Once Lang is off to his interview, I spend some time listening to the team talk about cameras and vehicle identification among other investigative topics. It’s a subject that reminds me of the bag of gravel in my bag that needs to make it to forensics in another building. I excuse myself from the group and find my way to that empty cubicle to call Wade. As expected, considering he’s teaching a class, I leave a message. “I owe you in many, many ways, Agent Miller. Thank you, Wade.” I disconnect and turn to exit the cubicle to find Officer Jackson standing in my path.
“Do you have a second?”
“Of course.” The words are welcoming, but my arms fold in front of me, that off feeling with him still clear and present.
“I disappointed you last night.”
My arms fall to my sides, finger instantly jabbing in the air in his direction. “What you did was invite me to shoot you. You don’t break from a command on an active murder scene. You don’t pop up in front of a detective who’s chasing a killer while she’s chasing a killer.”
“I thought I was protecting you.” His voice lifts defensively. “I tried to have your back.”
“And yet you weren’t where I asked you to be to watch my back when I exited the bedroom.”
His defense is instant. “In the army and on the street—”
“There are procedures for both. You have potential, but you know what you made me do? I had them investigate you this morning. You were in the same place as the killer.”
“What?” He pales. “I—no. God. No. I was—”
“I could have killed you,” I repeat. “Do you understand?”
“What if he would have killed you because I didn’t show up to help you?”
My lips press together. He has a point, but he disappeared from where he was supposed to be and reappeared in a place where The Poet had led me. “If I tell you to hold a position, hold it.”
“Understood. I’m sorry. I know it looks bad, but I want to learn. I want to do more.”
In that moment, I believe him. Maybe I’m overreacting. My first instinct about him was a good one, but last night, my gut shifted. “I appreciate what you tried to do. I do. Just—”
“Believe me,” he says, holding up his hands. “I won’t invite you to shoot me again.”
“Well,” I say, my lips quirking, “that’s definitely a good plan.”
We laugh and exchange a few more words before he heads back to the conference room. I’m left wondering why I’m bothered by Jackson at all. Newman’s The Poet.
Chapter 50
Before returning to the conference room, I try to call Newman’s wife.
Of course, her voicemail picks up, and I don’t leave a message. If by some unlikely chance Newman hasn’t gotten to her yet, I’m not going to give her a chance to prepare. It’s not long afterward that I begin my interviews. In a matter of two hours, I’ve met with five of the people who attended the poetry night, all of whom had been interviewed by Roberts. All of whom tell me some version of the same thing. It was a fabulous event. The theater is amazing. I can’t believe the man running the event is dead. Some of the attendees knew Summer. They’d frequented past events. None of them knew him personally, and Roberts had already cleared them all. I’m again struck by how well and fast Roberts had worked this case. And once again, I can’t help but wonder how close he got to The Poet.
Throughout the course of the interviews, I find several attendees who noticed the man in the back row who came in right after the lights went low and left before the event ended. Each consistently described him as tall, average build, with longish dark hair and a beard. A detail that’s an illogical match for The Poet, who left behind no discernible evidence at the crime scene. There is natural shedding, and no one with as much hair as the witnesses describe avoids that shedding. In comparison to the man described, Newman is, in fact, tall with an average build. He does indeed have dark hair, but it’s neatly trimmed, and could easily be shoved under a swim cap. He has no facial hair.
By the sixth interview, I have Officer Jackson visiting wig shops with photos of Newman Smith while another tech hits internet locations. Yet another investigator calls stores in the state. He wears a wig and fake facial hair. I’m certain of it. In between all of this, I attempt to contact Newman’s wife again, with no success.
It’s the seventh interview, and my last for the night, that stands out. That interview is with Debra Keyes, who is blonde, pretty, and far more youthful looking than her fifty-five years would suggest.
“Can you tell me about the event?” I ask as I have each interviewee.
“Of course.” She sits up primly, her red dress a bold choice for a police interview, one that is almost too confident to suit me. “I hate that the man was murdered,” she offers, sounding mortified. She reads like a woman above such things as death. “I want to help,” she continues. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell that I didn’t tell Detective Roberts.”
“It helps me to hear it firsthand,” I assure her.
“Okay then. I was on a blind date that night. I didn’t connect well with the guy.”
“Who was your blind date?”
“Ted Bloom.”
I don’t check my notes. I’ve already interviewed Ted, who didn’t mention her. “Are you still seeing him?”
“Oh gosh no. Ted is into poetry and mathematics and lives on zero carbs. The man was fit enough and all, but not enough to make me live like that. I don’t like poetry. I hate math and I live for carbs. I declined another date.”
I’ve read Roberts’s notes. He not only checked out Ted, he seemed to feel he was too scared of his shadow to be a killer. I agree. Additionally, he placed Ted at his mother’s place after dropping off Debra. Debra, in turn, called her ex-boyfriend. Debra the player. Two men, one night.
“Go on,” I urge, leaving her personal life alone. She’s clear. It’s not my business.
“Ted loved the event that night, but it was just odd to me. It was like we were in church.”
Something about that word church resonates with me. “Explain what you mean, please.”
“You know how they keep the bibles behind the seats in church and everyone reaches for a book and reads a verse? That’s how it started. The poetry books were treated like bibles. Except the books were under the seats, on the floor. We all had to read random poems together, in between the solo readers. I hated it.”
Bible.
Church.
Under the seat.