Direct evidence, p.4
Direct Evidence, page 4
“What did they do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did they fingerprint you…?”
“Yes, of course,” Stu snapped. “They made me strip… what are you getting at, Will?”
“Do you remember when they used something that looked like a wet nap on your hands? Particularly on the webbing between thumb and pointer finger.”
Stu tried to recall exactly what had happened after being arrested. Usually, his memory was excellent. But he’d been so confused and scared…
“I think,” he replied honestly. Then Stu nodded. “Yeah, I think they swabbed me or something. Why?”
“That was a gunshot residue test, Stu.”
Stu suddenly knew where this was going, and his heart sank.
“Like I told you, I’ve never shot a gun.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but the test came back as positive.”
Stu refused to believe it.
“No. Nope, it’s a mistake.” He was shaking his head continuously now. “All of this—it’s all a mistake. I’ve never shot a gun and I’ve never killed anyone. This is crazy. I-I-I need to wake up now. This nightmare needs to be over right fucking now.”
Stu knew that this wasn’t a dream, but that didn’t stop him from lifting his arms as high as they could. When the chain caught, he just kept on pulling, drawing twin rings of blood on his wrists.
Will told him to stop.
“Stu, the cops have a subpoena for your car and your phone. They’ll have another for your house in a couple of hours. Is there anything I should know? Are they going to find anything? If so, we need to get ahead of this.”
The pain in Stu’s wrists actually felt good. That, unlike everything else, felt real. Still, he lowered his hands.
“Like what?”
“Well…” Will paused.
“Don’t ask me about a fucking gun. You ask me about a gun, and I’ll hire someone else,” Stu warned.
“Okay, what about your car’s GPS? Did you go anywhere last night?”
Once again, Stu shook his head. He was doing this so often now that he was starting to feel nauseous.
“No. I didn’t do anything. I came home from work, ate dinner by myself, had a glass of wine and then a scotch, and then I went to bed. I didn’t leave until this morning. Until that detective grabbed me and threw me in the back of his car. By the way, I’ve changed my mind; when this gets sorted out, when they figure that’s all just a big fucking mistake, I want that Detective Tolliver’s badge.”
“Forget about the goddamn cop, all right, Stu? I’m asking you as your lawyer and as your friend: are they gonna find anything incriminating in your phone or in your car?”
“No.” Then Stu gestured at the iPad. “But here’s the thing: I didn’t go out last night and I also didn’t shoot anybody in the head. That video clearly suggests differently.”
Will scratched his jaw as he contemplated Stu’s comment.
“Is it possible?”
“Is what possible?” Stu asked.
“Is it possible that someone faked the video? Because, if I’m being honest with you Stu, it looks like you. Exactly like you.”
Stu frowned.
“Of course, it’s possible. It’s possible because it exists.”
Will was starting to nod when there was a knock at the door. It opened and a guard peered in.
“Time’s up,” the burly man said.
“Time’s up?” Will made a face. “I just got here.”
The guard opened the door all the way and then filled the frame with his broad shoulders.
“Time’s up,” he repeated. “You can talk to him again tomorrow.”
“No, no that’s bullshit,” Stu snapped. “I have a right to talk to—“
“I don’t make the rules,” the massive guard said.
Stu looked over at his lawyer.
“Will, tell him that this is all a mistake. You’ve gotta get me outta here.”
“I will, just hang in there.” Will looked at the guard. “When’s the arraignment?”
The guard shrugged.
“No idea.”
“Will?” Stu pleaded. If he’d been capable, he would have grabbed his lawyer’s arm and held on for dear life.
“Just hang in there, Stu. We’re going to figure this mess out.”
And then the lawyer was gone.
As the massive guard began to unchain him from the table, Stu thought about his conversation with Will Porter.
And how his lawyer had warned him about lying.
But Stu had.
He had lied.
He just hoped that when the truth came out it didn’t come back to haunt him.
Chapter 8
“Fix it,” Director Hampton ordered as he thrust the report across the desk at Tate.
Tate made no attempt to grab a stack of papers. It struck him just below the chest but remained on the table.
“I’ve already reviewed it,” he said, his voice calm and even. “There’s nothing to change.”
Director Hampton, whose face had turned a shade of crimson, stood, and then aggressively grabbed the report he’d just tossed. He jabbed a finger on the front page.
“You reviewed this?” A sadistic smirk appeared on the man’s lips. “Half of it doesn’t even make sense. Why were you in the hospital in the first place?”
Tate shrugged, refusing to take the bait.
“It’s all there. Some meth head threw a bottle at me, I had to get stitched up.”
Hampton was seething.
“Really? Where?” He performed a dramatic up-down of Tate’s entire body. “Because I don’t see any stitches.”
“Did I say stitches? I meant glue. It was my ankle, and as much as I want to pull my pants up and show you some skin, HR won’t allow it.”
Hampton’s upper lip curled, and his smirk became a sneer.
“Agent Montgomery did this—he wrote it? Maybe I’ll bring his ass in here and ask him about it. I bet he won’t be half as smug as you are.”
Tate shrugged.
“You can do that. But like I said, I reviewed and signed off on it. And I’m the senior agent. So…”
This was a gamble, but a calculated one. He knew that if Floyd was brought in here, and the director grilled him the way he was grilling Tate, the young man would break in a matter of moments. Floyd would open up about Chase’s involvement, which was something that they all wanted to avoid. She had tricked them, Tate included, into thinking that her participation had been approved and then she’d become the very center of the case.
Things would get complicated on many levels if the director found out what Chase had done.
And after his talk with Agent Stitts, Tate was prepared to go to bat for Floyd.
Which he was doing now, more or less.
Hampton slammed the papers down on the desk and then collapsed into his chair, which creaked loudly.
“If I find out—“
“You won’t,” Tate interjected. “You won’t find out anything—nobody will. That’s the report that Floyd wrote, and I signed off on. So, that’s what happened.”
The director held his gaze for a moment longer, but Tate refused to back down. This wasn’t the first time that he had been reamed out by Hampton and it wouldn’t be the last.
The director was a shark and all he had to do was smell a drop of blood and it was all over.
Tate made sure his skin was intact.
“I don’t want to see another half-assed report like this, do you understand?”
Tate nodded and judging by Hampton’s posture, the man expected him to rise and take his leave.
Tate didn’t.
“What?” Hampton snapped.
“Julia,” Tate said simply.
“Who?”
Tate indicated the report beneath the director’s flexed fingers with his chin.
“Julia Dreger. Robert Griffith’s widow attacked her in her home, and Julia ended up killing her. It’s in the report.”
Tate knew that he was treading on thin ice but if he was in for a penny he was in for a pound.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Sure, you do. Meredith Griffith came to Julia’s house because she was sleeping with her late husband. She attacked and Julia defended herself. Meredith ended up dead.”
Director Hampton’s fingers tensed a little more and the pages of the report crumpled.
“And?”
“And Julia’s a prostitute. I wouldn’t be surprised if the DA seeks fifteen years for manslaughter.”
Seeing where this was going now, Director Hampton preemptively said, “We don’t interfere with local police affairs.”
“Interfere?” Tate made a face and brought his hand to his chest. “I would never even think about it. I just want to make sure that she’s not discriminated against. You know, some of these small towns…”
“We don’t interfere,” Hampton repeated.
“I just want to make sure she’s treated fairly.”
Now it was Director Hampton’s turn to stay mum.
Tate knew that he had him. He’d planned it perfectly; Hampton had exhausted himself from the outburst and there was no fight left in the man.
He would call the DA. While it was true that the FBI didn’t influence local politics or police procedures, they weren’t opposed to offering a hint or a suggestion every once in a while.
After all, the only reason that they were in Columbus in the first place was because a favor had been asked.
In the future, if more favors were requested, then it might be in everyone’s best interests to take suggestions to heart.
Tate slapped both hands on his knees and stood.
“Thank you,” he said, and with that, he finally left the director’s office.
The second he was outside, and the door was closed behind him, Tate let his breath out in a whoosh and then raised his arms and flapped them. His pits were damp with sweat.
The interaction had taken a lot out of him, as well.
Someone cleared their throat, drawing Tate’s attention.
Director Hampton’s secretary was staring at him. If her heavily botoxed face had been capable of expression, Tate suspected it would be a mask of confusion.
Instead, it was a mask of apathy.
“I think it’s probably best if you serve Hammy decaf for the rest of the day, don’t you think, Gina?”
Gina had no reaction as she turned her eyes back to her computer monitor.
Tate, knowing that he’d pushed his luck, hurried out of the building, and made his way to his car.
It was too soon to collect Floyd and too soon to hit up the bar.
It was also too soon for a new case to have come across his desk.
And what did FBI Agents do when they didn’t have a case?
Paperwork.
No chance.
Tate decided to go for a drive to get a cup of coffee—not decaf, as he’d suggested to Gina, and definitely not that shit they offered in Quantico.
The best coffee in Stafford County was offered by a food cart on the eastern edge of downtown. The drive took Tate a good ten minutes, during which he thought about Floyd. He was looking forward to continuing to work with the kid as soon as he got his head on straight.
As an added bonus, Tate knew how close Chase and Floyd were. Of course, Tate was attracted to the woman—that went without saying. Not only was she good-looking, but she was smart and didn’t fall for his games or his ploys like others did.
Normally, Tate could fairly easily weasel his way into someone’s psyche, figure out how their mind worked, and then use that to become what they wanted him to be. Once in, it was a simple task to manipulate both their thought processes to suit his needs.
Case in point, Director Hampton.
It was more of an art than a science, surely, but if Constantine Striker was DaVinci then Tate Abernathy was Salai.
But Chase… Chase was a difficult nugget to crack.
And he liked that.
He liked that a lot.
Tate parked by the side of the road and then walked up to the coffee truck. It was unassuming, a mustard yellow booth that had wheels with rusted spokes. In addition to serving coffee, it also sold hot dogs, big fat sweaty wieners that rolled on those metal warmers.
But Tate was tired and only interested in coffee.
That was one of the consequences of never sleeping.
You are always tired.
Go figure.
“Tabir!” he hollered, waving his hand.
The Indian man on the other side of the cart smiled, although the expression was masked, and his teeth were barely visible through a thick black beard.
“Mr. Abernathy. The regular I assume?” the man said with a thick accent.
“You betcha.”
Tabir poured an extra-large coffee into a white plastic cup and handed it over.
Tate held the cup in one hand as he pulled out his wallet. He laid it on the counter and was starting to open it with his free hand when he heard someone approach from behind.
“I’ll take that.”
Before Tate could react, his wallet was already gone.
Chapter 9
Will Porter had filled up Stu’s commissary. He hadn’t gotten his boss out of jail, hadn’t done anything else of value except for that.
And now, as Stu stood in line at the Clark County Detention Center commissary, he planned on using that money.
“Whatchu in for, Gramps?”
It took Stu a few moments to realize that the person was speaking to him.
He turned and saw a young black man with a shaved head and a tattoo above his left eye that read ‘NOW’ in cursive. He was wearing the same CCDC blue jumpsuit that they all wore, but his was an extra-large that seemed tight to the point of bursting, whereas Stu fit comfortably into a medium.
Immediately concerned for his safety, Stu glanced around.
Of all the detention centers in Nevada, CCDC was perhaps one of the safest. So safe, in fact, that none of the guards appeared to carry weapons other than pepper spray.
But Stu had no experience with prison. And while he hoped that he wasn’t here long, he wasn’t so naive to think that, based on his age, he wouldn’t quickly become a target.
And that was before someone figured out who he was and how much he was worth.
The man chuckled.
“I ain’t gonna hurt you. I just asked what you in for.”
Stu had a hard time swallowing the lump that had risen in his throat. An idiotic idea crossed his mind.
I should tell him I’m a serial killer. A real, sick, twisted fuck.
“I didn’t do anything. I was set up.”
The man threw his head back and laughed, revealing a single gold incisor. It was a surprisingly pleasant sound, and although it should have been insulting, Stu didn’t interpret it as derisive.
“Yeah, we’s all just set up. Name’s Rodrick, by the way. But everyone calls me Big Roddy.”
At any moment, Stu expected to be attacked, to be jumped, to be mauled by this massive oddly mild-mannered thug or someone from his gang.
He was so paralyzed by this fear that Stu didn’t say anything, and Rodrick snapped his fingers in front of his face.
Now Stu reacted.
He jumped.
“Stu. My name’s Stu.” He hated how meek he sounded.
Should have told him I was a serial killer.
The man laughed again.
“What’s so funny?” Stu asked, unsure of where this sudden boldness had come from.
“Nuttin. Just figured your name would be something like Stu.” Rodrick popped his tongue. “Stuart.”
“Yeah, why’s that?” If this man’s goal was to disarm him, it was working.
Or maybe it was just Stu’s experience finally making an appearance. He was used to high-powered business discussions, cutthroat deals, that sort of thing.
Not actual cutthroat, but if the rumors about prison were true, then there were some similarities in their hierarchy structures.
Or maybe not.
What the hell did he know?
“Well,” Rodrick said with a shrug. “I figured an old white dude like you had to have a name like Stu.”
“Stu’s an old white person’s name?”
“I never met a nigga’ named Stu. Have you?”
Stu had to admit, he hadn’t. But in truth, he thought he’d only ever met one other Stuart in his life.
His grandfather who, before he died, also happened to be an old white man.
“What can I get you for?”
Stu turned to face the guard behind the commissary desk. It was like a budget 7-Eleven, with some items being displayed on a wire rack and many more listed on a sheet of paper taped to the counter.
All Stu wanted was a bottle of water and a pack of gum and he said as much.
“Hey Stu, they got them moon pies. I’d snatch those up because they don’t last long,” Rodrick informed him. “Them be like crack, you know?
Stu had no interest in moon pies, or crack for that matter, but he asked for two of them anyway. He signed for the items and grabbed his water and gum and started to walk away.
“Forgettin’ your Moon Pies, Gramps,” Rodrick said.
“They’re yours.”
“No shit.” Rodrick scooped up the Moon Pies and placed an order of his own.
Stu started to make his way toward the common area, which was through a set of thick double doors.
“No, you can’t go in there,” the same large guard who had cut his meeting with his lawyer short informed him.
Stu didn’t like to stereotype, but it was hard not to when you were a goldfish stuck in a pond full of sharks. Men like this guard wanted to make things hard for people like Stu. Anything outside these walls was beyond their control but in here, they were the boss. Stu’s cash might be king in the real world, but it meant little on the inside.
And being a royal asshole was just one of the ways that this man could get even for a shitty salary and minimal benefits.
The power imbalance had most definitely shifted.
“I just want to sit in there and drink my water,” Stu said, trying to come off as non-threatening but not meek.
