Turnabout shallow secret.., p.32
Turnabout / Shallow Secrets, page 32
Forty minutes later the door opened and Robinson stood as B. J. Donnelly shuffled into the room, his wrists and ankles manacled. A guard looked in after him and shut the door, remaining just outside. Robinson didn’t know him. That was probably deliberate, he thought.
Donnelly stood across from him, on the other side of the table, with his head angled down as if drawn in that direction by the weight of his chains. “How you doing, Jimmy?”
Robinson didn’t move. He had kept his glasses on and he knew Donnelly couldn’t see his eyes. He felt his stomach curl into a ball like a caterpillar and he could almost hear his heart beating in his ears. He was standing across from the man who had likely killed a dozen young women, a man who was also ruining his career, and the man who may have murdered his lover. This was the man who was accusing Robinson of helping him get away with it.
“Look at this,” Donnelly said, shaking his wrists. “They’re kind of pissed at me since I quit telling them things.”
Robinson wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. He almost asked if anyone else were coming; an officer should be in the room with them but then he thought they must be trying to see if something slipped while he and Donnelly were alone in the room. He thought again about why he had come and still couldn’t come up with a good answer. He swallowed hard, forcing saliva into his mouth, and said, “Why are you doing this, B. J.?”
Donnelly moved his eyes around the room, noting the covered video camera. He looked up at the ceiling and then at the walls. “They can’t hear us, can they?”
“Who do you mean by ‘they’?”
“You know. Them.”
“I’m one of ‘them.’”
Donnelly chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, that’s right.” He jerked his head around and pulled out the chair in front of him with both hands. “I want to sit down.”
Robinson hesitated for a moment before joining him. He wanted to at least listen to what Donnelly had to say.
“Been a while, hasn’t it?” Donnelly asked him.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
Donnelly studied the table before he answered. “It’s not about you, Jimmy.”
“It is to me.”
Donnelly nodded, conceding the point. “Well, I guess I’m sorry about that. It can’t be very easy, going through what they’re doing to you.”
“Thanks for the sympathy. Now knock it off. What do you want?”
Donnelly looked up into the dark lenses covering Robinson’s eyes before turning his gaze to the metal bracelets on his wrists. “I need some help, Jimmy.”
“No kidding.”
“No, man, I’m serious.” He screwed up his face as he talked into his chains. “They’ve got me on that girl in my trunk, I know that. But those others....”
“You did them, didn’t you, B. J.” Statement.
Donnelly cracked a half grin and looked into Robinson’s face again.
What the fuck does that mean?
“I don’t want to die, Jimmy.”
Neither did all those women. “So?”
“So I want to give them something else. I want to give them something they want more than me.”
“Like the goddamned cop that was chasing your sorry little ass for five fucking years?”
“No, Jimmy, no. I mean, it could have been like that, but it wasn’t. I knew they’d never touch you. They couldn’t.”
“You don’t know a whole lot, you son of a bitch. That was a neat trick with that jewelry in my house.”
The same half grin appeared on his face but he quickly smothered it.
It wasn’t a lot but Robinson had had enough. Maybe it was wrong to have come here. “You’ve made a mistake. There isn’t anything they want more than you, you miserable piece of shit.” He grabbed his helmet and stood up. “Make sure they get you a hood that fits good and tight, B. J. I’m told that when they fry you if you pucker too much the first thing that happens is your eyeballs explode.”
Robinson started to walk around the table on his way out and Donnelly grabbed one of his arms. “No! I have to tell you!”
“Stop jerking me around, B. J.” Robinson snapped his arm out of the prisoner’s grip. “I’m gone.”
“No! Sit down, Jimmy. Please. I’ll talk to you now. I swear it!”
Something in his voice made Robinson think about it. There was a new note there, something that was missing before. Panic?
“What is it?”
Donnelly looked over his shoulder at the policeman standing at the door. He hadn’t moved. “Sit down, I want to whisper.”
Robinson did as he was asked, moving back around the table and taking his seat. Donnelly motioned him closer and without taking his eyes off him Robinson inclined his head toward Donnelly’s. “There is something they want more than me.”
“Not unless it’s me they don’t.”
“You’re wrong. There is something but none of you know it. You never figured it out.”
“Figured what out?”
“I didn’t do them all. There was someone else involved.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m not lying, man. I need you to prove it for me.”
“What for?”
“My life. I need you to show them there’s somebody else. I’ll confess to everything. Everything I did. I’ll tell them about you, Jimmy.”
“What about me?”
“That you had nothing to do with this. Whatever you want. Give me life, give me anything, I just don’t want them to kill me in the electric chair.”
Robinson looked at the door, thinking of the guard outside. “I’m not the D.A.”
“Look, Jimmy, they’re never going to let me out of here because of that little girl. I know that.”
“Her name was Megan.”
Donnelly blinked and looked surprised. Naming the girl seemed to confuse him. “I’m sorry for that, you know? Of course I am. Is that what you want to hear?”
Robinson didn’t say anything.
“It’s just— I can’t help it, Jimmy. What good is it going to do to kill me, too? I’m in prison now. I can help you guys. I know things. I am more valuable to you guys alive then dead. I can help you understand things like this in ways you’d never know yourself.”
Donnelly mistook Robinson’s continued silence and went on with enthusiasm. “You never caught me, Jimmy. Think about that. I can show you why.”
“I gave you a hand when I thought you needed it. I didn’t even know you. And you do this to me?” And lower: “To Becky? Did you kill Becky Owens?”
“Becky? Why would I do that to you, Jimmy? She was—nice.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“All I did was tell them a cop was involved. I didn’t say who it was.”
Robinson slapped the table with his hand and Donnelly shut up. “Where’d the jewelry come from, B. J.? Is there anything else at my house?”
“You see? That’s what I’m talking about.” Donnelly licked his lips anxiously. “I can answer all those questions. You’ve just got to give me a little help. I can give you so much more.”
“Who’s ‘T’?”
“What?”
“Who do you know signs their name as a capital ‘T’?”
Donnelly sat back in his chair. “I told you, you need my help.”
“Go to hell.” Robinson stood up, hooking his helmet with a stiff-fingered grip.
“I can’t, Jimmy. I’ve got things to do. God isn’t through with me yet.”
Robinson went to the door and paused long enough for the guard to twist away from the door and get out of his way. “But I am, you prick.”
Hollander burst out of a door to Robinson’s right as he left the interrogation room behind, another man in a dark suit following. “Robinson!” Hollander called. “Hold up!” The background noise in the squad room faded to almost nothing. Robinson didn’t stop walking until the larger man grabbed his arm and tried to spin him around. He shrugged him off first then turned to face him.
“What do you want?”
Hollander hunched his shoulders, repositioning his oversized jacket. “Let’s take this into my office.”
“Fuck yourself.” Robinson turned and walked toward the stairs.
The second man called out. “Hold on, Detective.”
Robinson stopped and turned again. He looked him up and down, noting the cut and quality of the suit and shoes. “Who the hell are you?” But then he recognized him.
“Francine. FBI. We’ve met several—”
“I’ll hold on when you arrest me.” And Robinson started walking.
Very aware that every pair of eyes in the room were trained on him, Hollander called, “What were you two doing in there, Robinson? What are the two of you up to?”
The top of Robinson’s head disappeared around the first landing.
“If there’s something there, I’ll find it, you dirty son of a bitch.” Hollander’s voice chased the echo of Robinson’s boots down the thinly carpeted steps. Ignoring the looks of everybody in the room, Hollander pulled at his jacket again then went to the interrogation room where Donnelly still sat at the table, cradling his head in his manacled hands.
Outside the station, a crowd of reporters surged ahead. Robinson was lifting his helmet to his head when a hand grabbed his upper arm. Special Agent Francine.
Robinson looked at him. “You arresting me now? Smile for the cameras.”
The roar from the press crescendoed and Francine pulled him back to the front door. Uniformed cops stepped up to keep the reporters back.
“I can if you’d like. Or we can talk.” Still not letting go of Robinson’s arm.
“Fine. Just to get out of here.” He shrugged hard out of Francine’s arm and went back into the building. Robinson paused, letting Francine take the lead from the doorway.
“Let’s go in here,” he said, indicating an empty room down the corridor behind the desk sergeant’s station.
It was a small conference room, not an interrogation room, and the chairs had padding and were on casters. Francine went to a coffee machine in the corner. “Want something?”
Robinson shook his head, put his helmet on the table, sat down. “What do you want?”
Francine moved away from the machine without touching the pot, stood across the table looking down at Robinson. “I want the truth, Robinson. Same as everyone else.”
“Where you from? These cases didn’t cross state lines, we never asked for field help.”
Francine shrugged. “Nevertheless, we’ve been around. FDLE asked for lab help, I got involved.”
“Why you, specifically?”
“I have some experience here.” Robinson started to say something but Francine cut him off. “But this isn’t about me.”
“Okay.” Robinson sat back. “What is it about?”
“I know how you became lead on the task force. I’m going over your files now.”
“Goody.”
“What do you know that’s not in there?”
“What do you mean?”
“You really think Donnelly was responsible for all twelve of those girls?”
“Special Agent Francine, what exactly do you think I know?”
The FBI man spread his hands wide. “Why don’t you tell me.”
“I really don’t get it. You’ve got my files. What are you fishing for?”
Francine pulled out a chair and sat down. “Why didn’t you see Donnelly for these killings?”
Robinson closed his eyes. “I barely knew the man. Knew him in school. Met him again years later in a bar. Did a bit of drinking those days.” He looked at Francine. “Off duty drinking. My wife was gone, we were drinking at the same joint, he needed a place to crash, I let him come to my house for a few days.”
“More like two weeks.”
“Whatever. I really didn’t give much thought to it.”
“Did you talk about girls?” Francine asked.
“We probably talked about a lot of things, most of them lost in alcohol. I had no idea he was what he was. That kind of thing didn’t come up. What exactly are you after? My statements are all in the record.”
Francine took a sheet of paper from his breast pocket, unfolded it and smoothed out the creases. Robinson saw what they were. The list of victims. At least, the ones they knew about.
“You know what this is?” Francine asked.
Robinson swallowed. “Yes.”
The list slid to his part of the table. “You have anything to add about any of the names? Anything at all?”
Robinson couldn’t help it. He only focused on the one. There she was. Rebecca Sue Owens, 22. Victim number eight. Body discovered October 9th, 1988, Indian Rocks Beach. Raped and strangled, like the others. He choked up inside.
“Robinson?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “Nothing at all. That all right with you?”
Francine took the list back, held it in front of him.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Does he know about Becky, Robinson wondered. Was it any of his business at this point? Donnelly was gone. Robinson was disgraced. The girl wasn’t coming back. It was over. Everything was over.
“Well?”
Robinson looked at him. “You know everything you need to know. Whether they mean anything or not, we all have our secrets.”
Francine stared at him. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, we do.”
Robinson started to rise. “You mind if I go now?”
“A couple of these girls waited tables, you know that?”
There was a tightness in Robinson’s stomach.
“Wonder if that meant anything to the killer?”
Robinson had tried to remember if he’d ever had lunch at Becky’s restaurant when Donnelly was around but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t think so. But what was Francine getting at?
“Maybe Donnelly ate out a lot. He certainly didn’t cook at my house.”
Francine nodded his head, folded the list, returned it to his pocket. “Well, he had to eat lunch somewhere, didn’t he?” He stood up, offered his hand across the table. “I appreciate the time, Detective.”
Robinson shook automatically. Then he gripped his helmet and left the room, feeling Francine’s eyes on his back as he left. What was that really about?
Chapter Six
A collapse sinkhole occurs when an underground cavern can no longer support the ground above it. A water deposit in the underlying limestone and interaction with the chemicals in the soil on top of it gradually erode the ground layer until it gives way, sometimes collapsing deeply into the ground. This happens hundreds of times a year in Florida, and most of the holes go unnoticed. In the case of Tampa’s planned Palm Shade subdivision, however, the sinkhole that formed was spectacular because of its size.
It was nearly eighty feet across and almost ninety feet deep.
Jimmy Robinson sat within the fenced in border of the hole, the only surviving house from the abandoned project a hundred yards or so behind him. A six pack of malt liquor was planted in the loose sand next to him.
Tonight he was playing the beer game. Start out inside the fence line with a six pack. Sit on the ground, try to avoid the fire ants, and drain the can. When it was empty heave the empty aluminum cylinder as far as you can toward the hole. Then walk or drag yourself to where it lands and start over again. And again and again, until all the beer is gone. He had played this game a lot after his wife had left.
Sometimes Robinson was convinced he could get up and walk directly to the edge, sinkhole and loose sandy edges be damned, but then he always wondered what he’d do next and how much of the inevitable voice in his head was prompted by alcohol. Once he was close enough to throw the beer cans all the way into the hole he never went any further. He didn’t trust the ground to stay up.
Today had been a genuinely lousy day. The artificial peace he had been trying to impose on his life, the equilibrium of denial, had all been washed away by the one trip into Bradenton. He had known instantly what had been on the minds of every person that had seen him in that building: was he involved? Could he have done it? He knew what were they saying to each other in there.
His short talk with Donnelly had been a mistake as far as he was concerned. The man was doing everything he could to save his own ass, to manipulate fools like Hollander and the FBI and try to impose a measure of control over his life that he probably hadn’t known even when he was free. In a way, Robinson could almost empathise with what was happening.
He drained the last third of the second can, belched, then let it fly. The lightweight aluminum caught a breeze just right and carried on about ten feet further than it should have. Beautiful throw, he thought. Should have been a pitcher.
Made a pun. About beer.
Too many stars dotted the night sky around him and the humid night air felt heavy on his skin. In a few hours three feet of fog would hug the ground all around the fallow land, covering all save the open maw of the sinkhole itself.
You’re like my life, he said to the sinkhole as he popped another can. A goddamn black hole that swallows everything that comes near it.
The anger wasn’t so bad now. He was doing an adequate job of drowning the fire and he knew it wouldn’t do him any good if he weren’t. In the past he had thought that his emotions, even the negative ones, helped him get through the job and the life that went with it but now he wasn’t so sure. He had the feeling that if he could just forget most of it he’d be a lot happier.
Maybe I can, he thought as he took a long swallow. Maybe that’s what I’m learning how to do now. Or maybe it’s just too late, I’ve screwed up too much. First my marriage, then Becky.
He looked ahead to the gap in the earth in front of him and wondered how tempted old Hollander was to find a way to get down in the sinkhole and look for more evidence against him. Let him try. There’s a good chance the old hog wouldn’t be able to pull his fat ass back out.
