washington.” “May I tell her what this is in reference to?” “Oh, she’ll know. We’re friends.” The woman called to Micki. The sounds of loud children played in the background, and a dog barked, evidently a large one. Its bark was deep. Did it bark with a southern accent? Jackson couldn’t be sure. “Hello,” Micki said. “Hi. It’s Matt Jackson, Washington MPD.” She spoke in a harsh whisper. “Why did you have to call me here?” “It’s the number you gave me.” “I didn’t think you’d be actually callin’ me here.” “We need to talk to you again,” he said. “I don’t know,” she said after a long pause. “You promised you’d make yourself available if we needed to speak with you, Micki.” “But not here. That was my mother who answered the phone.” She placed her hand over the mouthpiece, but Jackson heard her yell, “It’s nothing, Momma.
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