“You’re on some damned thin ice, counselor,” Beaumont said. “Arrest warrants based on a drawing from an anonymous informant? That’s a first for me, and I’ve been doing this a long time.”
“She turned out to be right,” I said. “That should help her credibility. Besides, there’s a lot more to it than the drawing.”
“I took the liberty of calling the judge’s secretary,” he said. “The hearing’s set for Monday the tenth.”
“In a hurry, are we?”
“I hate to do this to you, Joe,” he said, chuckling under his breath. “I’ve always liked you, but when the judge throws out your evidence and these boys walk out the door, they’re gonna run you out of town on a rail.”
“Did you call to gloat?”
“A little bit, but the main purpose of the call is to tell you that my client wants to meet with you.”
“Boyer? You’re kidding me. What could he possibly have to offer?”
“It seems he’s been sitting in that jail cell over there in protective custody, all by his lonesome, without the influence of others, with nothing to do but stare at the walls and think. Hypothetically speaking, he might just be starting to feel like he’s getting a bad rap, since he’s the only one looking at the death penalty. And because he’s become offended by the injustice of the situation, he might just be able to provide you with some valuable testimony regarding someone else’s involvement in these crimes.”
“Natasha Davis?”
“Let’s just say it might be a person of the female persuasion, and this person might be directly responsible for all six killings.”
“You’re not trying to tell me that Boyer didn’t kill anyone.”
“He’s willing to admit his involvement, but the killings were committed while he was under this third party’s influence.”
I thought about Alisha’s comment, “one who commands.”
“And what would you expect in return for this information?” I said.
“We’d certainly expect some consideration.”
“How much?”
“I’m thinking something along the lines of second-degree murder, run everything concurrent, twenty-five years.”
“He’d be eligible for parole in eight years,” I said. “Eight years for six murders? You’re out of your mind.”
“You know as well as I do that the parole board won’t let him out. He’ll serve at least twenty, and who knows? Maybe with a little luck one of his fellow inmates will kill him for you.”
“Glad to hear you haven’t lost your compassion.”
“I don’t have any compassion for him. I’ve seen the evidence you have. Looks to me like he helped kill six innocent people. But we all have a job to do, right?”
“I can’t do a thing without talking to the boss,” I said.
“Figured as much. How do you like being on a leash, anyway? Under the thumb of a politician?”
“It has its ups and downs, but it beats running interference for scumbags every day.”
“Ah, you cut me to the quick. Just one more thing before I let you go. Even if your boss gives you the okay, I’m not going to let you talk to him until after the motion hearing. You never know what a judge will do.”
“You don’t really think Judge Glass is going to let them walk away from this, do you? Especially after the little show your boys put on in the courtroom.”
“Like I said, you never know. He might seize the opportunity to make you look like an ass in front of the whole community. A little payback, you know? I’ll see you on the tenth.”
I buzzed Lee Mooney’s administrative assistant a few minutes later, and she told me to come on back. When I walked through Mooney’s door, I was surprised to find Alexander Dunn seated in a chair in front of Mooney’s desk.
“Sorry,” I said. “I thought you were alone.”
“No problem,” Mooney said, motioning to a chair next to Dunn. “Alexander and I were just discussing a few of his cases.”
“I need to talk to you,” I said.
“Personal or professional?”
“Professional.”
“Go ahead. You don’t mind if Alexander sits in, do you? He might learn something.”
I did mind. I didn’t trust Alexander, and didn’t feel comfortable discussing anything about my case in front of him. But I remembered what Rita told me-that he was Lee’s nephew and that Lee protected him-so I didn’t think asking him to leave would be particularly wise. I sat down in the chair.
“I just got off the phone with Jim Beaumont. Sam Boyer wants to deal.”
Mooney was wearing a dark blue jacket with a miniature American flag on the lapel. He reached up and began to finger his handlebar mustache.
“What does he have to offer?” Mooney said.
“He says there was a third person involved, and he’s willing to give her up. I think it’s the girl I’ve told you about. Natasha Davis.”
“Is she the girl who was in the room with them the night they were arrested? The one you had to let go?”
“Yeah, that’s her.”
“The same girl who was on television barking at you like a little dog?”
“Yeah.”
“That was priceless,” Dunn chimed in. “You should have seen the look on your face when you turned around towards the camera. You were white as a sheet, looked like you were about to pee your pants.”
“So anyway, I think she ordered the murders,” I said. “Maybe even participated. We have some circumstantial evidence that leads us in that direction. And now Boyer wants to tell us what happened.”
“What kind of circumstantial evidence?” Mooney said.
“The first witness we talked to turned out to be Natasha’s identical twin sister. She’s the one who put us onto them in the first place. Then Natasha turns up in the motel room when we go to arrest Boyer and Barnett. But the most compelling thing is the carvings in two of the victims’ foreheads.”
Mooney had seen both Bjorn Beck and Norman Brockwell up close, and he certainly was aware of the carvings. But the only involvement he’d had in the case was to visit the crime scenes and assign the investigation to the TBI. I’d tried to discuss a couple of things with him early on, but he put me off both times, telling me to “handle it any way you see fit.” He’d barely mentioned the case since the night I argued against forming a task force. He hadn’t looked at the file, and was blissfully unaware of most of the facts and the evidence. All he knew about the case was what I’d told him, and if anyone else asked him about it, he simply referred them to me.
There was a legal pad sitting just to his right, and I stood up and slid it over in front of him. I told him to write down, “ah Satan.” He did so, and said it out loud.
“That’s what was carved into Bjorn Beck’s and Norman Brockwell’s forehead,” I said. “It’s the same thing the boys were chanting in court, and they were looking at Natasha Davis while they were chanting. Now write it backwards.”
I glanced over at Dunn, who had slid forward in his chair so he could see what Mooney was doing. His hair was combed straight back and plastered to his head, and he smelled of cologne and cigar smoke. Mooney finished writing and looked up at me.
“Natasha,” he said.
“I know she was involved. I just can’t prove it yet.”
“You can’t convict her solely on the uncorroborated testimony of a codefendant,” he said.
“I know, but we don’t need much. The fact that she was with them when they were arrested and the carvings in the foreheads may be enough. Besides, if Boyer opens up, I’m betting we’ll find more.”
“And Boyer wants a break in exchange for information that will convict her?”
“Exactly.”
“How much of a break?”
“Beaumont asked for twenty-five years, eligible for parole in eight. I didn’t agree to it, but I was thinking
