His eyes instantly latched to mine. As they secured him to the table, across from Jack, he looked at me. A smile spread across his mouth. “Confess your sins yet?”
Jack slammed the flat of a hand against the table. Bingham never flinched. His eyes stayed fixed on mine.
Jack spread copies of the photos on the table. “These were on you when you were booked. Who are they?”
“If you confess your sins, you will be forgiven.” He directed the comment to me.
“He was twenty-three when he went missing.” Jack pressed an index finger to Travis Carter’s photo. “He was your brother-in-law.”
Bingham adjusted his focus to Jack. “He wasn’t worthy of her.”
“Is that why you killed him?”
“Who says I did?”
“We know he beat your sister, got her admitted to the hospital. You think of yourself as The Redeemer. Were you your sister’s savior?”
Bingham’s eyes lit and narrowed as a lizard’s. “You’ve been doing your homework.”
“We know you love Twitter—”
Bingham laughed. “So impressive you found out about Twitter seeing as I sign away my human rights to log onto the Internet.”
“It allows you to feel powerful, needed, and influential.” Jack dragged out the last word. “And you especially like feeling that way.”
“You think you know someone.” A sardonic smile sat on his lips.
“What about him?” Jack pointed to the photo of Kurt McCartney. There was no reaction on Bingham’s face. “You know all of these people—”
“Says who?”
“You carried them on your person. They were your trophies.”
The statement warranted another laugh. “Maybe I’m lonely. Carrying pictures of strangers makes me feel a connection to others.”
“We know about the other murders.”
“You said there were ten bodies under my house. I have no idea how they got there.” He scanned the table for a few seconds; two of them were spent on Sally Windermere.
We took the photo given to us by Sally’s mother and printed it in wallet-size to place among the ones taken from him at the time of booking.
“You knew Travis Carter. Why carry the picture of a man who beat your sister?”
Bingham shrugged. “He was family.”
“But you also knew her, didn’t you?” Jack put a finger on the picture of Sally. “And before you lie to us, we know you did .”
Bingham opened his hands, palms up on the table. “I didn’t have that picture. Where did you get it?”
“She is dead.” Jack stretched the truth.
Bingham looked at me, a sick smile on his face. “You haven’t answered me. Have you confessed your sins?”
I moved forward three steps. This man wasn’t going to hold power over me, despite the evil in his heart, the intent in his eyes, and his outreach to the world. “Have you?”
Bingham’s face cracked into a wider smile before transforming to laughter.
Out in the hall, Jack patted his pocket but didn’t pull out the cigarette pack. “He said he didn’t have the picture of Sally. We know he didn’t at the time of booking because we slipped it in there, but he recognized her. He also made it sound as if it were in the past tense. His words were, I didn’t have that picture. Maybe he didn’t at the time of booking, but the unsub sent it to him since he’s been in here?”
I paced, my skin jumping from nerves. I had stood my ground with a serial killer. “He mentioned connection when it comes to the pictures. Those people mean something to him. I believe the fact he came back with, you think you know someone, was his way of confirming he likes to be influential, just as you accused him of. I believe both connecting and influence mean the same thing to this guy. He’s not capable of a relationship unless he’s able to manipulate it.”
“He’s not remorseful even for Sally, and we know that he knew her. In fact, he’s void of emotion except for pride which surfaces when discussing the victims.”
“And yesterday, when the fact came out one of the murders happened while he was in here, he was proud. And did you see his face when you called him The Redeemer?” When I stopped talking, silence ate the space between us before I spoke again. “Okay, let’s assume Bingham has a photo of Sally. We know he didn’t have it at the time of booking, so how did he get it?”
Jack addressed the guard. “We need to speak with the warden again.”
“Course.” The guard’s voice was deeper than one would expect given his smaller stature. He took us through the labyrinth of corridors, which we were unfortunately becoming familiar with.
Clarence Moore looked up from his monitor to us in the doorway. “They asked to see you,” the guard said, slinking back into the hallway.
Moore stood. “Agents? I thought I had provided everything you asked for.”
“We need to see Bingham’s cell.”
Moore tossed a pen he held in his hand to the desk. “I’m not sure what y’all think it’s going to tell ya. But I can take ya there.”
Moore still didn’t know the details of our investigation, and it was better that way. The fewer people who knew, the less possibility there was of it leaking to the media and in turn reaching the unsub.
Minutes later we were stepping into The Redeemer’s cell. As Moore informed us, he shared the space with an inmate by the name of Tim Johnson. Johnson had been put away for armed B&E that had him holding a gun on the homeowner.
Bingham hadn’t returned from his trip down the hall, but his cellmate was sitting on the mattress picking at his fingernails. He didn’t move when our shadows broke his light.
“Johnson, out!” The guard bellowed. Johnson kept picking at his nails. “Don’t make me come in there an’ drag yo’ ass out!”
Johnson stopped moving, and with his eyes on us, rose to his feet. He turned around and held his hands behind his back.
The guard made it to Johnson in a few long strides and cuffed his hands. “You think yo’ so fuckin’ smart.”
“Ass-ault.” Johnson laughed as if he was drunk.
The guard pulled on him and took him to the hall.
“Did you see that? Ass-ault.” Johnson only stopped cackling long enough to repeat himself.
A look passed between the guard and Johnson. This time Johnson shut up.
Jack went into the cell first. Johnson was on the bottom bunk which meant Bingham would have crashed on the upper one.
Beside Johnson’s mattress, there was a crayon drawing of a girl in a triangle dress with a stick-figure dog beside her. Green strokes made for grass under their feet, and the words, I love you, daddy, were scribbled on it.
I turned to face Johnson who was looking down the hallway as if scheming a run for freedom. If he had a child, why would he risk everything to wind up here?
Jack looked to the ceiling of the cell, hunched and looked behind the urinal and under the sink. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and pulled out Johnson’s mattress. He looked behind it, underneath it, around it. In this medium security prison, the mattresses came free of the metal frame. He lifted up a paperback novel. The cover showed a hand holding a gun. I shook my head. That was what had landed him here in the first place. Jack put it back in place, the mattress on top of it.
I put gloves on and went to slide a hand under the edge of the top mattress. Jack pulled my arm back. “Don’t ever go in blind.”
His sour expression and the warning in his words halted my movements.
“You lift that end. I’ll lift down the other.”
I followed Jack’s directions, and the mattress was on the floor seconds later.
I stepped up on the railing of the bottom bunk to get a good view. What I saw made my pulse speed up. “There’s a lot up here.”
Jack hoisted up on the frame of the bottom bunk. “Good thing I stopped you Kid.” He held up a small razor.
“Where would he have—”
Jack angled it. “It’s from shaving.�
��
“They let them have razors?”
“Medium security. Just like they’re allowed playtime in the yard, on the Internet, and in the library.” Jack took a dig at the justice system, the same one he stood to defend. “He broke the blade from the holder. He probably has a system worked out. Usually inmates are allowed to purchase razors but have to return the dull ones to get new ones.”
“That’s reassuring.” I rubbed my stomach, thinking back to the victims and how they suffered. “Arm a serial killer with his ideal weapon.”
It went silent between us for a few seconds as we looked over the rest of what lay exposed on the metal slab. There was a King James Version of the Bible along with a book on the history and meaning of the coinherence symbol. All I could think is how Zachery would never let us hear the end of it once he knew his theory had complete merit, possibly even factoring into the killings. But even though the two books were dog eared and had worn edges, what had our attention was the spread of photographs.
“Where would he have gotten all of these?” I asked.
“His apprentice.” A smile cracked Jack’s lips, and with the expression came the realization he only seemed amused when it was at my expense.
“Thought we were going with follower now.”
“It’s alright, Kid. Don’t get all excited.”
There were easily twelve photos on the metal surface. They were of a mix of men and women, just the way he preferred to kill, in alternating sexes. Most of them were unfamiliar faces.
“The Sarasota murders?”
Jack held one up of a young woman.
“Sally Windermere.”
Jack let out a rush of air. “You might be able to make good on your promise yet.”
In a way I didn’t want to be right in this instance. I hoped that Sally had fallen in love with someone new and taken off, even though logic dictated the odds of that were minimal. Coinciding with logic was the reality that Sally Windermere may have been victim number ten, the result of Bingham’s follower, the one free to kill again.
“We’ll need to find out where he got these photos. Someone from the outside world obviously brought them to him.”
Jack stepped off the bed rail and moved to the guard who held onto Tim Johnson. “Take him somewhere else for a bit.”
“Where—”
“Don’t care really. But we’ll be taking all this shit with us.”
The guard let out a sigh and pushed Johnson down the corridor ahead of him.
With them gone, Jack was silent. His eyes were taking in the space, and he was analyzing everything.
“These pictures are probably of his other victims, the murders from Sarasota,” I repeated my earlier statement.
“Bet you they are.” Jack matched eyes with me.
We found Clarence Moore behind his desk. His hand moved a pen rapidly across a page. A flick of a wrist, a few loops of ink, and the sheet was turned over and placed on top of a pile to his right. He looked up at us when we entered his office.
He gestured for us to sit across from him. “I heard you found items of interest.”
Jack nodded. “We’ll be taking all of it with us.”
Moore clasped his hands and leaned across his desk. “What do ya want with a man like Bingham anyhow?”
We had never given Moore the truth of the investigation. All he knew was the FBI had their attention on Lance Bingham, and it involved more than the murder of cattle.
Jack glanced at me as if to say, pay attention. “The details of our investigation are of the upmost sensitivity. There is a media ban in place, and should you leak any of the information we give you, you will be punishable by the law. Do you understand that?”
A slow nod.
“Lance Bingham is a serial killer.”
It had Moore reaching for his water bottle. He took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hands. His eyes peered straight ahead. “What is he doing here then? We’re only a me-medium security prison. We ain’t equipped to deal with—”
“We still have to prove it.”
“You still have to prove it?” Moore repeated the words in question form.
“Ten bodies were found under his property.”
“No way. Lance isn’t that smart.”
“People are not who they project, especially serial killers.”
With the term serial killer being used again, Moore’s eyes moistened not from fear but I suspected from intrigue.
“We’ll be taking what we found in his cell,” Jack repeated his earlier statement. “We also need to be informed when he gets mail and what he’s received. Is this something that you can handle?”
“Course. All prisoner mail is opened, and the contents checked.”
“We’d like to be the ones to give final approval on whether it gets delivered to him.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“We need you to figure it out.” Jack kept eye contact on Moore.
Moore picked up the pen and scribbled something in a notepad. His handwriting angled to the left and was tightly compressed letters. I looked at the handwriting on the form he was working on when we interrupted him. His writing there was larger with more swirls. This change showed that Moore had closed emotionally from what we told him.
“When was the last time he received mail?”
“If you’d excuse me for a moment.” Moore picked up the telephone receiver and hit a few buttons. He spoke into the receiver, “Anita, I need to know the last time inmate,” Moore rhymed off a number. “That’s right, Lance Bingham. When did he last receive mail?” Moore cupped the receiver and said to us, “It should only take her a few sec—” He spoke back into the receiver, “Today...okay and it hasn’t been distributed yet?” Moore matched eyes with Jack.
“Have her bring today’s mail to us.”
“I need you to bring it to my office...yes...I know it’s not the norm...thank you.” Moore hung up. “That was the mailroom supervisor, and she’ll be here in a few minutes with it. She said the last package before today was March ’08.”
Sally Windermere went missing February eleventh 2008. Bingham was booked in January of that same year.
“She’ll need to know the details of your investigation as well.”
“Not going to happen. And you’re not going to tell her either. The less people who know the better.”
“But if we have him in pr-prison, what is the big deal? What is the leak y’all are worried about?”
Jack relayed the fact we suspected the use of Twitter to communicate with another killer.
“We’ll remove his right to access the Internet.”
“You’ll leave everything the way it is. If you take the privilege away it will only tip off the unsub and make them run. Did she say what type of package came in today?”
“Just an envelope that would fit a greeting card. We open all the mail and when deemed safe, it’s approved and forwarded to the inmate.”
“Wonder if it’s a photo.” Jack turned to me, and I knew what he was thinking. The mail from 2008 wasn’t a coincidence. The unsub had mailed the photo of Sally Windermere to let Bingham know that the job was done. Did that mean all the people in those pictures were dead, or were some intended targets?
“Did she say where the package came from?” I asked.
“Every piece of mail has to pass certain requirements such as having a postmark and a full return address. We’ll see when she gets here.”
Jack addressed me, “We know not all those pics were mailed, so how did Bingham end up with more photos?”
“His sister visited not long after he was booked,” I said, glancing to Moore, then back at Jack. “She could have brought them when they met.” Back to Moore, “Is that possible?”
Two raised palms in the air. “It’s possible. Like I said it’s confidential what happens in there.”
“So people could bring in whatever they want to? Weapons, drugs,” Jack said.
“All ou
r visitors are checked but photos wouldn’t get our attention.”
“You said that conversations aren’t recorded correct?” I reeled the conversation back.
“Correct and we don’t video tape them either. The only person who could say would be the security guard and that’s if he stayed in the room. It’s that name I gave you before.”
“We saw him and he didn’t remember any of their conversation.”
“Well, then I’m sorry but y’all are out of luck.”
A rap on the doorframe caused us to look up. A woman stood there. Her dark hair was drawn back into a neat ponytail that reached her shoulders and bangs framed her face. Her figure was trim and her clothing fit snugly, hugging her curves. “I have what y’all are looking for.”
My stomach turned, fearing it contained another photo. Had we delayed too long, was another life lost?
“Gentlemen, this is Anita Abrams.”
She stepped into the office and extended a hand, first to Jack and then to me. She smiled.
“These men are Special Agents of the FBI.”
Anita withdrew her hand from mine but held eye contact.
“I’m Special Agent Brandon Fisher and this is Supervisory Special Agent Jack Harper.”
Jack reached for the envelope and ripped the edge where the prison had resealed it with their tape.
“You can’t do that—” Anita’s words stopped there.
Jack pulled out the contents. It was a photograph.
Anita looked from it to me. “I thought you looked familiar.”
CHAPTER 14
I lunged for the photo. “What the hell—”
Jack asked Anita, “Does the mail department wear gloves?”
“Yes, of course.”
Jack addressed Moore, “Do you have a plastic bag?”
The warden shook his head and lifted his shoulders. “Anita?”
“I can get you something.”
“How the hell did he get my picture, Jack?” I bumped his shoulder. “Let me see it.”
Eleven (Brandon Fisher FBI Series #1) Page 8
