A Shadow Fell

by Patrick Dakin

Associate Director Philip Cassidy called Tom Kilborn from Washington, D.C. four days later. “I want to see you in my office on Wednesday morning at nine. Bring Agents Blackmore and Colletti with you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kilborn replied.

  Kilborn relayed the information to his two agents.

  “Are we in the shit?” Blackmore asked.

  “We’re always in the shit,” Kilborn replied. “The only question is how deep.”

  Cassidy’s secretary ushered the three agents into the man’s office, silently closing the door as she left.

  “Sit, gentlemen,” Cassidy said, leaning forward to study the three men before him. “I’m sure you know why you’re here. So let me cut to the chase, you’ll pardon the pun. I need a concise verbal report from you – right now – as to your justification for extending our involvement with respect to the Henderson case.” He looked meaningfully from one man to the next. “Mr. Kilborn?”

  “Well, sir, at this moment in time we are simply not sure who we’re looking for as regards Henderson’s killer. It may very well be Jack Parmenter but, the fact is, it may not be. We’re---”

  “Special Agent Blackmore,” Cassidy cut in. “What do you have to add?”

  Blackmore cleared his throat. “It appears to us, sir, that the trail we were following, while believing it was Parmenters’, may not have been. It’s possible that the tracking dogs were simply tracking the scent of Parmenter’s clothes. We have no real reason to believe that the ashes found buried with Edgerton were not Parmenter’s.”

  “Special Agent Colletti. Anything further to add?”

  “Well, sir, I’m a little more sceptical about those ashes. It seems to me that there are several unanswered questions about the circumstances of all three deaths that bring into question---”

  Cassidy suddenly stood bolt upright and leaned forward with his knuckled fists planted on his desk. “This is the way I see it, gentlemen. The focus of our investigation was to find Reuben Henderson. While we may not have been responsible for his capture and ultimate demise, we have nonetheless met with success with regard to our objective. The only thing indicating that the killer may be an ex-FBI agent, and therefore of some ongoing interest to us, is the fact that a team of dogs have his scent – a dubious thing at best given that it may be nothing more than a coat owned by Parmenter. Am I correct so far, gentlemen?”

  A chorus of ‘yes, sirs’ ensued.

  “Very well. As far as I’m concerned, then, we will consider Jack Parmenter to be deceased. The evidence indicates that Henderson killed Edgerton and Parmenter and was subsequently murdered by an unknown assailant. Whoever he is, he is now the business of the West Virginia State Police. It is no longer a federal issue and, accordingly, of no further interest to the Bureau. Any questions? No? Good. Have a nice flight home, gentlemen.”

  Colletti started to say something but the threatening look directed at him from Kilborn stopped him in his tracks.

  The three agents were on a plane back to Tampa thirty minutes later.

  Late that afternoon Kilborn made another call to Callie. Given the firm directive from Cassidy he had no alternative but to, once again, proffer the official decision that Jack was, after all, dead.

  Part Eight

  Atonement

  55

  Very fortunate that was, coming across the young couple on the trail in the state park. If not for that bit of luck I would most likely have been run to ground within a couple of days (although, at the time, I had no idea the police were that close behind me). Finding Eldon Walker’s pickup served me well for a couple of reasons. Certainly it gave me a way of putting distance between myself and that god-forsaken mountain, but it also gave me an identity. If Walker’s truck had been found abandoned the law would have very quickly associated Walker to the murders. Whether they would have been looking for him as the perpetrator or as a victim wouldn’t have mattered – either way there would have been an exhaustive search undertaken to locate him. As it was, nobody was looking for the loner from Nebraska.

  I was, however, a little worried that the young couple on the trail would remember the truck well enough to give a good description of it. So I drove it as far as I dared and sold it to the owner of a little used car operation in Lexington, Kentucky. Then I made my way to another car dealer and bought an old junker to replace it. With the money I made on the switch I had enough to get out to California.

  Eldon Walker’s middle name was Robert so I decided to go by the name Bob Walker just in case somebody who knew him might cross my path some day and be interested enough to check me out. It was a common enough name to be easily accepted and my identification supported the slight change.

  I moved around California finding work on farms and ranches for a few months and eventually found myself in San Luis Obispo. I took a liking to the place. The weather was almost always perfect and the flow of life seemed pretty easy. There were a lot of places to get casual work without much hassle and I found a tiny house to rent in the poorest part of town that suited me well enough and, best of all, fit my modest budget.

  Time passed slowly. Life was uncomplicated but stripped of meaning and, therefore, enjoyment. The hardest part of my existence was knowing I could never see Callie again. It was the reason not a day went by that I didn’t lament my actions in Virginia. Not for a moment, however, did my resolve falter that Henderson had deserved every moment of his horrible demise – it was only my involvement, and the ensuing effect on my own life, that I truly regretted.

  5 years later…

  The ensuing years passed without much happening that was memorable in any way. I lived a rather sad, lonely life, devoid of human contact beyond what was required to do my job. I had been fortunate in finding work with a plumbing contractor, a small operation that employed three or four tradesman. The owner was a Hungarian guy named Janos Karoli. I’d been with him for about two years, running the office and doing whatever gofer work was required. Karoli was a big bear of a guy with an intimidating manner but he treated me okay. He paid me more than I was worth because, despite his outwardly gruff appearance, he felt sorry for me; I was an older guy with no family, no assets, and not much of a future.

  My placid life changed quickly and without warning one day when Janos sent me to pick up some office supplies. I took the company truck, drove downtown, and found a parking spot about half a block from the store. I was walking down the shaded street, not thinking about anything in particular, when I glanced up at a middle-aged couple coming toward me. They were holding hands, chatting happily and, like me, not paying any particular attention to their surroundings.

  As I neared them it was like a cold jolt of electricity suddenly surged through every fibre of my body.

  I knew the guy. He was an agent I had worked with briefly at the Bureau many years before on a drug operation.

  His name was Blackmore. Harvey Blackmore.

  Because a thick morning fog, common along the California coast at certain times of the year, hadn’t yet burned off I wasn’t wearing the sunglasses or cap I normally would have been. There was no way to effectively hide my identity without being obvious about it. I could only hope that my full beard and the fact that my hair was worn much longer now and had greyed considerably would save me. I looked straight ahead and hoped for the best.

  As I passed him I saw his reflection in an angled shop window in front of me. At first I thought I had gotten lucky. He walked past me.

  But then he stopped. He turned and stared after my retreating back. I waited for the inevitable shout to stop. He watched me for several long seconds. I saw his wife stop too, wondering what had captured his attention. Time came to a shadowy halt.

  Then he turned back, and he and his wife continued on their way.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I had been spared.

  But how long, I wondered laconically, would it be until the next incident? When would someone from my past spot me enjoying a cup of coffee at a sidewalk café, or bump
into me at a ballgame?

  There was no way to discern the answer to those questions, of course, and not knowing if or when my freedom would come to an abrupt end was the price I would always pay for the sins of my past.

  Coming to terms with the man I had become was not easy for me either. I was never able to look at myself in a mirror without seeing a tiny speck of the insanity that had once raged in my eyes.

  Going about my business in the office supply store I was preoccupied with thoughts the sight of Blackmore had stirred up in my mind. Running into him had been a very close call. I hoped he wasn’t still close by. I didn’t want to give him the opportunity to see me again. Another look might be enough to convince him my resemblance to Jack Parmenter was something that needed to be checked out. I took my purchases and stepped out of the store. The fog had started to lift; I squinted into sunshine and headed for my truck. Blackmore was nowhere in sight.

  Janos had asked me to make one more stop while I was out. It was customary for him to treat me and the rest of the guys to lunch every Friday. I pointed the truck down Marsh Street, heading for a pizza place we used regularly.

  I pulled into the little parking lot adjacent to Franco’s Pizzeria. I went in and ordered a beer to wait out the twenty minutes it would take for my pizzas to be ready and used the interval to ponder my future. Was it time to move on? Maybe seeing Blackmore had been an omen.

  “Your order’s up, Bob,” Franco called.

  I finished off my beer and paid the bill. “Thanks, Franco. You take care.”

  “You too, my friend.”

  I walked outside, went twenty feet down the sidewalk, then turned into the parking lot.

  Two cops, with guns drawn and aimed at me, stood behind the hood of my truck. Before I could even come to a stop two more cops appeared out of nowhere behind me and yelled at me to freeze.

  Contrary to my earlier hope, Harvey Blackmore had recognized me after all. It had been my bad luck that, six months away from retirement, he had decided to take his wife out to the west coast as a thirtieth wedding anniversary present.

  56

  My arrest went down without incident. I allowed myself to be roughly forced to the ground and cuffed. There was no way I was going to make matters worse than they already were by giving these guys a lot of grief.

  As I was being taken to a San Luis Obispo Police Department vehicle Blackmore approached me. “I’m sorry, Jack,” he said. “This is not the kind of thing I take any pleasure in.”

  I gave him an understanding nod. “I know, Harv.”

  He leaned in close to me and in a hushed voice said, “Keep your lips zipped tonight. The Los Angeles office is sending people up in the morning.”

  I was driven to the Walnut Street station house to await the arrival of FBI agents.

  I had a fair bit of time to go over in my mind how I would handle the interrogation that was coming. I decided I would very simply tell the truth – with one exception. I couldn’t see that admitting I had snuffed the life out of Eldon Walker was going to do anybody any good. The fact was Walker was shot twice by Con and nothing I could have done for him subsequently would have saved his life. I may have cut short his existence by an hour or two but I honestly couldn’t consider myself to have murdered him. My decision to deny responsibility for Walker’s death was reinforced by the fact that there was absolutely no way the law could prove differently. My story would be that, although I profited from his death after the fact, I did not kill him.

  As to Henderson, there wasn’t much point in trying to sugar-coat what had happened there. It had been a brutal torture and assassination and the law had undoubtedly uncovered all the evidence to show it. I couldn’t possibly come up with any kind of story that would mitigate the facts and to deny having done it would be preposterous. Why else would I have run, changed my identity, and remained hidden for the past five years?

  In the morning I was given a breakfast consisting of a boiled egg, a single piece of toast, and a cup coffee. The egg had the consistency of a lacrosse ball, the toast was burnt and cold, and the coffee was the worst I had ever tried to choke down. That was the high point of my day. From there things were predictably not much fun.

  Two senior agents from the Los Angeles office conducted my initial interrogation while Blackmore attended as a courtesy. While Harvey had shown some degree of empathy during my arrest, the L.A. guys were strictly by-the-book. Special Agents Karaganis and Shaw were very similar in looks and comportment. Both were tall, competent, and professional.

  “You’ve been advised of your rights?” Special Agent Karaganis asked after introductions were completed.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “And you have elected not to have legal counsel present during this interview?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Do you now wish to make a statement regarding your involvement in the deaths of Reuben Henderson, Conrad Edgerton, and Eldon Walker in West Virginia in 1990?”

  “Sure,” I said resignedly. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “Why don’t you start by telling us what your relationship was with Mr. Edgerton.”

  “Okay,” I replied.

  I talked for hours. Except for the odd question to clarify a point here and there, the agents listened without interruption.

  57

  It became obvious early on that the Bureau had no real interest in pursuing a case against me for killing Reuben Henderson. If I had done him in before hacking him to pieces with an axe there would have been no question of any serious charges being laid. The only real concern was that I had tortured him before doing the deed. They couldn’t very well condone such actions, could they?

  My willingness to come clean about everything that had happened certainly worked in my favour. That the puzzle pieces were finally able to come together made them feel inclined to find some way of putting the whole messy business behind them.

  My trial took place in Virginia and was a simple formality. Everything was arranged before I stepped into the courtroom. I pled guilty to the charge of aggravated assault causing death with extenuating circumstances and was sentenced to two years in state prison.

  Callie and the Wilsons were there for my brief court appearance. After the sentencing was announced Callie asked the judge for permission to visit me before I was led away. We were given five minutes and left in an anteroom at the courthouse.

  It was very emotional for both of us. I broke down and begged her to try and find it in her heart not to hate me for what I had done. Actually, she had no trouble at all accepting the role I had played in Reuben`s death but I had hurt her almost beyond repair by allowing her to believe I had been dead for all those years. That, she couldn’t forgive.

  “You’ve got two years to think about this, Callie,” I said as I kissed tears from her cheeks. “When I’m out I want to come back to you and begin our lives again. I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make everything up to you.”

  She looked at me with more sadness than I could bear. “I don’t know, Jack. Maybe. We’ll just have to see how things go.”

  I couldn’t really hope for any more than that from her. She had a great deal to forgive.

  And I had a lot to make up for.