Chapter 43
HAND ME THAT FILE,” Chambers said, flapping his hand at Ron Fleury, the junior agent he had dragged into the case. “Not that one, for Chrissakes, the other one.”
He took the file from the proffered hand and slapped it down on the grubby Formica table the three of them were working around.
The table, located in a cheerless, windowless room in the basement of the Louisiana FO, was strewn with documents, files, and photographs.
Chambers had corralled Fleury, along with an archivist, to help him pull files and sort through boxes, while a tech guy hammered away at an IBM computer, looking for more potential Wickman homicides.
Chambers knew he was acting like a dick, but he didn’t care.
Pendergast had put him in a foul mood. He’d ignored the fact that Chambers was the mentor and senior partner; he had a penchant for going off on wild goose chases at the drop of a hat—and worst of all, he’d landed the both of them in hot water with Estevez.
It was almost impossible to have Pendergast’s back when the guy operated with no regard for protocols or even common sense.
And now he’d effectively left Chambers to do all the grunt work in this cinder-block prison, digging up leads on who might have killed Wickman, while he was out tilting at windmills.
It was obvious Wickman had been murdered in a revenge killing by a family member or friend of one of his victims: the cutting off of Wickman’s arm was proof of that, a clear message of vengeance—and that was Chambers’s focus now.
He’d decided to first comb through the cases they’d already pinned on Wickman, looking for likely suspects.
If that didn’t yield some leads, he intended to follow through by chasing down more Wickman murders and looking at those cases—which promised to be a long and tedious process.
He needed to find someone who knew, or at least suspected, Wickman to have ghosted a friend or relative—but one who’d rather handle it himself than report his suspicions to the authorities.
He flipped open the file he’d just been handed.
The man in the black-and-white photograph paper-clipped to the folder stared back at him: Nicholas Mabley, Husser, Louisiana.
This was the case they’d picked up from the Tangipahoa Parish Sheriff’s Office—one of the first cases they’d linked to Wickman.
Mabley was ripped, with sandy-colored hair, a big square jawline, pale killer eyes, a brutal face.
And a scar on his cheek that looked like it had been made with a knife.
The guy was supposed to be mobbed up. Wickman had killed him and made it look like a mob killing to fool law enforcement.
And it had—until he and Pendergast had come along.
He flipped through the details. The guy had been tied to a chair, gagged, tortured, beaten up, then shanked in the heart.
Drugged with flunitrazepam. Only the right arm, it seemed, had been left untouched.
And those weird pinpricks—Wickman’s signature.
Christ, it was so crazy, so senseless. Why Pendergast thought there was any use in figuring out Wickman’s motivations for killing people and messing with their arms was beyond him.
He paged through the file. This was a real possibility.
If Mabley had been a wiseguy, a revenge killing would be the likely outcome.
These were the kind of people to retaliate in their own way—and send a message in the process.
He turned to the autopsy report, flipping through it, recalling the specific details they had noted earlier.
No wife or widow. The body had been released to the family, a brother, for cremation.
He moved on to Mabley’s biography. The guy was in the vending machine business—cigarettes.
A mobbed-up trade if there ever was one: all cash, territories to defend, threats to be made, arms and legs to break.
Mabley had a criminal record, although he’d managed to avoid prison time.
Criminal tax evasion, assault, a firearm misdemeanor…
and each time, an expensive lawyer had gotten him off.
He felt his heart accelerate as he went through the file.
This was a strong lead, for sure. He paused, checking dates, building a timeline in his head.
They had linked the Mabley killing to a serial killer five days ago.
The next day, the sheriff’s department had sent a bereavement messenger to the next of kin telling him his brother was not a victim of a gangland slaying, as previously thought, but of a serial killer.
That killing had taken place two years ago.
At the time, a younger brother, Lucius Mabley, lived in Natchez.
Chambers jotted down the date. Just a day after the family had been notified, Wickman had been murdered, his arm cut off, and his house burned down.
Quick work.
He dove back into the file, fished out the document labeled FAMILY.
There wasn’t much on Lucius Mabley: the investigation had been thin.
There was an old photo of Lucius, and if anything he looked even meaner, tougher, and bigger than his older brother.
Just the kind of guy who would take things into his own hands.
Damn, this was looking better and better.
“Hey,” he called to the guy on the personal computer, “see if there’s a Mabley still living on Clifton Avenue in Natchez, Mississippi.”
A moment later, the tech guy said, “Yup, still there, Lucius Mabley, 346 Clifton.”
“Agent Fleury?” Chambers said, turning.
The junior agent turned toward him. “Yes, sir?”
It was now after six. Chambers pushed the document on Lucius Mabley toward Fleury. “We need to question this guy—tomorrow. Give him a call and see if he’ll agree to meet with us voluntarily. Tell him it’s a routine follow-up on his brother’s murder, that we’ve got some new information for him.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fleury. “Will you need me to come along?” There was a hopeful, even eager, tone in the agent’s voice that Chambers liked.
“Sure, why not—if my partner Pendergast can’t make it.”