“How long do you typically keep items of evidence. In case I were to need any of Cumming’s clothing again for lab work.”
Next to him, Luke could feel Thad physically draw in, cringing. He kept going. Gary didn’t seem to notice anything wrong with the question.
“Typically a year after the case has cleared court so any chance of appeal has passed. In this case there is no court.” He smirked. “It will be a five-year hold since it was an officer involved incident.”
Luke nodded. “Good to know. Thank you for your help, Gary.” They turned to leave.
“Whatcha investigatin that dead asshole for? He got a federal rap sheet?”
Thad’s face displayed panic, but Luke turned and gave the man a broad easy grin. “You got it. Just trying to clear out some cases. Same as you.”
Gary gave a brusque wave and turned to the boxes on the counter. Thad was the first one out the door. “Why would he keep it? Why would it be in his pocket?” Thad blurted out the second the car doors slammed shut. “None of this is making sense.”
Luke started the engine and pulled onto the street before he answered. “I don’t know, Kid. But it does explain why Cummings would have come to see Easton.”
“You honestly think that scuzzball is involved in a hitman scheme?”
“Easton got the drugs from somewhere. Why not the neighborhood meth head that nobody believes? Or maybe he provides the prostitute bait. Who knows.”
Thad shook his head. “Okay, I can buy that. But a receipt in his pocket? Over a month later? You keep saying this guy’s an expert. But this is, like, the third time he hasn't acted like one. It’s not jiving, boss.”
"I know. The phone. Now the receipt. It's sloppy and not the kind of mistakes a professional would make."
“So you're saying it’s not the cop? Or not a professional?”
“I’m saying we can’t believe anything we see.”
“Well, we gotta believe something. Did Easton and Wynn ever talk to each other?”
“Not over the phone, but they wouldn’t need to. Wynn lives close. I’m starting to think that’s not by accident. There is some good news though. That little piece of paper is enough for a sealed search warrant on both Cummings, Easton and Cade. At least now I can get into their accounts. Even an evolutionary leap needs to be paid.”
The next three days went by in a blur of phone calls, a quick drive to Atlanta for the search warrant, and arguing with the IT team about the best way to harvest account data without leaving a trail. By Friday morning, Luke had the financial statements of all three men on his desk. It was a small amount of paperwork to sift through. Only Cade had any money to speak of.
Luke's phone buzzed again. All week Tully had texted him. It didn't go unnoticed. Luke caught Thad watching every time he typed a reply. Thad never said anything, but he got a big stupid grin on his face. Luke ignored him, but he felt bad. Thad had a right to know, but not now. Not yet.
The texts were surface, lacking any romantic context, but Luke could feel the undercurrent of desire. Or maybe he was reading into it. She wasn’t used to reaching out, and any effort to do so said volumes.
So did his own behavior. He'd spent every night that week at her place, although he was careful to make it to work on time to avoid questions. Every day she asked, and every night he found himself knocking on her door. The first night was a shameless dig for information, Luke knew that. But something had changed.
She stopped asking him questions. In fact, she never mentioned his investigation again. It surprised both of them; their similarities an unlikely salve. Against the odds, they fit together somehow, content for hours with little conversation.
Now he faced the prospect of discrediting himself or outing her partner while hiding his indiscretions from his own partner. Luke's frustration at the slow pace of the investigation was cushioned by the growing threat to this new relationship. This investigation was the only reason they met, but it would end up screwing one of them. Luke just didn’t know who yet. It wasn’t fair.
Luke pushed his chair back and threw his pen against the wall with a low snarl.
“What?” Thad swung around.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
There was precious little information in any of the bank statements. Cade’s charitable donations were prominent, as Luke expected, no doubt for the tax benefit. His salary from One World was respectable but didn’t put him anywhere near the one-percenters he hung out with. He was a board member of several environmental services companies and owned a consulting business that brought in over half his sizable yearly income. There were no abnormal expenditures around the time of the two target dates.
Nicholas Cummings had not held a bank account since 1996, and had no debt. He received a small disability check each month, delivered to his dead mother’s derelict home on the wrong side of town. He cashed it at a check-cashing place. That’s where the money trail ended.
Peter Easton carried a relatively high amount of debt. Nothing extraordinary, but enough to make things difficult. Public servant salaries were public record, easily viewed with a few keystrokes. His wife’s heavy student loan balances, a couple of car payments, the house and three credit cards were bound to make ends hard to meet on a cop’s salary.
“Another dead end that won’t allow us to take any decisive action," mumbled Luke. "I don’t have enough to even name a suspect, much less clear out the case. Holding Cade responsible for any of this monkey business is damn near impossible.”
“What if the transactions happened from an offshore account?”
“That’s likely,” Luke admitted, “but we can’t touch those. They’re completely legal, and even if our court had jurisdiction to subpoena an offshore bank, the accounts are numbered. It’s virtually impossible to build a case on an offshore account because it’s so hard to definitively link it to one person. No one’s been successful at it without teams of people working on it for weeks.” Luke stood and shrugged on his jacket.
Thad huffed, “Which we don’t have.” Then his look turned suspicious. “Wait, where are you going?”
“I’m gonna go hear what he has to say.”
“Who? Wynn?”
Luke didn’t answer. He picked up his cell phone.
“I know that look.” Thad’s voice fell flat. “Luke, I’m not questioning you, but you know damn well you don’t want to hear him out.”
Luke straightened his tie.
Thad didn't stop. “And you’re right, this whole thing stinks of murder. But you’re dragging some of the biggest names in…in anything into this investigation. An investigation that by the looks of it,” Thad gestured to the mess on Luke’s desk, “we’ll never be able to close. The potential here for a career ending mistake is off the charts. Greg is gunning for you, and he’s the least of your worries. If you keep picking fights with powerful people just to chase down a hunch we can’t prove, we’re fucked.”
“Keep working on the autopsy reports,” said Luke.
Thad threw up his hands as Luke walked out the door without another word.
TWENTY-FIVE
A large painting hung on the wall next to the receptionist’s desk. The young man sitting there cast disapproving glances at Luke’s rumpled back as he studied the painting. Only muted gray and taupe covered the canvas, but the color was where the tame ended.
The distorted head looked small compared to the gaping mouth that filled the canvass. Hundreds of tiny human shapes marched in lockstep along a wide road into the inky abyss of the mouth. Crudely drawn warts and pockmarks on the grotesque face formed craters and valleys of the mountainous head. A tiny lone figure stood on the top of the tallest mountain. The uplifted head made the figure look defiant despite its featureless shape. Small figures that did not survive the climb littered the side of the mountain.
Luke tilted his head and squinted at the canvas. Modern art irritated him. He was pretty sure the painting was trying to say something, but it was so dis
torted and vague it could mean any of a dozen things. Still, he leaned in. A twinge of satisfaction hit him as he saw one figure still crawling up the steep slope. Luke felt a little better about the painting.
“Provocative, isn’t it?” The smooth voice had a sophisticated British accent. Luke turned to meet the speaker.
His features weren’t exactly handsome, but Alexander Wynn was certainly impressive. At six feet he was two inches taller than Luke, and thick dark hair grayed around the temples. He wore a tailored suit with his shirt collar casually open. Crossing to Luke, he offered his hand.
“Doctor Wynn.” Luke shook it.
Alex turned to study the picture himself. “One of my patients painted it. I’ve had it for fifteen years and I have to admit, I’m still in awe of it. Every time I think I have it figured out, I see something new that contradicts what I thought earlier. Like the human mind. Fascinating.” The doctor’s tone was sincere but measured. Luke immediately hated him. “Please come into my office.”
Luke followed Alex into a lavish, richly paneled office. It looked a lot like John Cade’s. Or, Luke suspected, John Cade’s office looked like Alex Wynn’s. A tufted leather couch sat in the corner with a leather chair next to it. The three-hundred-dollar-an-hour corner.
Alex settled into a leather chair behind a hand-carved desk. He smiled but it stopped short of his hazel eyes. “What can I do for you today, Agent Marshall? Michael said it was urgent.”
“It usually is when the FBI comes calling.” Luke settled into the chair on the right making Wynn adjust slightly to see him. “I’m investigating Senator’s Twomey's death.”
“His suicide, you mean?”
“Of course, Doctor,” Luke smiled, “his suicide.”
“Please call me Alex.” Alex stood and propped his hands on the desk. “Would you like a drink?”
“Yeah, thanks.” It was only one o’clock, but what the hell. Luke watched him walk to a paned picture window that looked out on a large lawn shaded by oak trees. Beneath the window, a custom cabinet hid a small personal bar. Wynn lifted the panel and raised the lid of an ice bucket filled every morning by his preening assistant. He tossed an ice cube into two glasses, then he took a bottle of Scotch out. Plucking the cork from its hole, he held it to his nose and inhaled deeply.
“Forgive me if I’m stealing your thunder, Agent Marshall, but I’m getting the distinct impression you reject the notion of suicide.” He poured a small amount in two glasses and set one in front of Luke.
“Very good.” Luke had a hard time masking his disdain.
“And now you’re here.” Wynn twisted his glass on the polished desktop. “I’m sorry, but I don’t consult with the FBI anymore.”
“Oh, I’m very direct about that. You made it perfectly clear you were done. Front page of the New York Times clear, if I remember right.”
Alex chuckled. “Then why are you here?”
Luke drained his glass in one drink and leaned forward. “Because you don’t think it’s suicide either.”
“People kill themselves all the time and for much less reason than he had, Agent Marshall. Why would I doubt it?”
“You’re the psychiatrist.”
Alex studied him through narrowed eyes. “You’re right, I am. But I prefer to study personality disorders, not the despaired depression of a life spiraling out of control. Although to be honest, I’m doing less and less of that these days.” Alex put his glass to his lips.
“But you are an expert in criminal psychology, right?”
“How does that apply to suicide?”
“It doesn't.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Cecil Twomey was murdered.”
The glass stopped halfway to the Alex’s lips and he lowered it back to the desktop. “You keep saying that, but what evidence do you have? If you can’t prove murder, then it wasn’t murder.”
“Interesting observation, which of course is factually incorrect. Besides, how do you know I can’t prove murder?”
Alex sized up Luke for a moment before speaking. “Well, without the facts of the case, I couldn’t say one way or the other, but I assume you would have made an arrest already.”
“Not having probable cause to arrest a suspect is a different topic entirely. That, and multiple arrests take more time to put together.” He watched Wynn’s face twitch then return to calm. It was on. “How well do you know John Cade?”
The doctor’s face was icy. “I see. You’re not here for a consultation gratis.”
“What about Peter Easton?” Luke sat back, his gaze as cold as Wynn’s.
At the officer's name, Alex looked surprised. He took a sip then settled back in his chair and laced his fingers together. “I don’t know any Peter Easton. John and I were at Cambridge together way back when. We’ve kept in touch over the years. But only just,” he added.
“You called him two months ago.”
“A general catch up kind of talk. The kind I trust you had a warrant for.”
“What did you talk about?” Luke picked off a scrap of paper stuck to the bottom of his shoe and dropped it onto the carpet.
Wynn smiled coldly but did not answer.
“Doctor, the Senator was murdered by a professional hitman.” Luke stood and walked to the bar. He picked up the crystal decanter and refilled his glass. Before he put the stopper back, he ran it under his nose and breathed in the aroma. “I see you know Scotch as well as you know criminals.”
“Very subtle, Agent Marshall.”
“Oh, you’re too smart for anything else." Luke turned to face him. "Tell me, this super criminal you wrote about all those years ago. Does he exist?”
“You read my thesis.”
“Yes.”
“Well, as I said, there is an exception to every rule. If he existed, he would be that exception. Ordinary criminals are one-dimensional and boring. The real danger is the one that is not.”
“You mean the real accomplishment.”
“You got me, Agent Marshall.” Alex threw his hands up in mock surrender. “I am fascinated by such a concept. If this person existed, they would be remarkable.”
“They wouldn't be that remarkable. Criminals are motivated by two things – greed and fear of getting caught. Always. And always in that order.”
“Are you so sure?”
“I haven’t been wrong yet.”
The smile on Wynn’s face darkened. “For someone who took out Sadam’s second in charge, you have a dull-witted view of the human animal. Especially disturbing for someone in your profession.”
“How’s that?” Luke leaned forward. He figured the good doctor would have research him as soon as Luke called his snowflake assistant for a meeting.
“You leave no room for change. Only those who adapt make any progress.”
“Adapt?”
“You’ve never been proven wrong because truly exceptional people are so rare. Even with all your accomplishments, you have followed the same path as the rest of the dinosaurs at the Bureau. Any new thinker will run circles around you.”
“Ignorant?” That threw Luke. Shouldn’t he deny this? Instead, Alex boasted about it.
“You came back from the desert with a boxed in view of the bad guy. In the desert, you shot them down. That was ‘justice’. But you can’t do that here, can you? So you reduce the human mind to a set of fixed rules that make you comfortable. Most of the time it works. Occasionally, though, they slip through your grasp, do they not? There is a reason for that. You are prisoner to your own rules if you fail to see one important difference.”
“What’s that, exactly?”
It’s inconceivable to you that a criminal might be justified in what they do, even if it seems twisted to us. What we call criminal behavior is simply an altered viewpoint. His motivation comes from experiencing circumstances that normal people never have, so his natural perspective is different than ours.
“The most influential people in history have been rule breakers
and outcasts simply because they had a different point of view. Why is it so far-fetched to apply that principal to criminology?”
Is. Present tense, thought Luke. “Spoken like a true intellectual,” he said.
“Have you not learned to look beyond the expected?”
“Not from a professor.”
“I agree with you there, Agent Marshall. Life is a much better instructor. If there’s one thing it has taught me, it is that you cannot corral a mind. The infinite possibilities of the human mind are untapped. We have yet to see what it can do. Your own mind is narrow, Mister Marshall. You may have met your match this time.”
“My match,” said Luke quietly. Alex’s face grew hard making Luke smile. “Doesn’t sound very hypothetical.”
Alex’s sneer was dark. It was clear to Luke that any hatred was mutual, but Alex seemed to be enjoying himself. “But it is hypothetical, an exercise in maybe. I was merely commenting that you are convinced of murder and have not made an arrest.”
“So you don’t know anything about crime syndicate slave trade around military bases funded by the DOD? Washington’s dirty little secret.”
Alex didn’t answer. He glared at Luke who didn’t flinch. Neither man looked away.
“Oh, that’s right. You’re a forensic psychiatrist. You wouldn’t know anything about a that,” said Luke.
“I no longer consult for the FBI,” said Alex standing and buttoning his jacket.
“No,” Luke stood too. He didn’t offer a handshake. “You’ve gone into business for yourself.”
“You know the most incredible thing about the human animal, Agent Marshall?”
Luke stopped.
“Its ability to surprise. Never assume anything, especially about yourself.”
Luke walked out the office. The heat blasted him when he stepped out of the air conditioning and walked to his car. Alexander Wynn was about to undergo some very serious scrutiny. Even if he couldn’t get anything on the prestigious doctor, Luke vowed he would make things as difficult as possible on him. He smiled as he thought of serving a search warrant on that office and ripping it apart. Wynn would know that he too could bleed.
The Last Innocent Page 21
