CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“It’s over, James,” Kate said. “All you’re doing right now is making things worse for yourself.”
James Whitmore swallowed. His jaw was trembling, and tears flowed steadily down his cheeks. The smug, self-satisfied baby Lawgiver that had greeted them at his apartment was gone. In its place was a frightened child finally realizing that his actions carried consequences.
“I didn’t kill them,” he said, voice thready. “I told you.”
Kate sighed. “James, we have a social media post where you quote Bible verses that match those inscribed on the scene. You use those verses to justify the murders of both victims. Both inscriptions begin with the sixth commandment, the next one on Cox’s list. You’ve done time for nearly killing an acquitted defendant before.
We’re serving a search warrant on your computer, and I’ll bet we find more evidence that you’ve been stalking Hammond and Santos, don’t we? ”
He swallowed again. “I was angry, and I wanted justice, but not like this, okay? I didn’t… I wouldn’t kill anyone.”
“Well, we know you would because you said you would,” Marcus reminded him.
“Yeah, but… That’s different.”
“Always is.”
“That was my sister! He left her body like it was garbage! He r—” He clammed up and said, “I didn’t kill Hammond. I didn’t kill Santana. They deserved death, and whoever did it, good for them, but it’s not me.”
“And you’ve never talked to Elijah Cox? Never visited him in jail? Never exchanged letters?”
“No!”
“So, the picture on your dresser,” Kate said. “That’s just nothing?”
“It’s from high school. He came to talk to the school.”
“And you were his little favorite, huh?”
“No! He was shaking everyone’s hand. It was some outreach thing trying to encourage people to join the ministry.”
“Seems like it worked for you,” Marcus said. “You’re wearing priest robes, you’ve got eight different versions of the Bible, more crosses than a Christian bookstore, and my favorite part, an obsession with the commandments.”
James sobbed. “It’s not an obsession. I just believe the Bible.”
“And the Bible says those two have to die, right?” Kate asked. “And God chose you as his instrument.”
“No!”
“That’s what Cox told you, though, right? God had a special plan for you. You were going to do great things in His name.”
“No! I didn’t… Shit.”
“That’s not very Christian language,” Marcus quipped.
James sniffled. He tried to lift his hand to wipe his face, but it was shackled to the table, which in turn was bolted to the floor. “I didn’t know Cox. We literally just met at that thing in high school.”
“And you kept a picture of the two of you in your bedroom for… What is that, fifteen years?”
“I guess.”
“No, you don’t guess,” Kate snapped. “You know. You killed those people, James. You killed them on a mission from the Lawgiver, and all you’re doing right now is sacrificing yourself to protect him.
Do you think he’d do the same for you? Do you think for one instant that Elijah Cox would grant you the same courtesy you’re granting him right now?
Because he wouldn’t. Take it from me, Cox will and has thrown people like you under the bus for a Diet Coke and half a smile. ”
James cringed back from her, sobbing and squeezing his eyes shut. “I didn’t kill them. I didn’t do it. I swear. I don’t know Cox. I just met him the one time.”
Kate straightened and stared at him, frustrated. He looked and sounded genuine right now. Genuinely terrified, but still genuine.
“Come on, man,” Marcus said, almost pitying.
“If you help us out, we’ll help you out.
Honestly, buddy, you’re small fry. No offense, but we’re the FBI.
We’ve got better things to do than torment a man whose sister’s killer walked free.
We don’t want you. We want Cox. I’m not gonna blow smoke up your ass.
You’re doing time. But if you can help us strengthen the case against Cox before he goes to trial, then we can work with you.
We can tell the jury you’re not a bad kid.
You’re just a hurt kid who got picked up by a guy who steals hurt and twists it to his own evil purposes.
Believe me, fifteen to twenty-five is a hell of a lot better than life without parole.
And, I mean, these are killers, right? Why throw your life away for a killer? ”
James’s shoulders fell. He sobbed some more and mumbled, “I don’t know him. I wish I did. I wish I could tell you where he is right now so you’d know I’m not lying.”
Kate sighed and dropped her head to her chest. “He’s in prison.”
“Oh, yeah, I mean… Shit, I don’t know what I mean.
I just didn’t kill anyone. I wanted to help people.
Look at my website. Yeah, I know I said some shit, but I help people.
I raise money. I put them in touch with support groups.
I fight for convictions. And you didn’t find a knife, right? No weapons?”
Kate and Marcus shared a look. That was true.
After Whitmore’s arrest, Chicago PD had turned the apartment inside out.
They’d found a few more crosses and a diary with some vague references to retribution but no murder weapon.
Once more, they had a wealth of circumstantial evidence but nothing definite.
And he was sticking steadfastly to the story that he was innocent and his “relationship” with Cox was nothing more than a brief high school visit and a picture.
Except he still had that picture, and he used commandments to justify murder. It had to be him.
Marcus got to his feet. “We’ll give you some time to think,” he told James. “Our offer stands. Help us connect this to Cox, and we make things as easy on you as we can.”
They left the interrogation room and joined Whitaker behind the two-way mirror.
Whitaker was scowling, just as upset as they were that this wasn’t going their way.
“Look, guys, we need something soon, or we’re gonna start catching heat.
I’m not blaming you for that. It’s on us too.
But if we don’t get anything more than some shitty social media posts and a fifteen-year-old picture of him with a murderer who’s currently icing his balls in solitary, then we’re gonna have to let him go after twenty-four hours. ”
Kate ran her hands through her hair. “It’s got to be him. It all fits. It’s like Cinderella’s slipper. Connection to Cox, connection to the commandments, connection to the victims…”
“Not really connection to the victims,” Marcus said. “That’s tangential.”
“And that’s the part that the DA is going to bring up when he tells us to pull our heads out our asses and clean the shit from out our nose,” Whitaker added eloquently.
Kate kept her hands on top of her head and shook it. “It just has to be him. It can’t fit this perfectly and not be the truth.”
Whitaker glanced at Marcus. He sighed and looked at Kate with the patient, sympathizing look that she knew meant only one thing. “I’m not obsessing, Marcus. Look at the evidence. How can it not be him?”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Marcus said.
“Only that we have to be realistic. Whitaker’s right, and you know he is.
That picture of Cox and the crap he’s posted online all look good, but without hard evidence, it’s not enough.
People wrote love letters to Ted Bundy, and every Reddit thread about politics has people advocating for vigilante murder, but it’s not enough to throw them in jail. ”
“There’s also the fact that the guy’s what? Six-three?” Whitaker added. “I thought the killer’s supposed to be short.”
“He could have dropped to his knees to deliver the blow,” Kate said.
“Okay, but we still don’t have hard evidence. Be honest, Kate. Would you go to trial with this?”
Kate frowned. Her breakthrough was breaking apart right in front of her.
Marcus was right about the evidence, and beyond that, James no longer seemed to fit the profile as well as he had when they first spoke with him.
He had all the signs of a disciple of Cox’s, but once her was in custody, those signs evaporated, and he became nothing more than a scared man in over his head.
Could that really be all he was? Was the picture of Cox really just coincidence? But if it was, then where was their killer? Was it Hartwell after all? What was Kate missing?
The door opened, and a pale-faced cop poked his fact into the room. “Sam,” he said to Detective Whitaker. “It’s Captain Dennison.”
Whitaker’s mouth dropped open. “Denny? Was it…”
The officer nodded. “Same MO.”
Whitaker heaved a sigh and dropped his chin to his chest. “Oh, Christ.”
“What?” Marcus asked. “What happened?”
“Retired police captain just got done,” Whitaker said. “Same MO as Hammond and Santos.”
The world shifted. Kate’s throat thickened, and it took two tries for her to ask, “When?”
Whitaker looked at the reporting officer. He shook his head. “I don’t know. Laura just called it in. Says the blood hasn’t dried yet, so it can’t be more than a few hours ago.”
Marcus’s head dropped. The world tilted again, and Kate had to spread her legs to keep from falling over.
It wasn’t Whitmore. The picture of Cox, the references to the commandments, the violent past, the gloating over the victims: none of it mattered. Kate had been utterly convinced of an utter untruth.
And while she was pursuing the wrong lead, another person had been murdered.