Everyone Was Left Behind

by Steve Armstrong

  “How important is the evidence you’re looking for?” he asked.

  Seitzer frowned. “How can I know unless I see what evidence we’re looking at?”

  “Do you expect that it’s going to be the information that swings your case?” Lansky leaned back in his chair while tapping a pen against the desk in front of him.

  “Possibly. It’s more likely to establish our suspect’s mental state, which could shed light on his motivation or capacity to kill. And it could be helpful if we do end up making an arrest and go to trial.”

  “I see your point, it’s just that this evidence would be nearly impossible for us to find. Let’s say you get a warrant for Jack Walton’s computer. What’s to say he didn’t stash the files you’re looking for somewhere on what I can only assume is a vast network of data that Stevenson Industries possesses. It would take forever to sift through that information. Plus, if Walton did what he said and deleted the files already, we’re probably not going to be able to find them.”

  “I thought you always say that deleted files aren’t really deleted.”

  “I do. If someone like you—no offense—was deleting a file, that statement would hold. But if an entity with the human and financial resources like Stevenson Industries wants to delete a file, they can delete the file.”

  “So you’re saying we shouldn’t bother to serve the warrant to Stevenson Industries?”

  “Sure, if you want to just let them know you’ll follow through on your threats, then go ahead. But other than that, this will be a colossal effort which probably won’t give you evidence that you need.”

  Seitzer looked away from Lansky for a moment to recalibrate his thoughts. He suspected Lansky was right, though he hated the idea of not at least making Jack Walton sweat.

  “I did find some stuff online that you might find helpful,” Lansky said.

  “What’d you find?” Harrison asked, who up until that point had only passively observed the dialogue between Seitzer and Lansky.

  Lansky pulled his laptop closer and clicked on a browser tab. He scrolled down to one of Graham Wilcox’s video sermons which had been posted to YouTube.

  “Most of the more, shall we say, ‘vitriolic’ comments on his videos were your average YouTube trolls. Now you mentioned that Wilcox supposedly received threats, right?”

  “That’s what Gary Price told us, though he hadn’t actually seen the threats.”

  “I didn’t see any threats, either. There were between a dozen or twenty comments that had been removed, so maybe someone did threaten him and he just deleted it. But other than that, no comments were overtly threatening.” Lansky leaned back in his chair again. “Overly harsh and insulting? Sure. But not threatening.”

  “I thought you said you found something helpful?” Seitzer asked.

  “Oh, right.” Lansky hunched back over his keyboard again. “A little less than two weeks ago, some user sent Wilcox a private message through his user account.” The tech consultant rotated the laptop so Seitzer and Harrison could read the messages.

  The first message, from Dragonman7676, referred to meeting Wilcox in person and wanted to take the pastor up on his offer to help. Wilcox replied, giving Dragonman7676 a time they could meet at the church.

  “Dragonman7676? That could be Browning,” Seitzer said. “Anyway to know for sure who it was, or where the person sent the message from?”

  “Yes and no. I sent a request to Google and they provided me with a location of the IP address where the message originated, which was none other than our own Woodside Public Library. However, the identity that someone used to establish the YouTube profile and username of Dragonman 7676 was bogus. So no way to know if it’s Browning unless you track him down at the Woodside Library.”

  “Nice work, Lansky. Did you find anything else out about Browning online that would link him to Graham Wilcox?”

  “Not really. His digital footprint is pretty limited. No social media connected to his name. I’m still working on getting access to his email account. Hopefully, I’ll get that today and see if there’s any other info out there. I mean, it’s possible this guy has an anonymous blog or something like that, too, but that would be almost impossible to locate.”

  “Okay, thanks. Keep us posted if you learn anything else.”

  Harrison and Seitzer left the station to check out the library. It was early in the afternoon when the detectives entered the two story brick building located near the center of town. They walked past the circulation desk toward a woman in her thirties with short brown hair was working at the reference desk.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?” she asked with a smile as they approached.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Detective Seitzer, this is Detective Harrison. We had some questions about one of your patrons.” The librarian straightened up at these words.

  “Of course, anything I can do to help.”

  “Have you seen this individual?” Seitzer held up a photo of Ray Browning lifted from his old driver’s license.

  She strained her eyes and leaned toward the photo. “He looks familiar, but I can’t say for sure. He does look like someone who comes in here quite often.”

  “We think he comes in here to use the computer. Is there any way you can check to see if he used one of the computers at a specific day and time?”

  “If he used a library card to go online, I could. But if he logged in as a guest, I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “Can you check if he has a library card?”

  “Sure. What’s the name?”

  “Ray Browning.”

  She typed in the name into her system. “Browning, Ray,” she murmured. “Yes, I see a Ray Browning here. Does he live on Calloway Street?”

  “No, he doesn’t. Do you have any other Ray Brownings?”

  “I don’t see any. But this card that I found hasn’t been updated or used in a few years. Actually, I see that he still has a book out that he never brought back.”

  “What’s the book about?”

  “World War II.”

  “Hmm. I was hoping it was about demonic possession,” Seitzer said to Harrison. “So he wasn’t using his library card to access the internet?”

  “No. He could’ve gotten a temporary number from the person at the reference desk.”

  “There’s no way to trace that?”

  “I’m afraid not, Detective.”

  “If you see this man come in, could you give me a call?” Seitzer handed her his card.

  She looked worried. “Is he dangerous?”

  “No. Just someone we’d like to ask some questions.”

  Seitzer’s half-truth seemed to mollify her. “Okay, I will certainly do that, Detective.”

  “Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

  Seitzer and Harrison began to walk away.

  “Oh, Detective?” called the librarian. He turned back to face her. “If you see him first, could you tell him to return his book?” She uttered these last words with a genuine smile.

  “I’ll do my best to remember,” Seitzer replied. The two detectives cleared the library doors. “I think she was serious about that.”

  “Well, she is a librarian,” Harrison said.

  Seitzer’s phone announced an incoming call. He checked the unfamiliar number before answering.

  “Is this Detective Seitzer?” a trembling voice asked.

  “Yes, it is. Can I help you?”

  “This is Theresa Watkins. You called me before.”

  “Mrs. Watkins, we were concerned about you. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Detective. But I think my husband killed Pastor Graham Wilcox.”

  Chapter Forty

  Theresa Watkins projected an aura of anxiety and exhaustion. The dark circles under her eyes told of sleepless nights and her shaking fingers broadcast her palpable fear. Harrison and Seitzer sat across from her in the living room of Serena Washburn, Watkins’ older sister, who lived with her husband and two children nearly two hours away
from Woodside. Serena Washburn, who would have fit nicely on the cover of any parenting magazine, joined them in the room, ostensibly to provide some measure of moral support to her sister.

  “Can you tell us what happened last Friday night?” Seitzer asked, keeping his voice soft.

  Watkins swept her thick curly hair away from her face before speaking. “We got home late because we waited for midnight to come. I was tired and just wanted to go to bed. But Jason wanted to talk. He told me that he didn’t think he loved me anymore.”

  Saying the words aloud must have reopened the fresh wound that hadn’t seemed to cauterize quite yet. Watkins’ voice faded and she bowed her head. Her sister placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  “Did you have problems in your marriage before that?” Seitzer asked.

  “It was a tough year. Most of the tension between us came from being part of Holy Spirit Tabernacle and having that stupid prediction hanging over our heads.”

  “So you didn’t believe Pastor Wilcox’s prophecy?” Harrison asked.

  “No. I thought it was ridiculous. But Jason bought into it all the way. We had a lot of fights about that. And I hated those protests—as if the entire world was run by demons and only Graham Wilcox could see it.”

  “What was Jason’s relationship with Pastor Wilcox like?” Harrison asked.

  “Up until a month ago, Jason was always repeating things he heard Pastor Wilcox say in his sermons. But recently Jason started being more critical of him. I guess falling in love with Elizabeth Wilcox changed his feelings.”

  “Your husband told you he was in love with Elizabeth Wilcox?” Harrison asked.

  “Yes, that was what he told me Friday night.” Theresa Watkins’ voice rose in vigor, gaining strength through rage and bitterness. “And he told me that she loved him too. He wanted to leave me for her. That was his plan.”

  “Was he sure that Elizabeth Wilcox would leave her husband?” Harrison asked.

  “No. I don’t think he was. Because he said he was going to see Graham Wilcox and make sure that he’d allow her to leave. Or something like that. I can’t remember his exact words.”

  “Is that why you think your husband killed Graham Wilcox?”

  “What else could it mean? He was going to see Graham Wilcox to make sure that he would let his wife go and Graham Wilcox ended up dead. I mean, in the moment I never thought Jason would kill Pastor Wilcox, but now, how else should I see it?”

  “And what did you do, Theresa?” Seitzer refrained from calling her Mrs. Watkins since that name had probably become an anathema to her.

  “I got into my car and drove here. I was too embarrassed to ring my sister’s doorbell because it was so late, so I just slept in my car. That’s why I didn’t go to my parents’ house—they would have been so ashamed of me.” Theresa’s angry tone became ragged and sorrowful again.

  “That’s not true. Mom and Dad love you. They’ll know it’s not your fault,” Serena said, placing her other arm around her sister.

  “Ma’am, is there anything else you can tell us about that night? Did your husband have a gun? Did he explicitly threaten Graham Wilcox?” Seitzer asked.

  “No, not beyond what I already told you. And he didn’t have any gun that I know of.”

  “Has he tried to contact you since?”

  “I don’t know. I was so angry that I smashed my phone. He went to my parents’ house today, looking for me, but they didn’t know I was here, so Jason just left.”

  “Why did you wait so long to call us? Especially if you thought your husband was involved in Graham Wilcox’s death?” Seitzer asked.

  “Honestly, I didn’t know. I completely unplugged myself for the last few days. No email, no phone, no nothing. Serena happened to see something about it on the news. And when Jason turned up at my parents’ house looking for me earlier today, Serena convinced me to call you.”

  “Why would Jason showing up at your parents’ house make you think he was guilty?” Seitzer asked, still attempting to understand the woman’s motivations.

  “Because maybe he’s coming after me now.”

  “Okay, ma’am. If you think of anything else or he comes here or tries to get in touch with you, let us know right away,” Seitzer said.

  She nodded and buried her head into the couch. Seitzer and Harrison dismissed themselves. Before they made it to the door, Serena Washburn approached them.

  “Detectives, do you think Jason is dangerous? Will he come after her here?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible. I assume he knows where you live.”

  “We just moved here, so he would have to find our address from someone else. But I’m guessing he could do that if he really tried. I mean, I don’t want anything to happen to Theresa, but I also have my children to think of.”

  Seitzer detected the rising panic in her voice. “He didn’t hurt Theresa last Friday and he didn’t hurt your parents. So I don’t think that’s his intention. But if he does show up, call the police right away. We’ll go have a chat with them as well and apprise them of the situation.”

  “Thank you, Detective.” Serena Washburn’s fears did not seem alleviated, but she let the detectives leave without another word.

  After a half hour stop to give the local police a run-down on the situation, Seitzer and Harrison headed back to Woodside.

  “Do you think we have enough to arrest Jason Watkins?” Harrison asked.

  “It’s close. What he said to his wife isn’t exactly an explicit promise to kill Wilcox, but it certainly does help build a strong circumstantial case. We still don’t have him linked to a weapon, yet.”

  “I don’t think that’s much of a problem. If Graham Wilcox stored the gun he received from Elizabeth’s father like he stored the one that Natasha Gregorson gave him, then it might have been in his desk. Maybe when he went to talk to Graham Wilcox, the conversation turned violent, there was a struggle and Jason Watkins got the gun somehow.”

  “That doesn’t fit Lindsey’s findings. She said there were no signs of a struggle and that Graham Wilcox was first shot from about ten feet away.”

  “Oh, right.” Harrison’s face appeared thoughtful again. “I know you don’t want to think about this, but the easiest explanation for how he got the gun is that Elizabeth Wilcox gave it to him so he could kill her husband.”

  Seitzer grimaced. “Don’t worry, I’ve been thinking about that. Problem is, we could never prove that unless they turn on each other. Besides, if that was true, she would be one cold and devious woman.”

  “Some people are good at acting,” Harrison said.

  “True—some people are.”

  The two detectives rode in silence for a while. Seitzer thought about his ex-wife, his par de excellence of betrayal. Despite her treachery, she never put on an appearance. Seitzer had known for months before she finally left him how unhappy she was.

  Harrison broke the quiet. “It’s kind of ironic; according to Theresa Watkins, her husband was upset with her for not being more dedicated to the prophecy. But he was going to leave her for another woman who wasn’t dedicated to the prophecy, either.”

  “I don’t think he knew that; I think he saw in Elizabeth Wilcox a beautiful woman and he made her into what he wanted her to be. People do that kind of stuff all of the time.”

  Harrison nodded. As they drove the rest of the way, Seitzer wondered if he had done the same thing to Elizabeth Wilcox.

  After Seitzer dropped off Harrison at the station, he drove over to the widow’s house to see if her father had been successful in sealing off the tunnel. A sheet of plywood and some two by fours in the back of her father’s truck indicated the project was still incomplete.

  “Detective, what brings you by?” the widow asked when she opened the door. She was dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and jeans.

  “Just wanted to check in and see if you had closed off that tunnel yet.”

  “No. My dad picked up the supplies, but then felt kind of
light headed, so we talked him into taking a break,” she said, before adding, “He has heart problems, so we try not to let him push himself too much.”

  “Do you want me to do it for you? I could—it wouldn’t take me any time.”

  “Are you sure? I know you must be busy.”

  “No, it’s no problem. I’d rather know your family is safe.”

  Elizabeth Wilcox remained unconvinced. Seitzer could tell she wanted him to but didn’t wish to detain him. Before she could protest further, the detective took off his suit jacket and tie and placed them in his car. Then he set to unloading the truck. When he did so, Elizabeth Wilcox appeared by his side.

  “I’ll help. I was going to help my father, anyway,” she said, offering no room for Seitzer to refuse her services. They each grabbed an armful of boards and carried them around back to the storm cellar door, which served as an easier access point to the basement. Next, they returned to the truck and moved down the sheet of plywood.

  “Anything unusual happen today?” Seitzer asked as they began working. “Any strange people outside?”

  “No. I didn’t see anyone who’s not usually around. Just the regulars walking their dogs, stuff like that.”

  Seitzer pounded a nail into a two by four, fastening his side of the board into the wall. He handed the hammer to Elizabeth so she could perform the same task on her end. She proceeded to drive a nail in with little difficulty.

  “You’re pretty good with a hammer,” he said, admiring the precise power she had used.

  “I helped my dad out around the house when I was growing up. He never had a son, so I got drafted into service quite a bit.” Elizabeth gave the tool back to Seitzer.

  While they worked in the damp, cool cellar, Seitzer found himself hoping for a reprisal of their conversation from the night before. There were so many other fragments from the last few years of his life that he wanted to piece together in front of her. But Elizabeth kept her focus on the task at hand. Seitzer began to wonder if she regretted bearing her soul to him. Perhaps that conversation had represented a moment of vulnerability that had since passed.