Chapter 39
The FBI had run background checks on every person who’d been on the Royal Oaks property the night of the shooting. As Conor and Jojo turned up suspects, the bureau ran checks on them, too. Charles Whitman’s other brother, James, had a rap sheet.
“It says here he has been arrested twice for assault,” Jojo said, flipping through the pages of the report. “Looks like it was a bar fight both times. Must be a mean drunk. And he’s been charged two … three … multiple times for failure to pay child support.”
“Any history of violent crimes not connected to booze?”
“Nope. Not that shows up here.”
James Whitman’s address was a run-down double-wide trailer on an overgrown piece of property that had once apparently been an apple orchard.
There were the stick figures of trees in rows planted in a field beside the house.
Parked in the driveway was a black van, old and dented, and with an expired license plate.
To Jojo’s absolute delight, the temperature had risen steadily all day, and now in late afternoon it was a balmy forty degrees.
“All this melted snow is going to freeze overnight,” Jojo said as they got out of Conor’s cruiser. “How good are you at driving on an icy road? It’s not the same thing at all as driving on a snow-covered road.”
“Well, if you’re asking if I could execute a bootlegger’s turn on a frozen road, or any other road for that matter, that’d be a no. I learned to drive on West Virginia mountain roads. I’m good.”
Jojo and Conor walked around puddles and melted-snow mud across the yard with no sidewalk and up on the steps in front of the trailer. Conor lifted his fist to knock, but before he had a chance, the door flew open, and standing before them was a smaller, well-groomed version of Edward Whitman.
Jojo was surprised at how much the two brothers favored each other.
She’d never met Charlie Whitman, had only seen the pictures of him on the victims’ board in the courtroom.
She could see some resemblance to his brothers in his pictures, but not nearly as much as Charlie’s two brothers favored each other.
Edward Whitman had needed a shave and a haircut. James Whitman’s short black beard was neatly trimmed, and he wore his hair military-style “high and tight.” But he had the same broad forehead, receding hairline, heavy brows and hawk nose. The two men could have passed for twins.
“Are you James Whitman?”
“I am.”
Conor made the introductions he’d made to every other person they’d interviewed and asked politely if they could talk inside.
“Just don’t track mud on my floor.”
They stepped into the trailer and discovered to Jojo’s surprise that it was clean and neat.
It was a dump on the outside, but inside it was …
charming. Though the furniture was mismatched yard-sale fare, the couch, chairs, lamps and tables all went together, their colors complemented each other.
There were matching decorative throw pillows, tasteful pictures on the walls, and small pieces of art displayed in a glass-front case.
“We’d like to talk to you about—” Conor began.
“I know what you want to talk to me about. But my lawyer told me I didn’t have to go to court on that DUI ticket until next week. So what the hell are you doing here now?”
“I’m not here to talk to you about a DUI arrest,” Conor said. “Was it your first?”
“No, it wasn’t my first. That’s why I got a lawyer this time.
They can take my driver’s license if I can’t get this thing amended down to something.
How the hell are you supposed to function in the world if you can’t drive.
It’s not like there’s rapid transit buses coming along every half hour to take you where you need to go. ”
“We are not here about a DUI ticket.”
“Then what the hell are you here for?”
“To talk to you about your brother.”
“Edward? What’d Ed do?”
“Charles.”
At the mention of Charles Whitman’s name, the man’s face flushed bright red, and he spewed out a mouthful of obscenities that impressed Jojo, and she’d been in the military.
“Sounds like you didn’t like your brother much,” Conor said.
“He stole what was mine, rightfully mine, took it to pay off his damn gambling debts. Wish they hadn’t cremated the bastard ’cause I wanted to go out and piss on his grave.”
“His widow told us that after Charlie told you about the business, somebody cut up Charlie’s rose garden, left dead animal carcasses on the property,” Conor said. “Did you do that?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t …” He paused. “What does it matter now. Yes, that was me. I also put sugar in the gas tank of one of his fancy classic cars … and … other things. So what?”
“You were angry at your brother, angry enough to kill him?” Conor asked.
“If I could have, I would have,” the man said. “Is that what this is about? You’re here because you think I’m the guy who shot all those people?” He smirked but didn’t laugh. “Now that is rich. I haven’t shot a deer in two years, couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
“But you do own a deer rifle?”
“Just like eighty percent of the male population of the county. You think I climbed up on a roof and shot a whole bunch of people just so I could kill Charlie?”
“Did you?” Jojo asked.
“Hell no, I didn’t.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind telling us where you were on Wednesday night between six o’clock and midnight,” Conor said.
Jojo saw an emotion she couldn’t identify pass across his features, there and gone in an instant.
“I was out of town, left about noon that day and didn’t get back until Thursday morning.”
“Is there anyone who could verify your whereabouts?”
There was the briefest hesitation. “Yeah, I went to see a buddy over in Fayette County. We spent the night playing poker.”
“Could we have his name and address please?”
“You’re not gonna go bother him, too, are you?
” He didn’t wait for a reply before blustering, “Og—Ogden Hasbrow—doesn’t have much use for cops, might run if he sees you coming.
And he doesn’t have a phone.” Holding up his hand to stave off an expected protest, he continued, “I know, everybody’s got a phone these days, but Og doesn’t.
I don’t know his address, don’t need a Maps App to find him.
Lives on Anderson Pike, the first farmhouse on the right after you turn off Route 51. ”
“So it was just the two of you there?” Conor asked.
“Yeah, I brought two six-packs, and we drank the beer and played poker.”
“We’ll be checking with Mr. Hasbrow to verify your story.”
“Give it your best shot. But even if I hadn’t been there, I’m not the guy you’re looking for.
If I was going to kill Charlie, I’d have killed Charlie, just Charlie.
I’d have put a bullet right between his little pig eyes.
I’d have blown his guts out.” A bright, toothy smile took over his face, but it never reached his eyes.
They remained as cold and hard as chunks of ice.
“But I wouldn’t have killed all those other people.
You’d have to be crazy to do a thing like that. ”
Jojo and Conor crunched through the rapidly melting snow to Conor’s cruiser and got in.
“Do you believe him?” Conor asked as he pulled his door closed.
“No. Do you?”
“No.”
“He’s hiding something,” Jojo added.
“What makes you think so?”
“No reason I can put my finger on. Just … my gut. And it’s always a good idea to trust your gut.”