“Let me know when it’s going to air. I’ll watch it on the TV.”
“When and if it does, you’ll be the first to know,” Michelle replied.
Michelle got back in her car and drove off. She now had another stop to make.
As she pulled off, she heard the rattle of a muffler about to fall off and looked up in time to see an ancient, rust-eaten Buick slowly pull down the street past her, the driver barely visible. Her only thought about it was that the car certainly symbolized this town, in that they were both falling apart.
The Buick driver looked over at Michelle without seeming to. As soon as Michelle pulled off, the man glanced over at a smiling Loretta Baldwin counting her money and rocking in her chair. He’d captured their entire conversation using a sound amplifier recorder hidden in the antenna of his car, and he’d also taken pictures of the two women using his long-range camera lens. Their discussion had been very interesting, so very enlightening on a personal level. So Loretta the maid had been in the supply closet on that day. Who would have thought it, after all these years? And yet he had to put that aside for now. He slowly turned the car around and followed Michelle. He felt certain she was going back to the hotel. And after hearing her conversation with Loretta Baldwin, he understood why.
17
King was at his office desk going over a file when there were footsteps outside his door. Neither his partner nor his secretary was coming in today, so he rose and, armed with a letter opener, went swiftly over to the door and opened it.
The men staring back at him looked grim. There was Todd Williams, the Wrightsburg chief of police, the same big uniformed U.S. marshal and two gents who flashed FBI credentials. King brought them all into the small conference room adjacent to his office.
The marshal leaned forward in his chair. His name was Jefferson Parks, he said, and he did not go by “Jeff,” he told King firmly, but by “Jefferson,” although he preferred simply “Deputy Marshal Parks.” “U.S. marshals are political appointees. The deputies do the real work,” he said.
He held up a pistol in a plastic evidence bag. “This is the pistol that was taken from your home,” he said in a flat, low voice.
“If you say so.”
“It is your pistol. Chain of custody intact.”
King glanced at Williams, who nodded his head.
“Okay,” said King. “And you want to give it back to me because…?”
“Oh, we’re not giving it back,” said one of the FBI agents.
Parks continued, “We dug the bullet that killed Jennings out of the wall of your partner’s office. It was jacketed, so there was little projectile deformity. We also found the shell casing. The shot that killed Howard Jennings was fired from your gun. Pinprick, land, groove and even shell ejector mark. A perfect match.”
“And I’m telling you that’s impossible!”
“Why?”
“Let me ask you a question. What was the time of Jennings’s death?”
“Medical examiner says between 1:00 and 2:00 A.M. the night before you found him in your office,” replied Parks.
“At that time I was making my patrol rounds. And that pistol was in my holster.”
One of the FBI agents perked up. “Do we take that as a confession?”
King’s look made it clear what he thought of that comment.
Parks considered this and said, “We’ve been checking your movements that night. Your vehicle was seen on Main Street around the time Jennings was killed.”
“I probably was there. My rounds include the town area, so it would be logical that someone saw my truck then. But you don’t have a witness that saw me at my office, because I wasn’t there.”
One of the FBI agents was about to respond until Parks put a big hand on his arm.
“That’s not something we have to discuss with you at the moment,” said Parks. “But we do have a positive on the ballistics, and with your background you know that’s as good as a fingerprint.”
“No, not quite as good as a print. It doesn’t place me at the crime scene.”
“On the contrary, we have your gun at the scene, and we have you nearby the scene. That’s pretty strong evidence.”
“Circumstantial evidence,” countered King.
“And there have been convictions on a lot less,” shot back Parks.
“We should have done a trace metal test when they took the gun from you,” said one of the FBI agents.
“Wouldn’t have done any good,” said King. “I handled my gun the night before you came, so there would have been microscopic traces in my skin from the metal.”
“Convenient,” said the agent.
Parks’s gaze was on King. “May I ask why you were handling your gun? You weren’t on duty.”
“I thought there was a prowler around my house.”
“Was there?”
“No. Just an old acquaintance.”
Parks looked at him strangely, but apparently decided against pursuing the matter.
“Care to tell me my motive?” asked King.
“The man works for you. Maybe he was stealing, or maybe he found out you were stealing from clients and tried to blackmail you. You arrange to meet him and kill him.”
“Nice theory, only he wasn’t stealing from me, and I wasn’t stealing from my clients because I don’t have direct access to any of their funds. Check it out.”
“Oh, we will but that’s just two possibilities. Another might be that you somehow found out Jennings was WITSEC, and you let that slip to the wrong people.”
“And they killed him with my gun that was in my holster?”
“Or you did it to pocket the fee.”
“So now I’m a hit man.”
“Did you know Jennings was WITSEC?”
King hesitated an instant too long, at least to his thinking. “No.”
“Care to take a polygraph on that?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“Just trying to help you out,” said Parks. “I mean you’ve already admitted having the murder weapon on you at the time Jennings was killed.”
“Just so you know, you haven’t advised me of my rights, so I doubt anything I’ve said to you is admissible anyway.”
“You’re not under arrest. You haven’t been charged,” pointed out one of the FBI agents. “So we’re under no obligation to read you anything.”
Parks said, “And if called to testify, we can merely repeat what you said in our presence.”
“Hearsay,” said King. “And I don’t really think you can get it in under an exception, because it’s prejudicial. I’d get a mistrial in a heartbeat.”
“You don’t practice criminal law, do you?” said Parks.
“No, why?”
“Because what you just said was a crock of shit.”
King didn’t look as confident now. Parks pressed on.
“So are you retracting your statement that the gun was with you at that time?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“It might depend on how you answer my question.”
King rose. “From now on, all discussions will be with my criminal defense attorney present.”
Parks rose too, and for a moment King had the feeling that the big man was going to come across the table and throttle him. Yet he just smiled and handed the bagged gun to one of the FBI agents.
“I’m sure we’ll be seeing you,” he said pleasantly. “Just don’t make any travel plans for outside the area; that won’t make me happy.”
As they were leaving, King pulled Williams aside.
“Todd, why is Parks running the show? The FBI takes a backseat to no one.”
“The dead guy was in witness protection. Parks is really high up at the Marshals Service. I think he was actually the one who placed Jennings in this area. And he’s ticked off that he’s dead. I guess he pulled some strings in D.C.” Todd looked uncomfortable and his voice dropped. “Look, not for one instant do I believe you’re mixed up in this…”