by Greg Iles
“It’s a tragedy, all right,” Kaiser remarks. “But I can think of a dozen men who’ll be celebrating tonight.”
“Who you talking about?” Captain Ozan asks.
“The Double Eagle group.” Kaiser’s gaze is like a laser locked on Ozan’s face. “And the Knox family.”
Ozan returns the stare without a word, but he radiates the same energy as a wild animal in captivity—seemingly docile, but capable of lashing out with lethal speed and effect at any moment.
“That raccoon is the killer’s idea of a joke,” Kaiser says. “The Double Eagles are laughing their asses off right now.”
A strange smile stretches Ozan’s lips. “How do you figure that?”
Kaiser smiles back, but the expression contains no goodwill. “When the FBI came to Natchez in the mid-1960s, the Klan wrangled up a mess of rattlesnakes and snuck them into the agents’ hotel rooms. The agents killed all the rattlers and barbecued them in front of their hotel. The Klan guys drove by laughing and whistling. It was all a big game to them. This is the same kind of crap. I’ll bet they’re watching us right now.” Kaiser points across the highway. “I wish I had a thermal scope to scan that tree line.”
Everybody turns and peers into the dark field opposite the hospital.
“I want a time of death on that raccoon,” Kaiser says.
Ozan laughs out loud.
“Is he kidding?” asks a deputy from the surrounding darkness.
Kaiser’s eyes almost blaze in the dark. “Do I sound like I’m kidding?”
“How the hell are we gonna get that?”
“Shove a thermometer up its ass! Somebody in the Smithsonian will know the cooling curve on a dead raccoon. I want to know how long ago that goddamn ringtail was shot.”
“We’ll get it,” Walker says, hoping to keep the peace.
“High-tech law enforcement, boys,” Ozan says in a mocking tone. “The FBI wants to send a dead raccoon to the Smithsonian Institute.”
Muffled laughter comes out of the dark.
Kaiser ignores the disrespect and speaks with military precision. “Has anyone found shell casings out here yet?”
“Not yet,” answers a Yankee-accented voice.
“You need metal detectors and floodlights out here. Anything that comes out of this field other than grass or dirt, I want it. Bag it and tag it, no matter how trivial it may seem. Find out where the shooter fired from. I’m guessing inside thirty yards, at a perfect right angle to the window glass. That’s how—”
“Hold up there, fellas,” Captain Ozan calls. “This is now a state police crime scene, and you’ll be taking your orders from me. FBI assistance has not been requested and won’t be required.”
Kaiser can’t hide his shock, and Ozan doesn’t give him time to argue. “If you have any questions, Agent Kaiser, have your SAC in New Orleans call the governor. That’s who we take our orders from down here. Washington’s about as much use to us as tits on a boar hog, which Katrina just proved for all time. You can go back to your sump pumps and your forty-year-old bones. We’ll handle this crime scene.”
Kaiser stares at Ozan in furious silence. Though neither man speaks, the air between them seems on the verge of ionizing in a blue flash. The rest of us have become an audience to a confrontation we don’t quite understand. I’m not sure it will end without a blow being struck until Caitlin steps up and speaks to Ozan in a strong voice.
“Actually, you’re wrong, Captain. This is a hate crime. One of the victims received a card calling him a ‘nigger-lover’ and telling him to ‘die soon.’ That’s a quote. I have the card in my purse. Doesn’t the FBI have jurisdiction over hate crimes?”
I’m about to pull her away from Ozan when a piercing beep sounds, and Kaiser takes his cell phone from his pocket.
“Yes? . . . Understood. Where? . . . Good, that’s good. I’m on my way.”
He pockets his phone, then cocks his head slightly as though sizing up Ozan one last time. The state cop looks braced for an argument, but Kaiser only turns to Walker Dennis and says, “Sheriff, feel free to call if you need us.”
Walker nods but says nothing in reply.
As Kaiser starts back toward the hospital entrance, he takes his flashlight from my hand and whispers, “Meet me in the parking lot. Bring Caitlin.”
Captain Ozan’s eyes follow Kaiser as he walks away. In the shadows, it’s hard to see much of the captain’s face, but I’m left with the impression that he has Indian blood.
“Are you Mayor Cage?” he asks, turning to me after Kaiser disappears into the dark.
“That’s right.”
“I understand your fiancée was standing a couple of feet from the victim when he was hit.”
“I was,” Caitlin says defiantly.
Jordan Glass steps up protectively beside her.
“You’re a lucky girl,” Ozan goes on. “To walk out of that room alive. Mighty lucky, I’d say. It’s a lucky thing I was in town, too.” He looks over at Sheriff Dennis. “This parish has been going to hell for a long time, and you don’t seem to be able to handle it.”
Walker looks like he’s about to have a stroke, but he doesn’t argue.
After holding my ground long enough to prove that Ozan’s scrutiny doesn’t rattle me, I take Caitlin’s hand and lead her back toward the main hospital doors. Jordan takes up station at Caitlin’s other shoulder as we walk.
“This is nuts,” Caitlin says shakily. “Who was that guy?”
“A killer,” Jordan says in a cool voice. “I’ve shot enough of them to know.”
CHAPTER 83
JORDAN, KAISER, CAITLIN, and I stand by my car like two couples after a mugging. We stare at each other in dazed incomprehension, the hospital’s sodium vapor lamps rendering everything around us in an eerie, dichromatic world of yellow and gray.
“What just happened?” Caitlin asks.
“One of the killers just showed up to investigate the murder,” Kaiser answers. “Or one of his flunkies, anyway. This state is something. It’s like it’s still 1964.”
“Are you saying the state police were involved in killing Henry Sexton?” Caitlin asks.
“Off the record?”
Caitlin glances at Jordan, who looks embarrassed by Kaiser’s insistence on secrecy among the four of us. “Off the record,” she says grudgingly.
“That’s what I’m saying. And I appreciate you standing up for federal jurisdiction back there. That took guts. But next time leave the turf battles to me, okay?”
Caitlin doesn’t know whether to be flattered or angry.
“Do you really have that card you mentioned?”
She takes a card from her purse and hands it to Kaiser, who reads it, then slips it into his pocket.
“Are you really just going to give up the crime scene?” I ask, stepping up to Kaiser. “Caitlin’s right about the hate crime angle, and Walker already invited you to consult on the case.”
Kaiser looks like a man trying to wrap his mind around something. “They shot Henry knowing that my team could respond in a matter of minutes. That’s balls, you know?”
“But maybe not brains. Although Ozan could be destroying critical evidence as we speak.”
The FBI agent shakes his head. “Don’t kid yourself. This murder won’t be solved unless the shooter confesses or a co-conspirator fingers him. They’ve been planning this hit since they missed Henry the first time.”
“What was that phone call you got at the end?”
Kaiser cuts his eyes at Caitlin as though deciding whether he should speak candidly. “My people found something in the trunk of Luther Davis’s car.” He points to a Suburban parked twenty yards away, its engine running. “It’s in the back of that SUV over there.”
“What is it?” she asks, glancing at the vehicle.
Kaiser steps closer to her. “Before I answer that, let’s talk about Henry Sexton’s backup files. I know you have them, and I need access to them.”
As Caitlin looks to me for help, I rea
lize that what I feared this morning must have happened during the afternoon: Sherry Harden told Kaiser about Henry’s safe-deposit box keys.
“If Henry wanted you to have any of his case materials,” Caitlin says, “he would have given them to you before now.”
Kaiser’s face looks as serious as I’ve ever seen it. “Henry didn’t realize how much danger he was in. With all due respect, Ms. Masters, I think you have the same problem. Those files are a bullet magnet. Or worse. The Double Eagles are big fans of explosives, and old hands at using them. The Beacon building has already been burned. The Natchez Examiner isn’t exactly a fortress. Do you want to wait until Penn is picking out a casket before you face what you’re caught up in?”
Caitlin takes an aggressive step toward Kaiser. “Whoever shot Henry could have blown me away two seconds later. But he didn’t. I think I’m relatively safe, for the time being anyway.”
Kaiser shakes his head. “Maybe the triggerman didn’t know you were going to be there. Maybe he didn’t want to risk a cell call to get the go-order.”
“If things are really that dangerous, what are we doing standing out here? A sniper could shoot us from across the highway, couldn’t he?”
“Not at this moment. I’ve had a sniper on the hospital roof sweeping that field with a thermal imaging scope for the past four minutes.”
This silences us all.
“The Double Eagles probably don’t know you have those files yet,” Kaiser goes on. “But they will. Henry’s girlfriend was no fan of yours. She’s bound to have talked to somebody.”
“You think you’re going to scare me into cooperating with you?” Caitlin challenges.
“No. But I don’t understand your reluctance. Are you hoping to solve these murders yourself? Henry tried that, and look at the result.”
“At least he didn’t sit on his ass for forty years, like the FBI.”
I step between them, silently warning the Bureau man to back off.
“Look,” says Kaiser, trying to stay calm, “we all have different pieces of this puzzle, and we all want the same result. Don’t we?”
“Do we?” asks Caitlin.
“You can’t blame her, John,” I interject. “The Bureau has got a pretty bad record in the sharing department. Henry wasn’t the Bureau’s biggest fan, either.”
“I’m not the Bureau,” he says angrily. “Not on this case. I’m Dwight Stone. Dwight and every other agent who bucked Hoover and the system to try to do the right thing, all the way back to 1963, when Medgar Evers was shot. This won’t be a one-way flow of information. I’m not keeping things from you guys.”
He turns on his heel, walks to the Suburban, and knocks on the driver’s window. The glass slides down and someone hands him a bag. When he returns, he takes his flashlight from his pocket, unzips the bag, and removes a large clear Ziploc containing a badly rusted hunk of metal with a strangely familiar shape. That shape hurls me back to every World War II movie I’ve ever seen.
“That looks like a Luger,” I comment.
“Doesn’t it?” says Kaiser. “This was rusted to the inner wall of Luther Davis’s trunk. The agent who found it said he thought about The Rat Patrol the second he saw it.”
“Is it a Luger?”
“No.” Kaiser opens the Ziploc and takes out the heavily oxidized but still graceful weapon and examines it from several angles in the beam of the flashlight.
“What is it?” asks Caitlin.
“A Nambu.”
“A what?”
“N-A-M-B-U. It’s a Japanese pistol widely used by their officers during both world wars. It was designed by General Kijiro Nambu, the Japanese John Browning. Takes an eight-millimeter cartridge. It looks like a Luger, but the works are completely different. Quite a few Pacific vets brought them home as trophies.”
“Like Frank Knox?” I guess.
Kaiser’s eyes glint with triumph. “Yes, sir. Frank Knox was known to possess a Nambu. Picked it up on Tarawa. Best of all? Nobody’s seen that gun in forty years.”
“Oh, man. You knew this all along?”
“Let’s just say I had a feeling this gun might have gone into the ground wherever Jimmy Revels and Luther Davis were buried. I wasn’t far wrong, by God.”
“Why would they dump the gun with the body?” I ask. “They should have thrown it in the river.”
“Frank Knox would have,” Kaiser says. “But Frank was dead by the time Jimmy and Luther were killed. Whoever shot Luther obviously had access to Frank’s pistol, though.”
“His little brother?” I guess. “Snake?”
Kaiser nods. “Snake Knox is an arrogant man. Crazier than his big brother, and not nearly so careful. Snake took over the Eagles the day Frank died, and Jimmy and Luther were never seen again.”
“Any chance of getting a serial number off this gun?” Caitlin asks.
“No, but that’s irrelevant. This weapon was a battle trophy, never registered.” Kaiser turns to his wife, who’s standing just behind me. “We need a good set of photos of this pistol. A set of high-res printouts, too.”
“No problem,” Jordan says.
“Make sure Ms. Masters gets a good one for the Examiner.”
Caitlin goes still, her eyes wide.
Kaiser looks her full in the face. “You have my permission to report this find in your paper. Same with the handcuffs and Luther’s ID. That’ll make a hell of a headline. After what happened tonight, we’re about to be enveloped in a media storm, but you’ll have the exclusive story.”
“But only if I turn over Henry’s files to you?”
“Fair’s fair,” says Kaiser, looking to me for support. “Right now I need to know who the mysterious ‘Gates Brown’ is. I’m guessing that information is somewhere in Henry’s files.” He looks back at Caitlin, his eyebrows arched. “Or maybe you already know?”
“No.” She debates silently with herself. “I’m sorry. I’m not ready to make that trade. Not without more thought. Too much has happened tonight.”
“I need to see those files, Ms. Masters. And your withholding them comes very close to obstruction of justice.”
“Whoa, John,” I cut in. “If you’re going to talk like that, you’d better talk to her lawyer. And tonight that’s me.”
Kaiser starts to speak, but Caitlin holds up her hand and says, “I feel sick. Seriously. I need to get to the ladies’ room.”
Kaiser looks more suspicious than sympathetic. “You’d better go with her,” he says to Jordan. “With Ozan’s people coming and going, the hospital’s no longer secure.”
“I’ll go with her,” I say, but Kaiser grabs my upper arm and holds me in place. “I still need to talk to you. Please.” He gives Caitlin a look of apology. “We’ll be here in the car when you guys come back.”
I’m tempted to jerk my arm from Kaiser’s hand, but Caitlin shakes her head at me, then nods assent to Jordan and starts toward the hospital entrance.
As Jordan follows her, Kaiser bags the Nambu and beckons me toward a black Crown Victoria two spaces away. He puts the evidence bag in the backseat, then starts the car and turns on the heater. By the time I close the passenger door, the front windshield is completely fogged.
“You were a little rough on her back there,” I tell him.
He turns to me with startling urgency. “I need those files, Penn. The Double Eagles came within an inch of assassinating Henry Sexton while he was under police protection. I don’t have time for your fiancée to play Lois Lane, or whoever the current role model is.”
“I think Caitlin’s hero is your wife.”
Exasperated, Kaiser leans forward and wipes the windshield so that he can observe the hospital entrance.
“Why didn’t you tell Ozan to get the hell away from here?” I ask. “You’ve got the authority, especially being here on a terrorism case.”
“I honestly wasn’t expecting such a brazen move. I was hoping to put out the word that Henry had died, but that’s not going to fly now. As
for Ozan, I’m giving him rope and hoping that he and his boss will hang themselves with it.”
“Forrest Knox?”
“That’s right. My man Forrest just unzipped his fly. I’ve been playing a long game with that bastard, but his time is coming.”
Kaiser may be playing a long game, but I don’t have time for such luxuries. My game will be won or lost in the next eight hours or so, and I don’t want to sit here long enough for Kaiser to start questioning me. To forestall any interrogation, I ask whether his digital surveillance has picked up anything further between Brody Royal and his son-in-law.
He rolls his eyes and says, “They know what we’re up to. That’s the only explanation. So, do you want to tell me what you have on Royal?”
While I try to think of a credible answer, I realize that Randall Regan must not have said anything on the phone about Caitlin firing a gun in his house. If he had, Kaiser would certainly have said something to Caitlin about it.
Kaiser is clearly getting impatient, but before he can press me, an FBI agent taps on his window, then tells him that Henry Sexton is demanding that his mother be let in to visit him when she arrives. Preoccupied with me, Kaiser grants permission, so long as Mrs. Sexton presents valid ID and matches the picture on it. As he concludes this conversation, Caitlin appears in front of the car and signals for me to get out.
“I need to speak to her,” I tell Kaiser, and quickly make my escape.
“Are you okay?” I ask Caitlin.
She nods but says nothing. Then I see Jordan standing a few feet behind her.
“Delayed shock,” Jordan says. “I’ve seen it plenty of times in war zones. She’ll be all right. She’s plenty tough.”
“Maybe I should drive you back,” I suggest.
Caitlin shakes her head, her eyes fraught with conflicting emotions. “Thanks, but my press operator drove me over, and he’s still here. Jamie texted me while we were inside. The deadline’s crashing down on us. They need me back at the paper now. I’m going to go say good-bye to Henry, then get back to work.”
This seems like an overly thorough explanation, but something tells me not to question her. Kaiser looks a little suspicious as well, but his buzzing cell phone distracts him. He checks a text message, then says, “I’ve got to get back inside. Apparently Captain Ozan has been questioning hospital employees about Henry’s status. I need to call my SAC.”
