“Gary Winnett walked out that door, too, around that time and never saw you even though he couldn’t have missed you on the way to the restroom. He didn’t see you because you weren’t there. The first time I talked to you, you were emphatic about every person you saw on the landing. You made no mention of Lumpkin and Winnett. Only yesterday when I asked you about them specifically did you start to hem and haw, maybe this, maybe that. You were covering your bases because you knew that you weren’t on the landing the whole time.”
Kenny’s new posture consists of wearing a stoic mask. His head is turned in my direction, but the gaze is past me, far off. The reality of what is happening appears to be closing in on him. I give him time to offer a defense, but he doesn’t take me up on it.
“The Senator’s appearance gave you the distraction you needed. You slipped into the right hallway, went into the Chief’s unlocked chambers, and killed him. You had already planned for the opportunity by leaving the chambers unlocked behind you. No way you wanted to mess with opening that door when time was of the essence. You barely missed Justice Lumpkin on your way to see the Chief. He didn’t hear the shot from his chambers, and he couldn’t have missed it. He must’ve left for the landing right after you entered Jackson’s chambers.”
I stop to take a breath and steal a glance at Scott, whose eyes remain fixed on Kenny like a hawk marking its prey. No indication exists yet that Kenny has any interest in resisting when the time comes. He still sits there in a coma-like fugue.
“And that brings us to the question of how did you learn about the Chief’s relationship with Allie. Enter Gene Davis and the Dalton brothers. They went looking for dirt on Warren Jackson and found it. Somehow they learned about Allie and got ahold of the phone Jackson gave her. They even sent Jackson a text from the phone a few weeks ago to see if he would respond and maybe incriminate himself. He ignored them. The night of the murder, they put the screws to him, but the guess is that their intimidation didn’t take. Jackson could be an obstinate man. They left his chambers, frustrated. Gene took a little stroll on the landing and talked to you on the way, just like you said. Except he didn’t ask for directions to the restroom. He told you about Allie, maybe even showed you the cell phone. But he wound you up all right. Gene loaded the gun, and you pulled the trigger.”
His lips tremble in spastic helplessness. The gaze he wears remains latched to something behind me, and I feel an urge to turn around to ascertain what object holds his attention. But nothing’s there, I know. He’s staring into the abyss of a dark future—all his hopes and dreams, the scaffolding of his entire life, vanished into a bottomless hole, with him tumbling into the void right after. The feeling is a familiar one for me. I decide to wrap up.
“You know what I like about this story? It links up the murder of Warren Jackson, the texts between him and AC, and the attempt by the Daltons to use Gene Davis to bribe the Chief Justice. I knew all of these things were linked in some way, but I could never make the pieces fit. Until you.”
The silence is prolonged now. We sit there, waiting for him to exhibit any proof of life. At last, he turns his head and scans both of us in a slow back and forth, the effect much like a creaky door that groans with every inch of movement.
Kenny says, “I mean I’m just a lowly patrol officer, not a detective or anything fancy like that, but it doesn’t seem to me like you can prove any of what you just said. Y’all are just throwing all these theories at me, hoping that I break down or confess.”
He’s on to something with that. I realized yesterday on my sojourn around the Beltline that the case against Kenny is weak on proof. Sure, Adam Lumpkin and Gary Winnett could testify that they never saw Kenny on the landing. That’s something but not nearly enough. Never mind that having to rely on either of those guys for anything does nothing to make me confident about getting a conviction. Gene—who would be the star witness otherwise—is not around to turn State’s evidence. Jackson and Allie are both dead, and proving an affair between the two is nigh impossible without proof that the phone was actually hers. Tommy Dalton could possibly fill in some gaps, but all his knowledge is probably hearsay. Besides, I don’t suspect he’ll be talking to any prosecutors for a long time. The whole thing is an evidentiary wasteland. At least that’s what I figured out on my walk.
I answer, “You’re right. But I have more than just my theories.”
A bag lands on the desk between us after I give it a soft toss—the clang from the impact resounding like a drumstick striking a cymbal. Kenny stares at the bag with grave understanding. But then he softens, and a slow tear snails its way across his plumpish cheek.
He notes, “You tricked me.”
“Yeah, I did.”
Kenny checks off one last box in the investigation—the mystery of the gun. Where did the murder weapon go after someone used it to kill Warren Jackson? The answer: right back on the murderer’s hip in his duty holster, hiding in plain sight—a Glock 9mm, the choice of most cops.
The bag on the desk holds a discarded shell casing from our time at the shooting range yesterday.
Ballistics confirmed a match.
57
Kenny smiles a grim smile, his mournful eyes still studying the irrefutable proof of his crime on the desk. He observes, “I told myself that I needed to get a new service pistol. But I didn’t want to turn in my old one so soon after the murder, thought it might be too suspicious. Kinda put it at the back of my brain for a while. In the middle of shooting with you guys yesterday, it hit me that I shouldn’t be doing this with you fellas right next to me. But then afterwards you were asking me about those other people, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Still made arrangements to get a new weapon early next week. I guess Detective Moore collected my shell casings when you were asking your questions. Y’all got me good.”
“Do you want to tell us about it?”
“Not really.”
“You’re a good man, Kenny. You did what any other father would’ve done. You might feel better if you get it off your chest.”
“You haven’t killed the murderer of your family.”
“There’s still time. I don’t know who did it yet.”
He grunts. Beverly Jackson framed all my subsequent interactions with Kenny: “He should sell insurance or something.” Before we ever met, I underestimated him. He’s more clever than he lets on. He played a nice tune on me by appealing to our kinship in tragedy, confessing the murderous revenge in his heart to the one man who has dined plenty at the same table. But that reveal of a father’s vulnerability was a ruse, and I fell for it. He was a good liar, staying as close to script as possible, revealing truthful feelings but about the wrong person, the boyfriend instead of the Chief.
I press him, “Tell us what happened.”
“You already figured most of it. I had no idea until that night. I picked up Mrs. Jackson and dropped her off in chambers just like the Chief requested. And then that fat guy came waddling out of the courtroom toward me. Said it was a shame about what happened to Allie and that I should talk to the Chief about it sometime. I asked him what the hell he was talking about. He showed me the phone and the texts from the Chief’s number, including the day when the texts stopped. He told me to put two and two together. I just stood there numb after he walked off to the restroom. When he came back out, he patted me on the back and said it wasn’t a coincidence that she died when we were at the Chief’s lake house. Before I could even respond, he slinked back into the courtroom with barely a care in the world.”
Simply telling the story starts to bring him back to the land of the living. Color returns to his face, and the zombie-like deadness of a few minutes before transforms into living, raw pain. Some guys become cops for the wrong reasons—to keep on playing the bully as they did in school. But I don’t sense that in Kenny. A man like him joins law enforcement to try do a bit of good in the world. The reality of facing a long stint in a prison cell must rip his soul to shreds. We give him the time to tell
us at his own pace, and he begins again.
“This wave of nausea almost floored me. I felt like I was going to pass out. My eyes kept blinking. I wondered if I was having a heart attack or something. None of what the fat guy told me made any sense, but then it kinda did. The Senator arrived, and I remembered I was supposed to bring him to the Chief. I used my key to let the Senator in. Mrs. Jackson bolted from the room immediately, and I held the door for her, unlocking it from the inside on my way out but not even realizing that I had done it until a few seconds later. I still didn’t know if I had the nerve to do anything, but I didn’t want to mess with that damn door if I did. I returned to the landing, next to the hallway door, just dying inside. I told myself, ‘Maybe the fat guy is lying.’ Then I saw Senator Parsons come out the door from the hall on the other side. He drew everybody’s attention, and no one was paying me any mind at all. I opened the door I was guarding and went down the hall to the Chief’s chambers.”
The tension in the room ratchets up a notch, and the sound of my beating heart thumps away inside my skull. The events of the last few days are bad enough, but now I’m listening to an American tragedy in real time. Why can’t life be simple and good?
“He was alone when I got there. He looked up at me and tried to give a half-smile but faltered. I asked him, ‘Is it true?’ The fear in his eyes gave me the answer. He knew what I was talking about. He killed Allie, my baby girl. He killed her. Seduced her, too. A man his age and in his position. She was only nineteen, and he left her there in the car while she died. Maybe she could’ve been saved if he wasn’t such a coward. And then he pretended to comfort me in my grief, gave a moving eulogy, all the time knowing what he did. I took out my gun and fired. Twice, I think. I’m not sure.”
Hearing him say it aloud doesn’t improve my mood. In Barbara’s skilled hands, the legal case against Kenny is now impregnable. He may claim some kind of insanity, but no one listening to a recording of him speaking now will be keen to buy that line. All the same, part of me will be pulling for him—the part of me more attracted to justice than to law. He sags some in his seat, perhaps recognizing the finality of his open admission. Just like that, he pops back up, ready to finish the rest of the story. I perceive that sagging must feel unnatural to him. I remember his telling me he was ex-military—his whole life an exercise in standing straight at attention with a faithful heart. I’ve always been more of a slacker, positioning my body in whatever odd angle brought me the most comfort in the moment. I wouldn’t have lasted a day in the army. I’m way too selfish.
He continues, “I stood there for a minute or two, partly because I was too stunned to move and partly because I wanted to see him die. I expected the world to come rushing in and arrest me on the spot, but nothing happened. I returned to my post, and no one was the wiser. I couldn’t believe it. I walked along the balcony, knowing someone would have to discover him sooner or later, and I didn’t want it to be me. Talked to the bartender even, trying to appear normal. I started thinking that maybe I could get away with it. Then right after they found him, Mrs. Jackson was freaking out, and Jerry Dalton told me to drive her home. No one checked my gun or anything. They just let us go. I figured God was looking after me.”
The grimace on his face says that he’s not so sure about that any more.
“And Gene?”
I’ve studied enough murderers to know that the first killing is always the hardest. One act can undo a lifetime of moral restraint. I think about the two holes in Jerry Dalton’s belly and try to peer into my own future. Will I kill again? What if I learn Mr. Smith’s identity? I told Kenny that he did what any other father would do. Does that include me?
I wrangle my thoughts back to Gene. Kenny used the same gun in both murders, the same gun at his side right now. But I still want him to explain the killing in his own words. He glances at me and then down toward the ground in his first show of shame, knowing that Gene’s murder can’t be shoehorned into any parental thirst for justice. Gene didn’t do anything to Allie, doubtful he ever even met her. Sure, he was a first-class bastard, but that shouldn’t be a death sentence. Kenny killed Gene to save himself.
He gulps a deep breath, one of his last as a free man, and proceeds to finish the story.
“Gene came over to the courthouse that day and told me that we needed to talk somewhere private that night. He gave me an address. I was nervous. He wanted to meet in a bad part of town. I wondered if he intended to blackmail me or something. I didn’t go there to kill him, but he was acting odd the second I got into his car, the way he worded things. Like he was a cop trying to get me to confess. He kept shifting his eyes toward something, and I saw that he was looking at his phone. He was recording me. I grabbed for the phone, and we wrestled for control before it fell to the floor. He bent down to go for the phone. I went for my gun.”
Irrefutable proof. That was what Gene promised me. Stupid is as stupid does.
Scott removes Kenny’s gun without protest and reads him his rights. Sophie and J.D. wait in the hall and take custody of the prisoner. Scott returns to me in Jackson’s chambers.
He asks, “What do you think?”
I gaze out from the large windows and consume the tableau before me. I’m struck as to how so much of my life the view captures. To the left is the Fulton County Morgue, the Dungeon—the place where I had to identify the dead bodies of my wife and son. Straight ahead—the State Capitol, the gold dome shining particularly bright today, in sharp contrast to my somber mood. As a kid, I would play hide-and-seek in the corners and crevices of the building, knowing that one day Daddy—the hero of my life—would be governor. That day never came. Behind the Capitol sits the Fulton County Courthouse, where I made my name as one of the best trial lawyers in the city and also where I suffered the worst day of my career, leading me to walk away. Even the very spot where I’m now standing has special significance—the future chambers of a woman I was growing to love but now most likely have lost, someone who almost got her limbs blown apart on my account.
All of it. Right here. My life. The story told within a few city blocks. I reflect on where I’ve been and who I am. I consider Scott’s question and answer as truthfully as possible.
“I think I would’ve killed the son of a bitch, too.”
58
A few minutes later, I call Minton to give him the news. He whistles at the details. The investigation is now complete.
He reflects, “I knew Warren Jackson was terrible, but I didn’t peg him as being that bad. Serves the bastard right. Good work. I knew you were the right person for the job. You still at the judicial building?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. You and Moore come over in a bit for a little chat.”
The sunshine of a few moments ago has disappeared behind the cloud cover, and an early winter darkness casts a pall over the city. I inform Scott that the Governor wants to meet with us.
“What does he want me for?”
“I have an idea.”
“What?”
“The GBI needs a new director.”
He makes an indecipherable face. The shock of the potential offer leaves him speechless for a good minute. We peer down over the fifth-floor balcony to the majestic entryway of the courthouse. Some legislators have raised the possibility of naming the building after Warren Jackson in memory of his service to the state. Over Minton’s dead body, I reckon.
Scott deadpans, “GBI director, huh? That didn’t work out too well for the last guy.”
The joke yields a good laugh from me—the first inkling of joy I’ve felt since leaving the restaurant with Cate the other night.
He continues, “I’m not a desk guy. I love being out in the field too much.”
“You’re not getting any younger, you know. Might be nice to get home at a normal time. Maybe somebody waiting for you. Someone like Taylor.”
He grunts. Domesticity has never agreed with him. I add, “You could be looking at two pensions, too. One with
the city, one with the state.”
His eyes perk up.
“Two pensions? At first you had my curiosity, but now you have my attention. Let’s see what the Governor has to say. Ready to head over there?”
“I want to talk to Cate for a minute.”
“How’s that going?”
“Great until you tried to convince me that she was a murderer.”
“Fair enough. But she was in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong name. You’re pretty serious about her, aren’t you?”
“I think so.”
“Go get her then.”
***
Cate sits at her desk, and I regard her for a few moments before she notices my presence. When she does, a look of pained concern fills her face. She sighs and comes toward me for a hug that lingers. The kiss on my cheek, though, feels sisterly. She retreats and sits on the edge of her desk.
“My God, Chance. The last few days … Are you okay?”
“Dalton slit Eliza’s throat. She’s dead.”
Her face recoils in horror. The tears start to flow, and she grabs a tissue to stab at them. Through clenched teeth, she seethes, “I’m glad you shot that son of a bitch then.”
“Me, too.”
The room is awash in suppressed emotion. My insides are as prickly as a porcupine, and I compensate by maintaining a stoic front. Cate cries for Eliza but seems to be choking down all her other feelings. I would pay a lot of money to know her thoughts right now. I could ask but fear the response.
She says, “The Governor told me his plans for you. That’s amazing, Chance.”
Despite the words, the tone of her reaction isn’t one of amazement but sadness. More is coming, and I wait for it with a cyanide-laced dread. After another meaningful pause, she resumes—looking past me, not at me.
“I don’t want to presume on your intentions, but we can’t be involved if I’m on the Supreme Court and you’re attorney general or governor. I would have to recuse myself from too many cases and that wouldn’t be fair to the other justices. And not that you would ask, but I wouldn’t step down, either. I’ve paid too high a price to get where I am.”
Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2) Page 27
