She performed a quick review — Faber had disclosed the information about the left-behind casings to Payton, then Payton said someone contacted him who knew about the casings, too. But Faber shoved it all aside when he realized he’d screwed up and given critical and confidential police information to a suspect.
Or Payton’s story was a convenient way to hide his own lie.
“The person contacting you said specifically he was going to do it again? To whom?”
“Not like that — he said it was part of something. Part of a larger picture. And it would be over if I did what he said. Then he started talking about all of this—”
“This is all one phone call?”
“There were three times. The first was texts, just before that interrogation. The next one was . . .” Payton squinted and glanced down. “Ah, it was maybe a week later. Not quite. He called and started talking about how all of this was just in my mind. That I was bringing myself pain because I kept thinking about Dani. What do you do when someone starts talking shit like that? I didn’t know what to do.”
Broward went over to the sink. “Can I get some water?”
“Sure. Yeah — glasses are right there above you,” Payton said.
Broward got a glass down and ran the tap. “Water any good here?”
“Yeah. Well water. Better than Liverpool.”
Broward took a long drink, his back to them. Kelly felt her heart pound. Something was wrong. Broward was off. She took a step back from the table so she could observe both men.
Payton resumed the story. “And this guy knew things. Knew things about me — my past, my business. I started getting paranoid. I swear to God every day I thought about it and I said to myself, ‘Just wait. If this guy is so fucking crazy he’s going to admit who he is, then you got him.’”
Broward finally turned around, set the empty glass beside him on the counter. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and watched Payton. He wasn’t making eye contact with Kelly.
“It’s the weirdest thing,” Payton said. “I mean, the weirdest fucking thing. And you know, the funny part is, it took my mind off her. Thinking about this guy, waiting for him to call, it took away the pain, a little bit. Gave me something to occupy my mind.” His rheumy eyes searched the space. “And I came up here. I didn’t want to talk to the cops again, or Dani’s brothers, or any more journalists. I had to get away. But I see the troopers going by my house, driving slow — I know I’m being watched.”
Kelly spoke. “Mr. Payton, I’d like you to come in for a formal interview. I have a couple of recordings that I’d like you to listen to. You need to sort out your recollections, try to get everything as straight as you can, and then come in. Can you do that? I’ll need you sober, too.”
“I don’t know. Wait — you got this guy recorded?”
“We have something we’d like you to listen to.”
“You got it on you? On tape or a CD or something?”
“Mr. Payton, we need to speak to you formally.” She looked at Broward, who was still avoiding her gaze.
“And you’ll arrest me for withholding evidence or something like that. Anyway, I’m selling the restaurant. Not because business is bad — business is good. I’m just done. Done with the whole thing. I’m going to be free.”
“I’m not interested in whether or not you came forward before. You’re doing that now, voluntarily and informally, and that will factor in to everything. But you’ve kept this to yourself on the off chance this guy would stay true to his word. Because now we have a real shot at getting him.”
“You have a suspect, don’t you?” His heavy eyes, the way he slightly swayed, Payton was already drunk. Unreliable. “You have someone you’re looking at. That’s who the recording is. Let me hear it.”
She needed him sober. She needed his phone. She needed to call Dixon.
Broward stepped forward, hands on his hips. “What about a book, Roger? The Myth of You. Have you read that book?”
“The what?”
“Do you have a copy here, by chance?”
“You still think I did it. I was at the restaurant! Everybody knew I was there, all night. I never left. I never hired anybody. For Chrissakes — I wouldn’t know who to hire. Who knows murderers?”
“Stay calm, okay? Keep it calm, Roger.”
“Let me hear the recording. I’ll tell you if it’s him.”
“Kelly.” Broward jerked his head. She moved toward the front door. Broward was acting so strangely that if they were going to talk, she wanted to be near an exit. Her chest tightened as he walked over and opened the door and stepped outside. She glanced back at Payton, who sat staring into an empty glass.
The night was frigid and dark as coal. The fresh air was a welcome relief after the stolid, boozy air inside the cabin but she started shivering and couldn’t stop. Stafford, Virginia felt a world away.
She faced Broward. “What’s going on with you?”
His faint outline barely showed up in the light from the windows. “Nothing is going on with me. I can just see you getting taken in by him. He’s trying the same thing on you as he tried with Faber.”
She kept her voice down even though they were outside. “If Payton is our guy, at least a dozen people lied for him or were mistaken. And Faber wasn’t able to prove he hired someone — he admitted to me that he made it up.”
“I don’t think Roger hired someone.”
“Then what? He killed his wife — how does it relate to the other victims?”
“It doesn’t. He killed her the same way as Tammy Haig was killed. To hide it. To make it look like part of a series. He copycatted.”
Broward was beginning to sound like Severin.
“So then the killer just resumed as normal with the Archers and the Spences?”
“I think it’s a possibility. I mean look at this guy.”
She viewed Payton through the window, still sitting at the table. Why had Broward suddenly elevated him to a prime suspect? What had changed? Maybe the real reason Faber got fired was because he’d disclosed evidence of the murder weapon to a suspect — Roger Payton. And Broward had been trying to keep that disclosure covered up, make it look like Faber’s real infraction was ginning up a story about a hired assassin. For his own sake, Broward needed Danica Payton’s killer to be her husband.
“The only way he’s coming with us is in handcuffs,” she said. “But we don’t have enough. He’s still got a rock-solid alibi. He’s got no motive—”
“The evidence is that he knows the caliber of bullets.” Broward spoke in a harsh whisper. “What more do we need?”
“Rob, listen . . .”
“I know what you’re thinking and there’s no way Faber said anything about the casings. No way. It’s not in any of the recorded interviews. He may have played bad cop but he stuck to procedure. And if this guy is telling Roger about the murder weapon, why didn’t he tell Ted Archer the same thing? Archer had no idea about that or he would’ve passed it along to Severin. It’s not in Archer’s notes, not in the texts, nothing.”
Broward had a point.
He glanced inside. “The only way Roger knows about the bullets is because he fired them from his own fucking gun.”
She huddled in the cold.
“She’s the only one without kids,” Broward said. “They didn’t have any children because he couldn’t get her pregnant. He did it out of shame. And he did it the same way the others were done to hide it. To hide himself.”
“It’s still all circumstantial. You know how this works.”
“Then let’s play him the tape. While he’s listening, I’ll have a look around. Get his phone, see if he’s got Grumett’s book, see if he’s got a prescription for Cialis or something — see if there’s a fucking Winchester in there. Then we call the state police, we call Dixon, we call everyone, we take him down.”
She took a deep breath. “Even if he killed his wife that still leaves someone out there.”
“Well,
listen — he was in Liverpool when his wife was murdered. And he was in the area for Tammy Haig and for the Archers. Maybe he did do the others. Maybe he’s got a second car, drove down and did Carter-Spence, too.”
“And Grumett’s phone? You think he stole it and left it at the church? After texting me?”
“Or he’s working with someone.”
She’d expected to come up here and get Payton to admit he was talking to the killer and at least establish a clearer picture of what the killer wanted, or who might be next, and now they were considering Roger Payton for the whole thing. Him and maybe an accomplice.
“Play Grumett’s interview for him,” Broward said, “play the Taylor Keesing audio, too.”
“The cokehead?”
“That will give me some more time. In fact, play Keesing first. Then when you play Grumett, if this goes how I think it’s going to go, Roger will positively identify him.”
She didn’t expect it to work. Grumett wasn’t the killer and Payton wasn’t about to identify him. But it was a compromise that cooled Broward’s heels and bought them a little time to search the place — they had enough to cite exigent circumstances — then either bring Payton as a cooperating witness or have enough probable cause to arrest him on the spot.
She pushed open the door with her hand on her weapon. “Mr. Payton? You got a computer? Something we could use to listen to this interview?”
His eyes lit up as she walked into the room. “Dani’s old one. Hang on.” He got up and staggered away and came back a few seconds later with a battered Gateway laptop, opened it up and said, “Just needs a second.” Then he belched.
When it was ready he pushed it toward her and she dug the thumb drive from her pocket, snapped in the drive and clicked on the audio file.
Broward interrupted as she fiddled with the volume. “Hey Roger, can I use your can? It was a long drive up.”
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Right back there on the right. You have to jiggle the handle after you flush.”
“Gotcha. Sorry, be right back. Just go ahead and play it, Kelly.”
Broward walked off, his footfalls fading into the back of the cabin, and Payton didn’t seem worried about it. She hit the play button on the audio, hoping to cover any noise Broward made as he looked around.
Keesing was in mid-sentence. “. . . to cross me off your list, you say. And how are you going to do that? You’ll ask me the same questions three or four times, see if I change my answer. You’ll act like you’re my friend, get me something to drink . . .”
She watched Payton closely as he listened. He frowned and shook his head. “That’s not it. That’s not him.”
“Keep listening. Just maybe focus on the content — what he’s saying, not necessarily how he sounds. Between cameras and computers and phones it could sound different. That’s why we need you to come in. Here, let me skip ahead to another part.”
“ . . . a basic, freshman-level course, but most if it goes right over their heads. I don’t know about the youth these days. You see that video? About people being asked to name a book, just any single book, and no one can? Society is going down . . .”
She watched Payton for a reaction while tuning in on Broward’s movements. The toilet flushed and water ran through the plumbing, rattling the pipes.
“It’s a different guy.” Payton poured another drink. “This guy is cockier, or something. Too keyed up. The guy who called me was much calmer.”
She switched to Grumett’s recent interview and played the audio. “How about him.”
“ . . . before teaching. I encountered many people who feel shame for not living up to expectations. The idea is to . . .”
Payton straightened up a little. “That’s interesting. Yeah, I mean, talking about the same stuff.” He cocked his head, listening, then leaned back in the chair. “But he’s too old. Sounds like my uncle or something.”
There it was. Broward thought Payton would pounce on Grumett but he was calling it dispositive. A little warmth started to circulate through her body. Things were going to be OK. She just needed to give Broward another minute or so to finish looking around. “All right, try one more. The voice might sound a little different here, different emotions.”
She listened out for Broward again. He’d turned on a faucet now — he was coming and going from the bathroom, using the sound of water to mask his movements. Then she hit play.
“. . . think the ideology that criminals have just made bad choices is undermined by research. And the idea that they’re somehow spiritually corrupt or going against God — these are becoming archaic concepts. Research has been done . . .”
Payton slowly nodded and she felt gooseflesh break out on her arms as she watched the recognition dawn on his features. “Yeah . . .” He nodded more vigorously. “Yeah. That sounds like it could be him, the more I listen. And, you know, all the stuff he’s talking about . . .”
When he looked up at her she inspected his expression for any trace of guile but it was hard to tell. “You sure?”
“I mean, yeah, that could be the guy.”
“But does he sound like the man you’ve been talking to? You said he was too old.”
“At first, maybe. But now . . . yeah, I think it’s him.”
Broward came walking out of the back. “So what do we think?”
Kelly closed the laptop and put her thumb drive back in her pocket. “Mr. Payton has suggested the second interviewee sounds like the unknown subject who’s been calling him.” Her tongue felt numb. Payton suspecting the psychology professor could mean Payton was the killer, looking to frame Grumett after all. “It might just be the content that rings familiar, though,” she added.
“I mean,” Payton said, “If I could hear them back-to-back — you know, the guy who called me and this guy, then maybe I can totally confirm it. But it’s close. I think it’s close. Who is he?”
“We can’t tell you that,” Broward said. He came up behind Payton and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You know we can’t. Not right now. But that’s good work, Roger.”
Payton drank from the glass, his gaze unfocused, still nodding a bit. “The guy told me that all my suffering was in my head. I was making myself sick thinking about Dani, over and over again, like a broken record. That there’s an addiction to the pain. An attachment. Thinking I had to be someone for Dani, thinking I had to be a certain way. Be the best husband. It’s just beliefs. What we think we are — just beliefs.”
Broward gave Payton’s shoulder a squeeze. “Like having kids, right, Roger? You believed you were supposed to give her children.”
She needed to call Dixon right now. They had to take Payton down the hard way. She took her phone out as Payton turned his face up to Broward. “No, not that. Dani didn’t want kids. If she did, I would have.”
Her finger hovered on Call as Broward said, “We need you to come in, buddy.” He walked around the table and sat next to Payton. “That’s all it is right now. Okay Roger? We need you to help us. We can stop this guy from hurting anybody else.”
At last Payton stood up. He took the bottle and glass and brought them to the counter and set them down. Keeping his back to them, head lowered, he said, “Yeah, okay.”
She slowly put her phone away. Payton poured himself another drink. Any more bourbon and he was going to be unconscious, big as he was.
“Mr. Payton, we need to do this now,” she said softly.
He nodded. “I appreciate that — you acting like I have a choice.”
“You do have a choice.”
He rotated around and pointed at the holster where she kept her phone. “If I don’t come with you right now you’re going to call someone and they’ll come get me. That’s not a choice.”
“We need to have this conversation on the record, in front of other members of law enforcement and the US district attorney.”
He sucked at his lips for a moment and looked into a corner. “Tell you what,” Payton said, slur
ring his speech a little. “I’m meeting with a buyer for the restaurant tomorrow. I’ve had people in place down there to keep the restaurant thing going — you know, Eileen is great, she really keeps it together — but I gotta go down and sign the papers. I’m not packed yet, so let me just get a few things together . . .”
He moved out of the room before they could object. Kelly and Broward looked at each other and Broward gave a small nod and then followed Payton. Broward hadn’t turned up a gun, or given her any indication that he’d found one. But once Payton was in custody they’d come back with a search warrant and pull apart every board.
Her ears were ringing. Maybe Broward was right and they had their man. But she was reluctant to jump to another conclusion. Either way, they had a long road ahead.
She heard a strange noise, then a thump. She pulled her Glock and stared into the back hallway. “Chief Broward?”
Her heart was in her throat. She listened, staying where she was beside the kitchen table. She aimed the gun toward the back rooms. “Chief Broward? Mr. Payton?”
There was labored breathing, someone grunting, then a final thump.
Keeping the gun in one hand, she pulled out her phone as Roger Payton emerged from a bedroom, at first slowly, then building speed and charging down the hallway toward her. She dropped the phone and aimed the gun again but it was too late and he crashed into her. The back of one of the dining table chairs barked against her side just under her ribs and she lost her footing and tumbled to the floor, her gun clattering away across the table.
Payton had hit her like a battering ram and she’d smacked her head hard enough that her vision blacked out for a second before coming back into focus.
He loomed over her, holding an axe. His hair was sweaty and messed, eyes glassy. There was spit hanging from his lower lip.
She tried to find her voice. “Don’t . . .”
He lifted the axe over her and hit her with the handle. This time everything stayed black.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The water shocked her awake. She jerked back and tried to get away but she was tied to something. Payton stood there with a phone in one hand and an empty glass in the other. The water trickled down her cheek and pooled in her ear. She was in a bed and the windows were still dark.
The Husbands Page 22
