“Why would I—”
Jack rose and moved to the morphine drip.
“Stop.” Robinson’s chest heaved. “I don’t remember. Truthfully I don’t.”
“We need to see the video feed from that day.”
Robinson’s face tightened in a wince. “I don’t have it.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s to save the environment. Every four days I record over the previous.”
“So today’s tape would have had Tuesday on it?”
Robinson gave it some thought. “Yeah, that would be right seeing as I wasn’t there to change the tape out last night.”
“We’ll be taking it.”
“Sure whatever you need to do. I didn’t kill those people.”
“We’ll have it analyzed by specialists. If there are ghosted images for them to recover they will. You better hope you’re on there selling these surveillance pieces.” Jack dragged the chair back to the corner where he originally took it from. The legs scrapped on the linoleum causing a high-pitched squeal. “Do you own a .38 Special?”
Robinson didn’t say anything.
“Answer the question.” Jack patted his shirt pocket and pulled out the package of cigarettes.
“It’s licensed.”
“Where is it?” Jack’s phone calls obviously tipped him off on more than one thing.
Robinson’s eyes darted to the end of the bed, to his feet.
“We’re not leaving until—”
“Behind the counter. I wasn’t going to shoot them.” He glanced at me, back to Jack. “I was just going to scare them. I swear.”
“You let an agent feel guilty over shooting an unarmed man.” Jack headed for the door.
“That’s not a crime,” Robinson called out behind us.
In the hallway, Jack perched a cigarette in his lips for a brief instant before pulling it out. “Robinson has the revolver registered in his name. Paige had Nadia pull the registry when they found strapping under the counter. Robinson just said the gun was behind the counter, but local PD said there wasn’t one.”
“Someone on the police force took it? But why?”
“Questions that need answers, Kid. We’ll start by talking with the Chief of Police.”
CHAPTER 35
The Sarasota Police Station was a modern building of architectural wonder. Its many windows allowed sunlight to stream in creating a bright, uplifting interior. The periwinkle blue used as an accent on the exterior took up a solid presence in the lobby where the front face and wall of the reception area was painted the same color.
The female officer sitting behind the window watched the four of us approach. She offered a sincere smile. “Can I help you?”
Jack held up his creds. “We need to speak with the Chief of Police.”
“Brennan’s not in today.”
“We need to reach him.”
She took a business card from a plastic display that was kept on her side of the glass and extended it to Jack. “It has his cell listed there.”
Jack took it but never looked at the card. “What about Sergeant Haynes?”
Sergeant Haynes was the superior in charge of the officers who came to The Pawnshop. He was the one Paige was put in touch with to arrange for the back-up.
“He’s here.” She dragged out her words in such a way they somehow contained a question. She picked up her phone and dialed an extension. “You have someone here to see you…okay.” She hung up. “He’ll be right down.”
Minutes later, a far door opened and he stepped out. “Agents.”
I remembered him clearly from yesterday. He had walked through the door to The Pawnshop after the shot was fired. Sergeant Haynes was a man of average height and of common features with the exception of a distinguishing mole on his chin.
“We need to speak with you. In private.”
The Sergeant’s eyes skipped over all of us, settled back on Jack. “This way.”
He led us through the building to a conference room where he took a seat at the end of the table and gestured for us to sit around it. “So you have your unsub?”
“We have evidence that someone at The Pawnshop tampered with evidence.”
“You come in here and accuse the Sarasota PD of a cover-up?”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing. We know Robinson had an S&W .38 revolver registered to him.”
“There’s no record of it being found at the shop.”
“You want to try again?”
Haynes remained silent.
“Robinson said it should have been there.”
“I…I don’t know what to say. I know nothing about it.”
“Is this because you don’t like us in your city? And you actually want to pin something on the FBI?”
“That’s not true.” His eyes went to the empty water pitcher in the middle of the table.
“Your Chief made it clear to my agents—,” Jack nodded towards Paige and then to me “—he was offended by the fact we never notified him of our presence here.”
Haynes clasped his hands on the table. “It is common courtesy to—”
“Is this the excuse for removing evidence?”
“Of course not.”
“We ran quick backgrounds on the officers who were at the scene yesterday. And Officer Bryant applied to the academy.”
“You think he took the evidence to make it appear as if your agent shot an unarmed man? Why?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed.
“No. There’s no way one of mine would—”
“Robinson said he had the gun behind the counter,” Paige reiterated.
“He must have forgotten he moved it and misplaced it somewhere.”
“What we’re thinking is, Officer Bryant was more unhappy about the feds being here than the Chief, and he wanted to drag our reputation down. Namely mine.”
“He’s a good cop. Sometimes a little hot under the collar, but a good guy nonetheless.”
“Consider this little meeting a professional courtesy. Bryant has interfered with a federal investigation,” Jack said.
“I’ll call him in.”
“You do that.”
Nothing was moving fast enough for Nadia’s preference. Normally information was only a few clicks of a mouse and pecks on the keyboard away. The older detective roamed the hallways, pensive and agitated. He had been redirected into Nadia’s space several times now.
“If we catch you wandering again Mr. Jenkins, we will ask that you leave.” The security agent led him in again and dropped him off with Nadia. “Keep an eye on him.”
“What am I a child?” Jenkins gruffness manifested itself in a verbal pout.
The security agent left with enlarged eyes at Nadia that said, he’s your problem now.
“You work twenty-four hours a day?” Jenkins walked around Nadia’s space touching her in-tray, her stapler, adjusted her phone so it sat perpendicular to the edge of the desk.
Nadia reached out and put the phone back on the angle it had been in before. “Please just sit over there.”
“Police work used to involve a lot more field work than it does these days. All the forensics and computers weigh down the investigations.” He dropped in the chair Nadia had pointed to.
“All the science has made it possible to convict criminals that may have otherwise gone free.”
“You’re defensive about your work.”
“Of course I am.” Nadia turned back to face her monitor. She almost had a completed list of congregation members. She still hadn’t heard back from the church administrator but had gone about it her own way, donation tax receipts. The process obviously took longer, but she expected Jack would be calling soon for an update. She had rehearsed her defense for not having the answers yet.
A name came up on the computer screen and her hands stopped moving. She verbalized her thinking process. “Bingham and Knowles.”
The chair Jenkins sat on groaned when he shifted his weight. “You’re work
ing on the church membership list right? Knowles shouldn’t come as a surprise. That’s why you’re looking at that church in the first place.”
Nadia ignored the man’s words. She couldn’t believe she didn’t connect the two until now. “I know that name from somewhere else too.” She turned around and tapped on the keys, the screen flashing and filling in with information. “Oh my god.” She kept her fingers moving over the keys. More windows opened on her screen. “It’s been here this entire time.” Nadia picked up the phone to call Jack.
With the receiver to her ear, an email notification flashed up in the bottom right hand of the computer screen. She went over to the program and opened the email. Jack had asked her to locate Keith Knowles, and this file held her answer. As the report filled the screen, Nadia’s jaw gaped open.
With the four of us crammed into the Cruze, it weighed down the car enough to make it less of a rocky ride. We were headed to the Catholic Church where Knowles had served as a priest, hoping they’d be more cooperative if we showed up in person. Nadia still hadn’t come through with the list, and Jack wasn’t impressed by the delay.
“I miss the SUV,” Zachery said from the front passenger seat.
For a man of over six foot myself, I related to the statement. But my mind wasn’t on discomfort. It was on Debbie. I missed her, and kissing Paige last night, wanting her the way I had, had been wrong.
Jack’s cell rang. He didn’t hesitate to pull it to his ear and answer while driving. He spoke for a few seconds and hung up. He swerved the car around a slowing moving pick-up truck and picked up speed.
“Jack?” Paige placed a hand on his headrest.
“That was Nadia. Keith Knowles is a follower of The Redeemer’s on Twitter—”
“Keith Knowles had a connection to the first victim—”
“And he had a connection with Bingham. Apparently Bingham donated money to the same church Knowles became a priest at. The good news is Knowles is still in Sarasota.”
The address for Keith Knowles brought us in front of a modest brick bungalow at the east end of town. All four of us got out of the car.
Jack banged on the oak door that had survived decades and threatened it surviving one more. “FBI.”
Zachery stood beside Jack; Paige and I hung back.
The evening air had turned humid with the threat of impending rain. The sounds of the neighborhood—voices, laughter, screaming children, and lawn mowers—carried, empowering it with a sort of life force.
Jack’s fist rose again and lowered when the door opened.
The smell of roast beef, onions, and baking potatoes filtered out. My stomach churned instinctively.
“Keith Knowles?”
“Yes?” The man responded with a heightened tail on the end of his single word. He looked past Jack to the rest of us and adjusted his glasses. “Who are you?”
Jack announced himself and gestured to the rest of us as being a team from the BAU of the FBI.
“Why do you want to talk to me?”
“We’re here about your wife. We’d like to step inside.”
“She is dead.”
“Yes, we know.”
Knowles hesitated, but he ended up consenting with a nod and another adjustment of his glasses. He stepped inside his house and held the door open for us.
One observation I made of Jack was the man never asked for anything, he presented everything as a directive.
“Come sit in here.” Knowles directed us to the living area, and then excused himself. “I just need to turn the oven off. You have me right at dinner hour.”
Family portraits hung on the wall, and a large wooden cross was centered between them.
Knowles returned a few minutes later. “You’re here about Anna?” He played out the sign of the cross on his chest and took a seat.
“Where were you five days ago?”
“Tuesday?” The older man adjusted his glasses again. “I don’t understand.”
“Just answer the question.”
“I was at a church group for children.”
“What time?”
“From eight until five. It was a Bible camp day.”
“I assume you have people who can verify this.”
Knowles ran a hand over the top of his head. “At least twenty. Why are you asking me these questions? I thought you were here about the man who killed Anna.” Pain saturated his tone of voice.
“We are.” Jack leaned back into the sofa pillows.
“You think?” Knowles placed a hand over his chest. “There is no way I would have done that to my wife. No way. Detectives came, and they took my statements, my alibis. I endured days of interrogation. I spent nights behind bars while Anna’s killer had freedom.” Knowles balled a fist and punched it into his thigh.
“You went on to become a Catholic priest.”
The fist loosened. “That is right. I sank my life into the Lord to deal with what had happened to Anna, to all those other people. There is so much evil in this world.”
“You thought by preaching you could change the world.” I caught the cynicism in Jack’s tone and Knowles didn’t miss it either.
“The Bible can affect you more than one might realize. It’s a hard thing to quantify, but it has only positive effects when put into practice.”
“You retired two years ago now.”
“Just because I am no longer a priest doesn’t mean that I don’t live by the word. I practice peace—”
“Make confessions.”
“But of course. To be forgiven, one must confess one’s sins and repent.”
Bingham’s words refreshed to the forefront, confess your sins, or don’t and be punished.
“And you believe you have the power to forgive sins?”
“As priest I served as a mediator between man and the Lord.”
I watched Jack’s face take on an uncomfortable contortion. “What about Lance Bingham? Does that name sound familiar to you?”
“Of course.”
“From Twitter?”
“Twitter. I’ve heard of it. That’s some online social networking thing, right?”
“Right.”
“I don’t even own a computer.”
“We show you as Bingham’s follower. Maybe The Redeemer sounds more familiar to you?”
“Follower? I’m not sure what you’re talking about. The Redeemer is our Lord and savior.” Knowles latched his hands on his lap. “But either way you’ll find no computer here as it allows place for the Devil.”
“You said you know the name Lance Bingham, is it because he donated money to your church?”
“Lance was a nice guy and a family friend, an active member of the church before Anna. We were friends before I became a priest, before Anna went missing.” He stopped talking for a few seconds, and I heard voices which sounded like they were coming from a television.
“You said a family friend, so you were close?”
“Very close. Every Sunday, he came for dinner. I tried to tell Anna he was a troubled soul, but she wouldn’t have word of it. She said that he just had a hard past and that he needed people who could look past imperfection and love him for who he was.”
“Troubled soul and a hard past,” I said, stepping into the questioning session. It brought a glare from Jack, and a sideways smirk from Zachery.
“He had a horrible temper.” Knowles looked at me. “As told by him, anyway. We were never witness to it.”
Controlled rage would fit Bingham. We knew Bingham to be an organized killer, one who gave thought to his method of operation, targeting of his victims, the outplaying of their torture and then demise. In his mind his actions were justifiable and he felt no remorse over the kill.
“What was his childhood like?” Paige’s soft voice caused Knowles to face her.
“His parents weren’t very good people if you ask me.”
“You knew them?”
“Only what Lance told us, but he’d seal up and excuse himself a
lot of times the subject came up.”
“What did he say?”
“His father was a religious man. Very zealous, as Lance put it on numerous occasions. Now Lance never came out and said it, but I think his old man beat the church into him. And maybe it took too, because Lance was an outstanding example for—”
A man came through the doorway to the living area. His hair was clipped short, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses like his father. “Who are these people?”
“Don’t you worry about it.”
“They’re cops?”
“This is my son, Reggie.” Knowles halted eye contact with any of us, and his head bowed forward if only a little. “These are FBI agents investigating the murder of your moth—”
“It’s about time!” Reggie adjusted his glasses as his father had earlier. “She’s been gone forty years.”
“You would have been young at the time,” Jack said.
Reggie’s eyes snapped to him. “I was a baby.”
“It is harder on a small one than you would think,” Knowles said.
“I turned out just fine.”
Knowles’ jaw went askew for a second.
Reggie shoved his hands in his pockets. “Dinner’s going to be ready soon so if you would all leave now.”
Knowles stood. “This here is my house, Reggie, and if you want to continue living under my roof you listen to me.”
Jack stood and the rest of us followed his lead. “We might have more questions moving forward.”
“Of course.” Knowles was angry, as evidenced in his eyes and the subtle pulse in his cheek. “You know just because her body was found, I still don’t have full closure. Capture the man who did this to her. Please.”
In the car Jack spoke first. “We need to get a background on that kid.”
“You heard him. He would have been a baby at the time of his mother’s murder,” Zachery countered.
“Like you mentioned before what’s to say Bingham had a partner from the beginning? Maybe this kid found Bingham, and like Royster fell prey to his manipulation tactics. He could have filled his head with talk about his mother.”
Zachery played out the thought, “And he started killing other people?”
Eleven (Brandon Fisher FBI Series #1) Page 27
