“No kidding?” Sheila breathed. “Omigod—that’s what it is!” She read the text beside the enlarged photograph. It was a print of a right index finger, partial, but very clear. “Let’s take this to Butch and see what he can do with it.”
Ten minutes later, they were standing beside Butch Bedford, taking turns looking through his microscope at the partial that had been found on the cartridge casing retrieved from Kirk’s kitchen. They were comparing the casing print to a print of Jackie Harmon’s right index finger.
“Looks like a match to me,” Butch said. “If I could put this on a projector, you’d see an island, a bifurcation, and a spur—three pretty strong identification points, especially since this is a partial. Remember, though, it’s just a preliminary analysis, on this small microscope, and my confidence level isn’t better than about eighty percent. It should go to the county forensic lab, where they’ve got a comparison microscope. Or Austin, where they’ve got some pretty sophisticated equipment. Might take a little longer, but—”
“Let’s start with the county,” Bartlett said. “You’ve already found three points, they may find a couple more. If the DA wants another lab to look at it, we can send it to Austin.” He turned to Sheila. He was grinning broadly, his dark eyes alight. “With everything else we’ve got, I think we’ve just about wrapped this one up, Chief.”
“Don’t get too cocky,” Sheila cautioned. But she was grinning, too. “Congratulations, guys.” She high-fived him, then Butch.
“Oh, and there’s something else, Chief,” Butch said. “Before you brought this in, I was about to pick up the phone to tell you that I got a match on that set of prints Clarke brought in earlier this morning. Jason Hatch. The match was left middle finger and right index finger, on the computer belonging to George Timms.”
“Hey, Butch, that’s great!” Bartlett exclaimed.
“Good work,” Sheila said. “What’s your confidence level?”
“About ninety percent on that one,” Butch said. Sheila smiled at the pride in his voice. He was going to be an asset to the department.
Bartlett’s phone gave three digital pings and he flipped it open.
“Bartlett,” he said shortly, and listened. “Thanks, Doc. Be right there.” To Sheila, he said, “Palmer’s conscious. He’s still in ICU, but the doctor says we can talk to him now. What’s more, he’s asking to talk to
us
.”
“Well, that’s a switch,” Sheila said. She added, “But before we leave, let’s get Annetta to draw up a search warrant for Hatch’s house. Specify the computer and other documents. He may have kept records of his victims.”
Bartlett was thoughtful. “Yeah. I’ll put Matheson on the search with her. No telling where that could go. We might uncover something we don’t know about.”
T
HE
Adams County Hospital, on the far west side of town, was housed in a two-story red-brick main building, built in the early 1940s and set back from the street on a circle drive lined with large live oaks. Off to the right was the one-story Obermann wing constructed a couple of decades later with a gift from a noted town doctor. To the left was a new two-story wing, which housed the Intensive Care Unit. Today, it was under the careful eye of the charge nurse, Helen Berger, who led them to Palmer’s cubicle.
“I know it’s important for both of you to talk to him,” she said quietly, “but don’t stay any longer than ten minutes. And try not to upset him. He’s been a little panicky.” She frowned a little. “The doctor has told him that he’ll recover, but he’s convinced that he’s going to die. Don’t be surprised if he tells you that.”
“Thanks,” Sheila said, stepping back to let Bartlett go ahead.
Helen smiled. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since you and the sheriff got married, Chief. Just want to say congratulations and best wishes to both of you. You probably don’t know this, but I went to high school with
Blackie.” She blushed. “Actually, I was sweet on him when I was sixteen or so. He’s such a great guy.”
“He is that,” Sheila said, with a little chuckle. She wasn’t surprised by what Helen said. She had met other women who, at one time or another, had been sweet on Blackie. He was generally oblivious to the fact, but he had quite a few admirers.
“I was just so sorry when he decided not to run for sheriff again,” Helen went on. “Some of the other nurses were saying the same thing. We need guys like him. Not to say that Sheriff Chambers isn’t doing a good job,” she added hastily. “I’m sure he is—or he will be, once he gets settled. It’s just that with Blackie there, well, we all knew things were being done the way they should be. Do you think he’ll change his mind and come back?”
Sheila’s smile faded. She didn’t like to think that people—some people, anyway—felt that Blackie had made a mistake when he left the job, even though she wondered the same thing herself. But that wasn’t something she could say to Helen Berger.
“I understand,” she said quietly. “But he’s doing a different job now—one he wants to do. Today, for instance, he’s down in Mexico, trying to locate that little Austin boy who was abducted by his mother.”
“Oh, I heard about that child,” Helen said. “It’s awful. I hope Blackie can find him.” She frowned uncertainly. “But—Mexico? That isn’t the safest place to be right now, even for somebody who knows what he’s doing. I heard on the radio a little while ago that two American guys were shot by drug cartel members just south of Juárez. Right on the main highway, too.” Her eyes widened and her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, dear. I suppose I shouldn’t have said that. You’re probably worried enough already. I’m making it worse.”
Two Americans shot?
Sheila felt a dark edge of fear slicing through
her insides. “Yes,” she admitted, suppressing a shiver. “It’s true. I am worried. Cross your fingers, Helen.” She touched the other woman’s arm and turned away. If she stayed an instant longer, Helen would read the fear in her eyes.
Palmer’s bed was barricaded with a drip trolley and a monitor panel with assorted dials, displays, and switches. His head was swathed in bandages; his trunk was wrapped in white tape; and his left arm and leg were encased in plaster casts. A clear plastic drip tube was plugged into his right arm. His face bore scratches, almost like claw marks, and one cheek was badly abraded. His eyes were shut.
Before she left the police station, Sheila had picked up her pocket tape recorder. Now, she made herself stop thinking of Blackie—
two Americans shot?—
and took it out and flicked the switch. Then she pulled out her notebook and went to stand near the door, out of the patient’s field of vision. Bartlett was leaning over Palmer’s still form.
“Hey, Henry,” he said easily. “You in there?”
Palmer’s eyelids fluttered. “Who—”
“Jack Bartlett, PSPD. Remember? We spoke last night, at the shop. You said you wanted to talk. Still feeling like it?”
“Yeah.” Palmer’s voice was high-pitched, thin and reedy, with a tremor of hysteria. He didn’t open his eyes. “What hit me? Nobody here will tell me.”
“Gino’s Pizza van,” Bartlett said. “Swerved into the bike lane.” He paused and glanced at Sheila. She shook her head slightly. It wasn’t time to tell Palmer who’d been driving the van. They should save that information. It might be more useful later.
Palmer moaned feebly. “I’m gonna die.”
“Naw,” Bartlett said, and put his hand on Palmer’s shoulder. “The doc says you’ll be okay. That van did a number on you, for sure, and you
may be laid up for a while. But you’ll be back on a bike before long. In the meantime, just concentrate on feeling better.”
“No,” Palmer whispered. “I’m gonna die, and I know it.” He opened his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’ve got to get something off my chest. It’s about Jason Hatch and me and what we… we were doing.”
“Oh, yeah?” Bartlett asked.
“Yeah. And about Hatch and Larry. Hatch killed Larry. I don’t want him to get away with it.” His voice became urgent and he tried to raise his hand. “You can’t let him get away with it! You’ve got to see that he pays!”
Bartlett turned toward Sheila. She mouthed the word “Miranda,” and he nodded. The courts accepted deathbed confessions without insisting on the need for the Miranda warning. But while Palmer might believe he was on the verge of death, that wasn’t the case. What he was about to say might lead to the filing of criminal charges against him or someone else. When that happened, he might argue that his wasn’t a deathbed confession because he didn’t die. She didn’t want his evidence disallowed on that technicality.
“Look, fella,” Bartlett said in a sympathetic tone. “I understand why you feel like you’re totally wrecked. Been there myself, after a motorcycle accident. But just in case you’ve got something to say that could incriminate you, I need to give you a Miranda warning. You understand?”
Palmer closed his eyes again. “Yeah. I’ve seen it on TV. Do it. Do whatever you have to.”
Bartlett took a card out of his wallet and read the Miranda warning. Then two questions: “Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you? Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to me now?” The second question was required by the state of Texas to comply with the Vienna Convention.
Palmer nodded.
“What did you say?” Bartlett asked, looking over his shoulder to make sure that Sheila was taking notes. “Sorry, Henry. I didn’t hear you.”
“Yeah,” Palmer said. “Yeah, I understand. Yeah, I want to talk. Now. Before I—” He swallowed. “Before I die.”
It happened the way they had it figured, although in Palmer’s version of the story, he hadn’t voluntarily partnered with Hatch. According to Palmer, Hatch had been extorting money from customers for some time, whenever he discovered something he thought the computer owner would feel it necessary to hide. Palmer had found out about his activities by accident and was on the verge of telling Kirk. But Hatch threatened to claim that Palmer had been involved from the beginning, and even though it was a lie, Palmer couldn’t defend himself. Then Hatch offered him a cut of the take if he’d keep his mouth shut. All things considered, Palmer said, it seemed like the thing to do. He took the money. And when the next time came along, he took the money again.
“I felt bad as hell about it,” he said plaintively. “Believe me, I felt rotten. But I was flat broke. Car needed work. Couldn’t pay my rent. I should’ve told Hatch to go to hell and gone straight to Larry. But about the time I was psyching myself up to do that, Larry found out.”
“About Hatch? But not about you?”
“Yeah. He booted Hatch. Gave me orders not to call him for any more jobs, just the way I told you last night.” Palmer coughed, then coughed again, with a grimace of pain. Sheila wondered if he had some broken ribs. “I should have drawn the line at that point. I should have told Hatch that it was game over. If I had, Larry would be alive today. It’s my fault—” More coughing.
“But instead you and Hatch just reorganized the way you were working,” Bartlett said. “It went on the same, only now Hatch was on the
outside and you were still on the inside, in the shop. He needed you even more, so you asked him for more money. Right? That’s how you got your bike?”
“Yeah.” A long sigh. “Listen. What I’m telling you—it’s enough to nail Hatch, right? You’re going to arrest him?”
“What you’re saying implicates Hatch in an ongoing extortion scheme, yes,” Bartlett replied soberly.
“Good,” Palmer breathed. His face twisted, whether from pain or penance, Sheila couldn’t tell. “But not just for the blackmail—for what he did to Larry. That’s the big thing. Larry threatened to tell you guys what Hatch was doing. So Hatch killed him.” His voice was shrill. “I hope he gets the death penalty.”
For the moment, Bartlett let it slide. “Did you keep a list of the people Hatch extorted?”
“Nuh-uh,” Palmer replied. “But Hatch did. He’s a nut for that kind of stuff. He’s got it all on his computer. Who, when, how much, all that stuff. He said maybe we’d go back for more from somebody, if the need arose. Plus, he was working for at least one other computer shop, in San Antonio. I’m pretty sure he was doing the same thing there, because he always seemed to have more money than we were bringing in. Like, he bought that big Dodge Ram and moved out of that junky trailer. So I figure there was more coming in from somewhere.”
“Tell me about Timms’ computer,” Bartlett prompted.
There was a silence. “Not much to tell,” Palmer said. “Timms brought it in to get a virus cleaned off. When he handed it over, he asked me if we messed around with the data files. That’s always a dead giveaway that there’s something on there that the customer doesn’t want looked at. So I told him no, and then I called Hatch and took the machine over to his place.”
“That’s how you managed it? You’d take the computers to him?”
“After Larry booted him, yeah. Larry was in and out of the shop at all hours, nights, too. So yeah, I took it over there. When Hatch got into it, he found some photos and stuff—kids, he said. That was good, because kid photos are worth more than girlie photos. You know?”
Sheila, listening, felt sick. But she knew that the statement was an accurate one. If Timms had had a thing for women, rather than children, Hatch would probably have asked for less. Child pornography was a different thing altogether.
“Understand,” Bartlett said. “How was the extortion demand conveyed? Did Hatch telephone Timms? Did you?”
“Hatch always took care of that end of things.” Palmer’s lips stretched back in what could have been either a smile or a grimace of pain. “I guess he figured that way, he wouldn’t have to tell me how much he asked for. Made it easier for him to cream it off the top.”
“I see,” Bartlett said. “Did he tell you how much he thought he’d get from Timms?”
“Said he was gonna ask for twenty thousand. It was a lot, but considering who this guy is—his picture’s always in the paper, ribbon-cuttings and benefits for the women and kids’ shelter, stuff like that—Hatch said we’d get it.” He coughed. “I figure he asked for twenty-five, maybe even thirty. I didn’t want to know.”
“Why not?” Bartlett asked.
Plaintively, Palmer looked up at Bartlett. “Because it was my last job. I was gonna tell Hatch that, and I was gonna tell Larry. I was sick and tired of feeling like something bad was going to happen any minute. But I was scared, because Larry was my cousin and all that. I figured he’d do his best to keep me from being arrested, but I knew he’d tell his mother. And she’d tell my mother. That would be bad, real bad.”