“Good morning, Chris,” Hank said. Chris looked at Hank and frowned. What the hell, Chris, too? First Michaels and now Bridge giving a clear message of disapproval.
Bridge returned his attention to his boss. She spread the plan out on a side table so they could see the crime scene location.
“Look here.” Hank pointed to the cooler on the plan. “I'd forgotten about the proximity of the cooler to the restrooms, but they’re in the same passageway. Anyone there had to have seen each other. Mrs. Jackson appeared anxious when asked about Hatchett. She’s holding something back. I think she saw someone.”
“Chris, call her and get her back in for follow-up questioning,” commanded Alicia.
“Okay, boss.” He exited the office.
She called Austin's phone, “Austin can you come to my office, please?”
Austin entered the office. “Hi Hank,” he said, before giving Alicia his full attention.
“Austin tell us what you learned about Scott.”
“Besides his reviews, he writes a blog. The blog included two articles for the Daily Review newspaper distributed in the bay area. Scott has some of his comments posted on other food blogs criticizing Hatchett's reviews as pompous crap. His words, not mine. I found many of Scott's comments on Yelp. He should have positive words to say, but most of his critiques seemed negative.” Austin grinned. “Interestingly, his reviews weren’t much different from Hatchett’s.”
“I guess they didn't like each other,” Hank chuckled. “Huge egos in a competition. But Scott is a nobody. I doubt Hatchett paid much attention to him.”
Austin snickered before continuing, “Evidently he and Hatchett have exchanged unfriendly words. The editor of the Daily Review said Scott claimed he should write the reviews for the Chronicle, not Hatchett. Hatchett howled at the prospect and said Scott couldn't write for shit. Scott was a freelancer, seventy-five bucks for 400 words, and his stuff was only used for filler if an advertiser pulled out.” Austin dropped his hands to his sides and looked back and forth from Alicia to Hank, waiting for their comments.
“We’ve got his address and vehicle info,” Bridge said entering the office after a brief knock on the open door. “I’ve got a BOLO out on the car and Scott for questioning. Mrs. Jackson will be here at four, with her attorney. I'll have Austin get set-up for her interview. Not much else, boss.”
“Thanks,” Alicia said as Bridge and Austin left the office.
“Was it Caswell, Scott or Jackson who stabbed him?” Alicia asked out loud, mulling over what they knew.
Pacing the room in frustration, Hank said, “Not likely Mrs. Jackson. If she did it where did she get the knife? Was it in the cooler? What was her motive? I know she saw something but will she be willing to divulge what she knows. Maybe she’s scared. Scott, on the other hand, could be the perp.”
“We need to talk to him,” Alicia said. “We’ll find out. Want coffee?”
“Your swill, or the good stuff?” Hank asked joking.
“The good....” Before she finished her sentence, Agent Smith knocked on the door.
“Boss, excuse me. I just got a call from Jackson Crow. He thinks he may have some relevant information for us. He's coming in from Napa and should be here in an hour.”
“Do you know why?” Alicia asked.
“About a guy who looked suspicious.”
While Smith filled her in, Hank left the office for an espresso cart next door to the Bureau. He returned with two steaming cups of latte.
~~~~~
An hour later Alicia entered Interview Room 2 at 11:33, where Agent Smith and Jackson Crow, sat. “Okay Mr. Crow, tell us what you know about this guy you think is suspicious,” Agent Smith said. “Start from the beginning.”
Crow wore a UC Davis sweatshirt, stylish jeans, and a baseball cap he placed on the table. He was clean-shaven, and his hair combed back as on the train. Hank and Austin settled into their seats in the video room.
A sheepish look on his face, Crow spoke. “Sorry, I wish I had remembered this sooner. I guess I was a little in shock the other day. While talking to friends, it came to me that I saw this guy, in a black suit. When Stan rushed back to the bar after finding the dead guy this man was blocking him. Stan almost had to push passed him. He was tall, maybe six-foot-two and kind of muscular build. I didn't look at him closely, so I'm not much help there. Come to think of it; he was wearing a blue tie and a white shirt. I saw so many people that day; it's hard to remember all. I think he might have had sandy blond or light brown hair, and though I can't swear to it, he was an older guy.”
Smith pressed him, “How old is older, Jackson?”
“Maybe fifty? You guys all look old to me. Sorry.” He hung his head and squirmed as if embarrassed what he’d admitted.
Austin laughed as he and Hank watched the screen. Hank didn’t find his testimony amusing. Crow was in better shape today than when Hank first met him.
“I remember him because I saw him at the bar earlier. Just after we left the station, Mr. Hatchett was bellowing to some people, and this tall guy was staring at him with an ugly frown.”
Bridge entered the room with a handful of photos. Smith and Bridge had collected the pictures provided by the photographers and guests on the train and separated them into groups of men with similar looks to Crow's description. Spread on the table in front of Crow, Bridge asked, “See him in any of these photos?”
“Oh my God!” Crow exclaimed. “There are so many faces. They all look alike.”
Bridge placed his hand down on the table leaning into Crow, “I know. Mr. Crow, please take a deep breath and calm down. Close your eyes and picture the man in your head. Then open your eyes and look at the pictures again. It’s important. If none of them jumps out, say so. Be sure.”
“Let me look at these five," he said pointing to five different photos. “I think he might be in these.”
Doing as the Agent suggested, Crow scanned each photo until he looked up at Agent Bridge. Pleased with himself, he pointed to one photo. “Wow, that worked! That's him. I'm sure of it. I remember the Pin on his lapel. It's an Alumni pin from UC Davis. My dad has one. I hope to graduate from there, too.”
“Damn!” Bridge grabbed the photo then ran from the room. He handed it to Austin, in the video room, “Run this for identification, fast. He could be our guy.” Austin took it and went straight to his computer.
Smith wanted to shout at the young man but pulled back. Using his professional voice, he commented, “I wish you had remembered this sooner. I realize you were in shock. It's okay, Jackson,” Smith said. “You have given us some great information. We appreciate you coming in.”
Alicia nodded in agreement.
“Please be available if we need you again. There could be a lineup, and you may remember something else later. Thank you for helping us,” Alicia added. Smith motioned to Jackson Crow that he was free to go, and walked him to the elevator, shaking his hand and patting his arm. The young man smiled before exiting through the elevator door.
After Crow had left the Interview Room, Alicia, Bridge, Smith, and Hank went to a local cafe for burgers and sodas. They reviewed what questions needed asking of Mrs. Jackson. They considered the possibility that Crow may have identified the killer.
“Could the guy that Crow picked out be the perp?” Smith asked.
“What are your impressions?” Alicia asked. In unison, the men all nodded. “Cordero, contact the train personnel and others. Get an ID on this guy.”
“Okay, Boss.” Smith gulped down the last of his burger, grabbed the soda cup and hurried out of the diner.
“He's enthusiastic and efficient,” Bridge said, nodding after Cordero.
“Yep, you've trained him well, Chris,” Alicia said.
They walked together back to the office. “Alicia it was fortunate you had the Sheriff's Department collect the cameras, cell phones, and photos,” Hank said.
“Thanks. I was also hoping that maybe each photo would have time stamps, and that work
ed out pretty well. Now we need to find the killer.”
~~~~~
At four-fifteen, Mrs. Jackson arrived with her lawyer, Franklin Mercer, one of Sacramento’s best attorneys to the elite. She was an attractive looking woman, five-six, shapely, with light brown hair and a fair complexion.
Agent Bridge escorted them to interview room two and made introductions. Hank watched from the monitor room, along with the video tech. Alicia had asked for an earwig so she could hear Hank should he have a question to ask. Hank doubted that she'd need anything from him, but appreciated her thoughtfulness.
“Agent Bridge and I have more questions about what occurred on the train at the time of the murder,” Alicia said. “Did you come across Mr. Hatchett during the day in question?”
Mrs. Jackson put her hand to her breast, looked to her attorney. He nodded to her saying, “Tell them what happened, Sheila. It will be all right.”
She squeezed the handkerchief with both hands. “I was leaving the restroom, and this portly man was coming toward me. He looked drunk and menacing.” She dabbed at the tears in her eyes. “As I tried to pass by, he put his arm across the hall, blocking me. He said something like, ‘Hi, Honey. Where ‘ya going?’ I told him I was going back to my husband who was waiting for me. I asked him to let me pass. 'Your hubby can wait,' he said, and then he tried to kiss me.” She cried.
Her attorney patted her hand again to reassure her.
Alicia said with compassion, “Take your time. We only want the truth.”
“I tried to yell, but he put his hand over my mouth. I pushed his hand away and forced past him. He stumbled back against the wall and called me a bitch. I raced back to our table and waited for my husband to return. I felt assaulted, and sat there shaking until he joined me.”
“Do you mean your husband or Mr. Hatchett?” Bridge asked.
“My husband, Neal.”
“What time did this assault occur?”
“I don't know.”
“How long after you returned to your seat did your husband join you?”
“Oh, maybe five minutes. I was upset. I don't know.”
“Did you tell anyone about this incident?” Alicia asked. “Your husband?”
“No,” she sobbed. “I was too embarrassed. I knew my husband and didn’t want him to do anything stupid. He can be very jealous. I am younger than him. I didn’t even tell Neal about any of this until after you called me today,” she said, looking at her attorney.
Alicia had photos in a folder. She removed several and spread them on the table. “I need you to point out your husband and the man who attacked you.”
Sheila Jackson looked at the photos and pointed, “This is my husband at the bar and here talking to his business associates.”
Hank thought she might have been a trophy wife a few years ago. He estimated her age in the forties.
“Did you see this man on the train?” Alicia asked pointing to Hatchett's photo.
“He's the one who stopped me in the hall. I only saw him the one time. Thank God, I won't ever have to see his face again.”
“How about this man?” Bridge asked showing her a recent photo of Scott.
“No, I don't think so.”
“Did you see the wine storage cooler?”
“I have no idea where or what that is,” Mrs. Jackson replied, her hands shaking. “This is very upsetting. Can I go now, please?”
“Yes,” said Alicia. “But, don’t leave town without contacting us first. Thank you for coming in and sharing your story. We appreciate your cooperation. Agent Bridge will escort you out.” Alicia offered her hand to Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Mercer. They shook hands and followed Bridge from the room.
Hank joined Alicia in her office where she was talking to Bridge, “Chris call Mr. Jackson. Corroborate her story. See if he remembers the exact time he left and returned to join his wife.”
“Okay.”
“Do you believe her?” She asked Hank.
“Yes, I had doubts about her story at first, but never thought she was the assailant. I almost feel guilty about putting her through this.”
“It had to be done. I agree with your hunch, and as she walked in here, I noticed that her hair didn’t appear to be a match to the one found on Hatchett. I believe her story.”
“What next?” Hank asked.
“We keep looking for Caswell.”
Bridge knocked and entered the office, “Excuse me. I talked to Mr. Jackson who is sure it was just past noon when he took the wine to the table and sat with Mrs. Jackson. He remembered he looked at the bar clock when he picked up the new wine glasses to sample. Then he went to the buffet table and prepared two plates for the two of them. He was back within ten minutes. He wasn't aware his wife had been to the restroom. We have a photo of him at the bar that shows the clock at the time before and after the murder.”
“Thanks, Chris. That helps with the timeline. Anything else?”
“He doesn't remember talking to or even seeing someone matching Scott or Caswell's description, either.”
The afternoon dragged on for Hank. He'd given all his notes to Alicia, and she passed them on to the appropriate agents. “I assume you don't need me, so I'll head home,” Hank said.
“Thanks, Hank. Have a good evening.” She waved at him as her phone rang.
After playing with Molly, he fed her and made himself an Italian-inspired sandwich. He picked up a Michael Connelly novel he had started but put it down. The weather was perfect for a walk, he decided that since it wasn't too cool outside, he and Molly would walk as he smoked. His attention wandered to Alicia and a possible relationship. With a jolt, his musings evaporated.
FIFTEEN Tuesday, November 26
Hank called Alicia at the SIT office at ten-fifteen.
“Agent Tomlinson.”
“Morning Alicia. Anything new?”
“Nothing new. I have time for a break. Would you like to meet for coffee at Star Java?”
“Sure. Fifteen minutes?”
“Great, see you there.”
The case was at a standstill until the suspects got located and interviewed, they chatted over coffee. “The motive and opportunity of each suspect are being examined by my team. There’s no point going into details and speculating until we have all the facts and suspects. It’s a tedious process but necessary, as I’m sure you remember,” Alicia said. “We've got no info about other suspects, yet.” She looked at Hank from across the table with that irresistible smile. Hank wondered if she sensed how deep his attraction was to her. “So tell me more about yourself,” she said, her beautiful eyes mesmerizing him.
“I grew up in Fremont, California. Graduated from Fresno State University, with a major in Criminology, and minor in Art History. Four years in the Navy, a marriage that failed, and one daughter. After years with the LAPD, my wife decided being a cop's wife wasn't the life she wanted. I got shot only once, but it was enough to put me on disability.”
“You got shot? What happened?”
“A prime suspect in a robbery shot me in the shoulder. Before he could get off another round, I put two 9 mm slugs into his heart.”
“You had to kill someone?” Alicia asked.
Hank hesitated before answering, remembering that day as if it were yesterday. “Unfortunately, yes. That was the only time I ever shot someone. Not a pleasant experience.”
“That had to be hard on you.”
“Hard doesn’t even describe it. Torture’s more like it.”
“Yet you were willing to holster your gun and get back to work?”
“At first, but when offered only a desk job, I left the department.”
“Was there a problem with the shooting?”
“Not at all. We found the evidence needed to prove him guilty. We had him cold. He knew that, so I guess he figured he had nothing to lose. Some guys can’t face prison.”
“I understand that. The thought of being in prison is sickening. I don’t know what I’d do if I knew I h
ad no choice.”
Hank liked her honesty. Have you ever killed anyone in the line of duty?”
“No,” she responded, brushing her hair aside. “I hope I never have to, but this job can bring surprises, can’t it? What did you do next?”
“I completed the mandatory psych evaluation and spent time in therapy. My injury left me with limited mobility in my left arm and hand but that healed. What didn’t heal was how it felt to kill someone. I took the fifty percent disability income. Being a desk jockey would have been a slow death.”
“Why the therapy, if you don't mind telling me?” Alicia asked.
“It's okay. I had recurring nightmares after being shot, and I regretted killing the nineteen-year-old kid, even though it was a kill or be killed situation. The dreams lessened with therapy. I learned that writing in a journal about my feelings was a way to get in touch with my emotions and help me handle the PTSD. With better control of my depression, and the need to look over my shoulder for threats is gone. I never dreamed it could happen, but that’s life, isn’t it? Another of those surprises you never expect.”
“I guess that’s when you left for Italy.”
“Yes, the two years I traveled helped me deal with my demons. The other great thing that happened was I learned to cook the food I enjoyed in France and Italy. People I met were happy to try my dishes and made suggestions for recipes to follow the authenticity of the regional flavors. You know the rest. And here we are.”
They walked back to the Bureau office. Agent Smith was waiting for her. “Guess what? I've got a name for Crow's guy.”
“Don't make us guess, Cordero,” Alicia said.
“Stephen Drummond.”
“Get him in here,” Alicia said. Smith left the office.
“I hope he's found soon. It helps that Crow pointed him out as he entered the bar area at the possible time of the murder,” Hank said.
“Tomlinson,” she answered the phone.
Hank left the office to get another cup of coffee. He returned after she hung up the phone. “Any more info on the case?”
“Possible info on Scott. We should get it soon.”
Agent Smith stepped into her office handing a folder to Alicia, frowning. “We found out Drummond is out of the country. He left yesterday on a last minute vacation and not expected back until next week. To be fair, we ruled him out, but he could be running. What do you want me to do with this one?”
Killer On The Train Page 9
