Capital Crimes

by Stuart Woods

  “There’s always evidence, Bob,” the director said.

  “Usually, sir.”

  “We won’t have any trouble tracking down this sniper, I’m sure of that”

  “Sir, may I point out how long it took to catch Eric Rudolph? And we got him only because a cop got lucky. A lone perpetrator, especially one with a support network, is a very difficult man to catch.”

  “Yes. yes, Bob, I understand that, of course. But I hope you understand that we’re going to be under enormous pressure to come up with a suspect and make an arrest.”

  “We’re always under pressure in a high-profile crime, sir. My people are accustomed to it.”

  “Well, that’s good, Bob. Now, I’m calling a press conference this afternoon timed to make the national TV news shows this evening, announcing progress in the investigation, so you get down to Chester, South Carolina, right now and get me something to announce.”

  “Sir, I think it would be a mistake to schedule a press conference when we don’t yet have anything to announce. We could make fools of ourselves.”

  “Well, you just get yourself down to Chester and call me when you’re on the ground there, and we’ll figure out something for the press conference.”

  “Yes, sir,” the DDCI said.

  “Don’t sound so morose, Bob,” the director said. “We’re going to crack this one, you and I.”

  “Yes, sir,” the DDCI said, even more morosely.

  6

  Robert Kinney, the FBI’s deputy director for Criminal Investigations, looked out the window at the piney woods below him and searched for the airport. The airplane was an elderly Lear, and since Kinney was six feet five inches tall and weighed two hundred and sixty-five pounds, it was a tight fit for him.

  The airplane suddenly banked left, and Kinney, to his relief, saw the Chester airport. It had three runways, in a triangular pattern, and one of them had Xs at either end, indicating that it was closed. The place looked like a World War II-era training airport, a great many of which dotted the American countryside. Before the airplane made its final turn, Kinney could see a single car parked on the parking ramp, and it had a big star on the door.

  The airplane taxied up to the ramp, and the copilot opened the door for Kinney, then carried his luggage down the air-stairs. A man in a business suit walked up and stuck out his hand. “Agent Kinney? I’m Ralph Emerson, AIC Columbia.”

  “Afternoon, Ralph,” Kinney replied. “Call me Bob, please.” Kinney had served with a lot of agents in his twenty-seven years with the FBI and knew a lot more, but he had not met Emerson before. The man’s personnel file, however, had spoken well of him.

  Emerson took Kinney’s luggage and stowed it in the open truck of the sheriff’s patrol car. “Bob, I’d like you to meet Sheriff Tom Stribling, of Chester County.”

  Stribling, a wiry man in his fifties, pushed off the car where he had been leaning and stuck out his hand. “How you doin‘?” he said.

  Kinney shook the hand and looked into the tanned face and bright blue eyes. “Good to meet you, Tom. We appreciate your help on this one.”

  “And I appreciate yours,” Stribling said, glancing at Emerson. He didn’t sound as if he appreciated it. “You want to go out to the cabin or would you rather go to your hotel?”

  “Let’s go out to the cabin,” Kinney said, getting into the front passenger seat of the car.

  “How was your flight?” Emerson asked as they drove away.

  “Awful,” Kinney replied. “That airplane is the size of a coffin.”

  Stribling said nothing, just drove. After twenty minutes he turned left on a smaller paved road, then ten minutes later turned right on a dirt road. They came to a steel gate, which was open but guarded by a deputy. Stribling didn’t even slow down, just waved. The road led into the woods, and a couple of minutes later they were driving down the shore of a lake of about a hundred acres.

  “The senator owned about four hundred acres here,” Stribling said, “including the whole lake and the cabin. It’s the only house on the lake.”

  “He liked his privacy, I guess,” Kinney said. Kinney wondered what land cost in Chester County and how Senator Wallace could afford so much of it.

  “I guess he did,” Stribling replied.

  They drove around to the opposite side of the lake and through another steel gate, this one without a guard. Shortly, they pulled up in front of the cabin, which had yellow crime-scene tape strung from tree to tree, encircling the structure.

  Kinney got out and looked the place over. “Nice,” he said. There were window boxes planted with geraniums on the front side of the house. Kinney walked around to the back and saw the shattered windowpane.

  “I reckon the shooter stood over yonder, just in the woods,” Stribling said.

  “You find any shell casings or footprints or other traces of him?” Kinney asked.

  “No, sir,” Stribling said. “I got a couple of old bloodhounds we keep for when somebody busts out of the county camp, and we took ‘em out there a couple of hours ago. According to the dogs, our man zigzagged through the woods and came out in a little rest area on the main highway, about three-quarters of a mile away.”

  “Any car tracks?”

  “Nope, the rest area is paved. I talked to the State Patrol and got hold of the man who patrolled that stretch of road this morning. He had a look in the rest area about six-forty-five this morning, and there were no cars in it.”

  Kinney nodded. “Can we take a look inside the cabin?”

  “Sure,” the sheriff said, leading the way to the back door of the cabin.

  Kinney looked at the spot where the body had been found and lined it up with the broken window, then he walked into the single bedroom. The place was attractively decorated, with photographs and watercolors on the walls. He went to the bed and turned back the bedspread. The sheets were clean and ironed. He looked in the closet and found some clothes that looked like they were the senator’s.

  Kinney walked back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Inside were some fresh vegetables that appeared home-grown, not being in supermarket bags, and a plate of fried chicken and some cooked vegetables, all sealed with clear plastic wrap.

  “Ralph,” Kinney said to the agent, “will you give the sheriff and me a minute?”

  “Sure,” Emerson replied and walked out the front door. “Tom, did Mrs. Wallace spend a lot of time here?”

  “Nope,” the sheriff replied. “She never came down here at all that I know of. The senator liked to be alone out here.

  “We both know that’s not true,” Kinney said.

  “Do we?” Stribling asked.

  “It’s pretty obvious that a woman spent a lot of time here,” Kinney said. “All the decorating looks feminine. And who fried that chicken and cooked those collards in the fridge? Come to that, who put freshly ironed sheets on the bed that the senator got out of this morning? And one more thing, who called this in, a passing stranger?”

  The sheriff gazed out the window toward the lake. “Okay, Bob, I guess I’m going to have to tell you about this and trust your judgment on whether to pass it on to your people and the press.” He told Kinney about Elizabeth Johnson and the senator’s relationship with her.

  “I see,” Kinney said. “Let’s go talk to Ms. Johnson.”

  7

  The men were admitted to Elizabeth Johnson’s home and were invited to sit down in the living room. Kinney had left Emerson in the car.

  Ms. Johnson was an attractive woman with cafe-au-lait skin and carefully coiffed hair, and she seemed puzzled by the visit. “What’s this about, Sheriff?” she asked.

  “Mr. Kinney, here, is with the FBI in Washington, Elizabeth, and he’s investigating the death of Senator Wallace.”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied. “Such a tragic thing.”

  Stribling took a deep breath. “Mr. Kinney knows, Elizabeth. He just wants to talk to you about what happened this morning.”

  Her shou
lders sagged a bit, and she looked out the window. “Well, I guess this had to happen,” she said. “What do you want to know, Mr. Kinney?”

  “How long had you and the senator been at the cabin on this occasion?” Kinney asked.

  “Since yesterday afternoon around two,” she said.

  “Did anyone call to see either of you while you were there? Were there any telephone calls?”

  “No one came to the house, and there is no telephone in the cabin. The senator turns—turned off his cell phone when he was there, unless he wanted to make a call.”

  “What did you do last evening?”

  “I cooked us dinner, and then we talked for a while and played Scrabble. There is no TV in the cabin.”

  “What time did you go to bed?”

  “Around eleven o’clock.”

  “Did you or the senator wake up during the night?”

  “The senator tended to wake me up once or twice when he went to the bathroom. When he was back in bed, I would go to sleep again.”

  “Tell me about the events of this morning.”

  “The senator always woke earlier than I, and I would wake up for a minute, too, then I would fall asleep again. It was that way this morning, then I woke up when I heard the sound of him falling.”

  “Did you hear a shot or hear the window break?”

  “No. I’ve heard the sound of him falling before, when he had a heart attack last year, so I guess I was kind of on the alert for that.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I went into the kitchen and found him there. I couldn’t get a pulse, so I guess he died quickly. I gave him CPR when he had the heart attack, but when I saw the wound in his head, I didn’t try that. I sat with him for a minute, then I did what he had always told me to do if he died. I got my things packed up and got out of the house. On the way home I called the sheriff.”

  “Did you see or hear anyone outside the house?”

  “No, no one.”

  Kinney stood up. “I thank you for your time, Ms. Johnson. This conversation will not go into my report nor will I tell the press about it.”

  “I thank you for that,” she said, sounding relieved.

  Kinney turned toward the door, then stopped. “Sheriff, could I have a moment alone with Ms. Johnson, please?”

  “Sure,” the sheriff said, and stepped outside.

  “Just one more question,” Kinney said. “Ms. Johnson, the senator apparently kept some personal files at one of his residences. Are you aware of any file drawers or cabinets or files anywhere in the cabin?”

  “No,” she replied, “I’m not.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He shook her hand and went out to the sheriff’s car, where Stribling and Emerson waited for him.

  “Get what you need?” Stribling asked.

  “Yes, but it wasn’t much,” Kinney replied. “I’m going to want to go back to the cabin alone tomorrow.”

  “I’ll fix you up with a car,” the sheriff said. “You want to go to your hotel now?”

  “Yes, please.” Kinney looked at his watch. It was after five, and he had not turned on his cell phone since leaving the airplane.

  “It’s more of an inn, I guess,” the sheriff said. “Widow lady runs it. She’s only been open a couple of months, but it’s the best we’ve got around here.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” Kinney said.

  The car stopped before a large Victorian house, freshly painted and with a carefully tended lawn. A sign out front said Kimble House. Mrs. Kimble met them at the door, and Kinney was impressed.

  She was fortyish with long, dark hair and lovely skin. Her clothes did not hide her very impressive body.

  “Mr. Kinney? I’m Nancy Kimble. Welcome.” Thank you, Mrs. Kimble. Ralph, are you staying here, too?“ ”No, Bob, I have to drive back to Columbia,“ Emerson replied. Kinney shook his hand and that of the sheriff. ”If you could have a car for me at nine tomorrow morning, Sheriff.“

  “Will do.” The sheriff got into his car and drove away.

  “Let me show you to your room, Mr. Kinney,” she said.

  “It’s Bob, please.”

  “And I’m Nancy.” She took him to a large bedroom with a four-poster bed, a fireplace, and a comfortable sofa. “I hope this will be all right,” she said. “Oh, I almost forgot, you have some messages.” She reached into her pocket and produced half a dozen pink message slips.

  Kinney glanced at them; they were all from the director.

  “I can offer you dinner, if you like,” she said. “You’re my only guest tonight.”

  “I’d like that very much, Nancy,” he said. “Perhaps you’d join me?”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  “I’d better return these calls now.”

  “Seven-thirty all right?”

  “Perfect..”

  She closed the door behind her.

  Kinney called Washington and got the director on the phone.

  “So, what have you got?” Heller asked anxiously.

  “Senator Wallace was killed instantly by a single shot from a sniper outside his lake cabin. The perpetrator was tracked back to a rest stop on a highway nearly a mile away, but he left no footprints, tire prints, shell casings, or anything else that might help us find him.”

  “That’s it?” the director asked, incredulously. “That’s all you’ve got for the press conference? We’re on in an hour.”

  “Sir, I’m afraid I’m in a small town in South Carolina, and I don’t have access to television broadcasting facilities. You’ll have to carry the ball, I’m afraid.”

  “But what am I going to say?”

  “I’ve told you everything I’ve learned,” Kinney lied. “But I can’t go on national television with just that.” “Sir, you may recall that I was opposed to the idea of a press conference, until we have something to report.” The director made a noise and hung up.

  At six-thirty, Kinney switched on the television in his room and tuned in a network news show. The director made his appearance during the first five minutes. He repeated verbatim what Kinney had told him, then added, “Of course, our investigation has only just begun, and we expect to begin developing suspects shortly.”

  “Then you’re going to have to develop them yourself,” Kinney said to the TV, “because this shooter is not going to give us anything.” He switched off the TV, unpacked his clothes, and began to change for dinner. He was looking forward to dining with Nancy Kimble.

  8

  Will Lee switched off the TV after the FBI director’s press conference and turned to half a dozen of his staff who had been watching with him. “Do you think if I call him now he’ll be able to tell me anything else?” he asked the group.

  Kitty Conroy, his chief of staff, spoke up. “If he had anything else, he’d have said so on television, and I very much doubt if he expects to have suspects soon. He’s just waffling, which is what he does.”

  “Makes you wonder why he bothered to call a press conference, doesn’t it?” Will said.

  “Makes me wonder why he’s still director,” said Tim Coleman, the press secretary.

  “Don’t start, Tim,” Will said. “You know that’s on my list of things to do.”

  “Do you want us to start developing a list of possible replacements?” Kitty asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” Will said, “and I’m inclined to go a different route than in the past.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The past few directors have been federal judges or U.S. Attorneys, like Heller, and frankly, I don’t think those jobs particularly qualify a person to be director of the FBI. I’d rather have somebody like a police chief who’s done a good job in a big city, somebody who’s run a large law enforcement agency and who has a background as an officer himself. Or herself.”

  “You think the FBI is ready for a female director?” Tim asked.

  “I don’t think the FBI will ever be ready for a female director, but I’m willin
g to give them one, if the right woman comes along.”

  “What about promoting from within?” Kitty asked.

  “I tend to think that we need somebody who can shake up the FBI culture, make it more responsive to other agencies, and, for that matter, to me, and that would most likely be an outsider. But if you can find a superbly qualified senior man in the Bureau who hasn’t been tainted by Waco or Ruby Ridge or the Richard Jewel mess or some other debacle, then I’ll consider him.” The president stood up. “I think that’s the day,” he said.