by Mark Gimenez
“Drunken sex?” Agent Devereaux said to the chief. “That’s his only prior offense? He and a girl get drunk at a frat party, have sex, she regrets it the next morning and files charges? Jennings pleads out because he’s nineteen and she’s one month from legal and gets probation? That makes him a sexual predator?”
Chief Ryan shrugged. “No defense to stat rape. Besides, he pleaded guilty.”
“To indecency with a child, Paul, so he didn’t spend the next twenty years in prison! This boy hasn’t had a speeding ticket in eight years, all of a sudden he decides to abduct and kill a child?”
Ben stepped forward. “He doesn’t fit the profile. He’s not a loner deviant. He’s married, his wife’s pregnant, he’s about to make a lot of money. No bad news in this boy’s life to trigger the abduction, like your profiler said.” Ben held up the flier with the composite sketch of the suspect that had been distributed to the media immediately after the abduction. “He doesn’t look anything like this guy. And the coach put the abductor at six foot, two hundred pounds. What’s this boy, five-ten, one-fifty?”
“He probably looked taller in the black cap,” Chief Ryan said. “Look, Colonel, we got the bad guy, okay? The coach identified him, he had child porn and Gracie’s jersey in his truck, and he called Gracie nine times last week.” He threw his hands up. “What more do you want?”
“The truth.”
“Sorry. The law only gives you a conviction.”
11:00 A.M.
“We’ve got to follow the book or a federal judge will overturn a death penalty.”
Not an hour after the Jennings interrogation, the local mayor and police chief had stood on the front steps of the town hall and proclaimed Gary Jennings guilty of the abduction and murder of Gracie Ann Brice. The locals were always desperate to close a child abduction case—bad for property values; but FBI Special Agent Eugene Devereaux had refused to participate. He was troubled by Jennings’s demeanor; it wasn’t the demeanor of a sexual predator. Was Jennings that good of a liar? Maybe. But Devereaux decided to wait for the Evidence Response Team’s report before making any judgments about Gary Jennings; he would wait to see if Gracie’s DNA was found in Jennings’s truck. DNA never lied.
But the mayor’s proclamation had brought the family into the command post; Devereaux was now standing on the other side of his desk from Gracie’s parents and grandparents.
“The court’s got to appoint a lawyer to represent Jennings, one with experience in death cases, because the appeals courts will order a retrial if the trial lawyer didn’t know what he was doing. So then we go through another trial all over again, three years down the road.”
“But we’ve got to find Grace!” the mother said.
This was the part that Devereaux always hated. “Mrs. Brice, if Jennings is the abductor, Gracie wasn’t with him. Which means—”
“She’s dead,” the mother said.
“Yes, ma’am. If Jennings is the guy.”
“At least he can tell us where she’s at.”
“Yes, ma’am. If he knows.”
“You’re not sure he’s the abductor, are you?” Colonel Brice asked. “Things don’t fit.”
“No, sir, things don’t fit.”
“Make him take a polygraph,” the colonel said.
“If we administer a polygraph before his lawyer is appointed and he fails, we know he’s guilty but anything we learn from the polygraph may not be admissible.”
“And if he passes?”
“We cut him loose. Polygraphs aren’t admissible in court, but they’re 95 percent reliable, which is a helluva lot better than a jury.”
“What about the other man from the game tape?”
“Colonel, I don’t know. Maybe they weren’t together. Maybe Jennings didn’t know the other man like he says.”
“So what’s the time frame,” the mother asked.
“Several days. The court will appoint a lawyer today, he’ll be arraigned tomorrow. It takes longer to do it right, but if we screw this up, his conviction will be overturned and we’ll never execute Gary Jennings for the murder of your daughter.”
1:48 P.M.
“Well, Eddie, you fucked up the jersey,” the chief said. “Plain sight? In the back of a truck under a bed cover? What, you got X-ray vision?”
Patrol Officer Eddie Yates was sweating. Chief Ryan had called him at home and asked him to come in early before shift change and see him in his office. That had never happened before. Eddie had figured the chief wanted to congratulate him on a job well done. He had figured wrong.
“And the porn picture, now that’s kind of interesting, Eddie, ’cause the only fingerprints they could find on the damn thing were yours. How you figure that?”
The pores on Eddie’s forehead were popping sweat beads like popcorn.
“Chief, I—”
“You entered his truck, searched it, looked under the mat, picked the picture up, and put it back under? How stupid is that?”
“Shit, Chief, I thought I rubbed off my prints.”
“Eddie, you ain’t supposed to tell your chief that, goddamnit!” The chief shook his head. “Damnit, Eddie, that son of a bitch could walk ’cause of you! You’d better pray the FBI boys find her DNA in his truck.”
Barney Fife done screwed up and Sheriff Andy was pissed.
“I’m real sorry, Chief.”
“Did you jimmy the hatch?”
“Oh, no, Chief, I swear I didn’t! It was unlocked, the door, too.”
“Where was the cell phone?”
“In the console. Is that stupid or what? I mean, no one locks their cars in this place, but leaving a cell phone in there? I could’ve taken it, sat in the parking lot, and run out his air time without him knowing it till he got the bill.”
Eddie laughed; the chief didn’t. Instead, he waved Eddie out of his office. Eddie walked to the door then thought of something. He wasn’t sure this was the best time to ask, but he couldn’t wait.
“Uh, Chief …”
The chief looked up.
“Any way I get some of that reward money?”
The chief blinked hard and said, “You’re shittin’ me?”
Eddie took that for a no. He walked out just as the chief’s secretary stuck her head in and said, “Jennings’s wife is here.”
She was just a kid, really.
Ryan had left the door to his office open so his secretary could see and hear them, him and Jennings’s wife. Debbie Jennings had come in to plead her husband’s innocence. He had reminded her that she could not be compelled to testify against her husband; she said they had nothing to hide. She was twenty-five and seven months’ pregnant. They had married two years ago. She knew nothing of his college conviction.
“That doesn’t mean he’s a child molester,” she said. “Gary would never do anything like that.”
She looked like she hadn’t slept since the arrest. She took deep breaths.
“You okay?” She nodded, but Ryan wasn’t so sure. “Mrs. Jennings, where was Gary Friday night?”
“With me. He got home a little after five, we took our walk—the doctor wants me to walk every day—we ate dinner, watched TV. And we picked out names for the baby. It’s a girl.”
“Did you decide?”
“Decide what?”
“Her name.”
“Sarah.”
“Nice name.” Paul Ryan wanted a grandchild, but his son-in-law the proctologist wanted a Porsche. “Gary never left the apartment that night?”
“No.”
“And you never left the apartment?”
“No.”
“Are there any other witnesses?”
“We usually don’t have sleepovers, Chief. Can anyone other than your wife confirm where you were last night?”
She had a point.
“And your cops found nothing when they ransacked our apartment—they went through my underwear drawer, for God’s sake!”
“Mrs. Jennings, do you know anythi
ng about Gracie’s jersey, how it might have gotten into Gary’s truck?”
“No. I’ve told him a hundred times to lock his truck, but he always says that’s why we moved out of the city, because there’s no crime out here. Anyone could have put it in his truck.”
“Not anyone, Mrs. Jennings. Only the abductor. Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about the phone calls?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Gary ever talk about Gracie?”
“No. The only time he’s ever spoken to Mr. Brice was at the vigil.”
“What about when he hired on?”
She shook her head. “Gary’s only been there six months. Mr. Brice has been in New York most of the time, on the IPO.”
“Why’d Gary go to the vigil?”
“She was his boss’s daughter. The whole town went.”
“Has Gary’s behavior changed in any way since Friday night?”
“Yes, at two this morning when the police kicked our door down and pointed guns at us. He freaked.”
“Did he dispose of any clothing recently?”
“No.”
“Did he clean his truck over the weekend?”
“No.”
“Has Gary ever displayed an unusual interest in children?”
“No. Kids drive him nuts.”
“Has he ever referred to children as ‘pure’ or ‘innocent’?”
“No. He thinks my sister’s kids were sent by Satan. Chief, where are you getting these questions, out of a child molester manual?”
He was, in fact.
“Does he have any friends you would describe as deviants or weird?”
“Have you been to his workplace? People there have rings in their ears, noses, tongues, navels, nipples, and genitals. That’s weird.”
He had to agree with her.
“Mrs. Jennings, do you and Gary have a, uh, normal marital relationship?”
“Do we have sex?”
He nodded.
“Yes, Chief, we have sex. Gary likes sex with his wife, not little girls.”
Ryan hesitated. He wasn’t getting very far with her. Of course, he hadn’t told her about the child pornography. He debated whether he should, but he decided that it would come out at trial anyway, probably sooner. So it wasn’t as if he would be intentionally upsetting her. And maybe she would then realize that her husband was guilty and she could pressure him into confessing. Paul Ryan needed a confession to keep his job. So he retrieved the picture from the desk drawer and held it in his lap.
“Mrs. Jennings, does your husband practice pornography?”
“Oh, no, he’s never asked me to do anything like that … well, one time he asked me to put it in my mouth, but I told him that was sinful. He’s never asked again.”
“No, uh, I mean, does he have pornography around the apartment, you know, magazines or movies?”
“No, he doesn’t even get Playboy since he accepted God into his life.”
“Has he ever possessed child pornography?”
“No!”
“Mrs. Jennings, we found this in Gary’s truck.”
Ryan placed the picture on the desk and slowly pushed it toward her. Her eyes locked on the image, her mouth came open, as if she was about to speak, but no words came out. She looked up at Ryan then back at the picture. Finally, she spoke.
“This was in Gary’s truck?”
“Yes, ma’am, it was.”
Her face went pale. She put her palms on the desk and pushed herself up out of the chair. Halfway up, she suddenly groaned and grabbed at her round belly, down low. She bent over and cried out in pain. She collapsed.
Jesus Christ!
Ryan vaulted to her side of the desk. Blood was on her bare legs.
“Call the paramedics!” he yelled to his secretary.
2:12 P.M.
A risk level 3 offender is defined as an offender for whom there is no basis for concern that the person poses a serious danger to the community or will continue to engage in criminal sexual conduct.
Gary Jennings was a risk level 3 offender.
Elizabeth had logged onto the Texas Department of Public Safety’s online Sex Offender Database. She entered Jennings, Gary in the search box and clicked. Jennings’s photo came up along with his record.
* * *
JENNINGS, GARY MICHAEL
DPS NO.: 156870021
DOB: 3/10/78
RISK LEVEL: 3
SEX: male
RACE: white
HT: 510
WT: 155
EYE COLOR: blu
HAIR COLOR: bln
SHOE SIZE: 085
ALIAS NAMES: Jennings, Gary
CURRENT ADDRESS
1100 Interstate 45
Oakville Apartments
Apt. 121
Post Oak, Texas 78901
OFFENSE DATA
OFFENSE: Indecency w/child sexual contact
COUNTS: 1
VICTIM’S SEX: Female
VICTIM’S AGE: 16.11
DISPOSITION DATE: 07/08/1998
TIME: 1Y PROBATED
STATUS: DISCHARGED
* * *
Forty-two thousand registered sex offenders resided in the State of Texas. And one of them had abducted and murdered her daughter.
2:30 P.M.
BriceWare.com Incorporated occupied an abandoned grocery store in a nondescript strip shopping center across the interstate from the affluence of Briarwyck Farms. FBI Special Agent Eugene Devereaux followed the father through the automatic sliding-glass doors and into the store along with Agents Stevens and Jorgenson. They had come to check Gary Jennings’s workspace and personnel records.
Inside, the cavernous space was, in fact, an empty grocery store. Big neon signs—DAIRY … MEATS … BAKERY … PHARMACY … VIDEOS … PRODUCE—still lit up the walls. Hanging from the ceiling were grocery store fluorescent lights and grocery store aisle markers with product listings. But where the aisles of groceries used to stand were now aisles of low cubicles; heads bobbed up and down. Young men and women, boys and girls really, glided by on rollerblades or personal scooters, headphones wrapped around their skulls, their ears and noses adorned with rings, their arms and ankles with tattoos, their hair representing all the colors of the rainbow; some pushed grocery carts filled with mail or boxes; they were dressed like they were at a rock concert instead of a business. If there was anyone over the age of twenty-five, Devereaux had yet to see him or her. The workplace of this high-tech company looked more like the cafeteria during lunch at his daughter’s high school. And the father looked more like a skinny teenager than the chief executive officer of a company worth billions.
At the CUSTOMER SERVICE desk a young receptionist with purple hair and narrow black-framed glasses stood abruptly when she saw the father; her neon-red shirt did not cover her navel, which was pierced with a silver ring. She stepped to the father and put her head in his chest, then she wrapped her arms around him. The father patted her stiffly.
“Oh, Kahuna,” she said softly. She released the father and wiped her eyes. “How could he hurt her? He seemed like a righteous dude. I mean, he was here yesterday, like he hadn’t done anything.” She shook her head. “The real world is too random.” She bit her pierced lower lip. “I’ll really miss her.”
The father nodded and said in almost a whisper, “Terri, tell everyone the IPO will go forward tomorrow. They deserve it.”
Terri nodded. “Okay, Boss. But just so you know—the IPO’s cool and all, but we’re here because of you. You’re the man.”
The father sighed and stared off into space for a moment. Then he said, “Yeah … I’m the man. Where’s Jennings’s cube?”
The young woman checked her computer screen. “Cookies and Crackers, cube twenty-three.”
Devereaux and his agents followed the father toward the PHARMACY sign and past the VIDEO section where a collection of foosball, air hockey tables, and road rac
ing simulators stood, an exercise room, a coffee stand, an open area with a regulation basketball hoop, and a dozen soda and snack machines standing along the wall like suspects in a lineup. A young Hispanic male with platinum-blond hair was banging on the side of a Red Bull vending machine. The father stopped so they stopped.
“The dang thing stole my money again!” He glanced up at the father. “Oh, sorry, Boss. I mean, not about this, but, uh, you know, about …”
The father eyed the young man, then he stared down the machine like Devereaux’s daughter stared down the goal before attempting a free throw. Then he suddenly swung his right foot up in some kind of karate kick and drove the heel of his shoe into the side of the machine: BAMM! The machine rocked back and forth, settled, and spat out two cans of Red Bull.
The Hispanic man grinned broadly, grabbed the two cans, and said, “Cool. A freebie.” Then to the father: “You da man.”
He held his fist out to the father. They bumped fists like the pro athletes do, then the Hispanic man walked off in one direction and they walked off in the opposite direction. They turned up an aisle marked Cookies and Crackers. Chairs in the cubicles swiveled away from computer screens as they walked past; behind them, heads poked out from the cubicles.
They arrived at cubicle twenty-three, a small crowded space, maybe six feet by six feet; two adults could not occupy the cubicle simultaneously because most of the space was taken up by a computer perched on a slim table, a few drawers, and boxes stacked on the floor. The walls of the cubicle were covered with yellow stickums, company memos, and pictures of Jennings and his wife smiling, kissing, and hugging—and one of Jennings patting her swollen belly. He did not appear to be a psychological time bomb. He was wearing a black baseball cap in one photo.
“Stevens,” Devereaux said, “you take the cubicle. Find out if Jennings contacted Gracie through his computer or accessed child porn sites from here, then box up his personal belongings.” To the father: “Personnel files.”
The father silently led Devereaux and Jorgenson toward the DAIRY section of the company.
