Shelley swept out of the investigationroom they had been assigned, leaving the other boxes of seized materialsbehind, and strode back toward Franks. As she opened the door with a decisiveand sharp movement, Zoe only just caught up in time to see Franks half-jumpwith surprise.
“Mr. Franks,” Shelley said, back toformalities again—though this time with a kind of smug undertone that said shewas confident they had him now. “You have no links to white supremacistmovements, and only got mistakenly connected by these wonderful local officersbecause you accidentally tattooed the wrong person, is that what you want us tobelieve?”
“That’s the truth,” Franks insisted,straightening his back and looking her in the eye.
“All right,” Shelley said, and threw theevidence bags onto the table in front of him. “So how do you explain these?”
Franks paled, and the lawyer swore underhis breath.
“I’d like to confer with my client for amoment,” Smith said, studiously not looking at the artifacts on the table nowthat he had realized what they were.
“If your client is innocent, then hedoesn’t need to confer. He can simply tell us the truth,” Shelley said, lookinghead-on at Franks, challenging him to argue.
“It’s his legal right to counsel, Agent.I don’t expect you to try to take that away from him.”
“I’m not taking it away. I’m just sayingthat it looks suspicious if he needs it.”
Franks raised his hand, looking betweenShelley and Smith. His face had not regained color, and the lines of his bodywere slumped, his elbows resting on the table. As soon as the evidence bagswere thrown down he had lifted his hands, as if not wanting to touch what wasthere, and he had not dropped them. “I don’t need counsel right now. I… I canexplain. This isn’t what it looks like.”
“As your lawyer, I really advise thatyou talk with me.”
“Explain it, then. Because it looks likeyou’re a Nazi sympathizer yourself. A fan, one could say,” Shelley said. Shehad completely ignored Smith’s words, and it looked as though Franks was determinedto do the same.
“I collect stuff, okay?” Franks exhaled,starting one word and then halting before trying again. “This was—it was partof my collection. That’s all. I don’t—I’m not a Nazi. I collect historical artifacts.War stuff, especially.”
“You had a number of other items in yourcollection from both the First and Second World Wars,” Shelley conceded. “Butthese things weren’t on display in cabinets like the others were, were they?”
Franks exhaled again, a sound of panicand frustration. “I know it isn’t right to have them.” He shook his head, thencorrected himself. “No, I mean, I know it doesn’t look good. After I gotarrested the first time for being at that Aryan Brotherhood meeting, I hid itall away. I thought people would jump to conclusions if they were found. Iwanted to sell them on, but no one would deal with me. They heard I gotarrested. There’s not a great deal of people around who trade in this stuff.Word got around.”
“Why did you have them in the firstplace?” Shelley pressed. Zoe watched him closely, trying to work out if he wastelling the truth. She only had her gut to go on, and it wasn’t reliable whenit came to humans.
But that was something in itself, wasn’tit? She had a good sense for killers, for murderers who used the logic ofnumbers to seek out their victims. She had studied human behavior to try tomaster it, to learn the things that came naturally to others. She could workout which way someone would jump for a gun, or which was the logical path totake across a crowded room to intercept someone coming through it.
And even with all of that, she had nosense of Jasper Franks. Whether he was lying or not, what his motives were, whohe was underneath.
She wasn’t getting a clear read on himat all.
Did that mean he wasn’t the killer, orjust that he was good at masking his real intent?
“I’m a history buff,” Franks said. Hishands moved in front of him incessantly, gestures intended to help explain thatmight as well have been magic gestures in the sky for all they meant to Zoe. “Igot really into it, you know? The wars, the strategy and the politics. All thelives lost, the heroism and the sacrifices. I wanted to collect all thesethings. Plus, I get a lot of clients who are the same. They want historictattoos. I’ve built my reputation on that, and I’ve earned a lot of businessthrough it. My accuracy. I have the real thing to draw a design from, not justphotos online.”
“You’re telling me, Mr. Franks, that youcollect Nazi memorabilia to make you a better tattoo artist?” Shelley said. Hertone was deadpan, clearly disbelieving. “Are you expecting us to just let yougo on hearing that?”
“No, I know it’s…” Franks groaneddesperately. “Look, I’m telling the truth, okay? I’m not like them. I don’t worshipthe Nazis. If I did, why would I be willing to tattoo Holocaust prisonernumbers on people?”
Zoe raised an eyebrow. She couldn’t helpherself. She opened her mouth before Shelley had the chance to reply. “Itsounds like that is exactly the kind of thing a Nazi would enjoy doing.”
“No!” Franks’s eyes opened wide inalarm. “No, it’s not—it’s not like that. It’s a tribute. To their bravery,their suffering. I feel for the people who went through that. It’s meant to bea tribute.”
“Maybe that’s what you tell the peoplewho come in to have the tattoos done,” Shelley argued, leaning forward subtly.Getting more in his face. “Maybe that’s how you find your victims. You givethem the tattoo that marks them out as a descendant of a survivor. You taketheir names, their payment details, their home addresses. You find them onsocial media. You can track them down whenever you want to. And you can finishthe job that your beloved Fuhrer started.”
“But I’ve tattooed dozens of thosenumbers,” Franks protested. “Maybe fifty! You only showed me three photos. If Iwas killing them, surely I would
