“Okay, to be clear, at least until ten-thirty or so she hadn’t left her house?” said Decker. “And you never heard the car start up, at least until you went to bed around eleven?”
“I thought I just said that. Are you slow?”
“That’s great,” said Jamison quickly. “Mrs. Bates, you’ve been very helpful.”
“Okay, glad to do my civic duty.” She jerked her thumb at Decker and said in a low voice to Jamison, “I think the FBI needs better consultants. But you keep doing what you’re doing, honey. Nice to see a gal agent.”
“Thanks,” said Jamison, trying hard to suppress a smile.
They left Bates and headed back to the street.
Decker said, “If Richards walked, she could have gotten to the Residence Inn in time to kill Hawkins. And she clearly could have if she took a cab.”
“If she took a cab, we’ll be able to find any record of it. I suppose they don’t have Uber here?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
They tried the other two homes, but no one answered their knocks.
“Bottom line is we haven’t eliminated Richards as a suspect for Hawkins’s murder,” noted Decker.
“But do you really think she might have done it?”
“She has the most direct motive, but there are a lot of obstacles in the way. How she would know he was back in town being foremost among them.”
“You don’t think he would have gone to see her?”
“How would Hawkins even know where she lived? Lancaster didn’t tell him, I know that. And if he was innocent of the murders he wouldn’t have gone there to apologize.”
“You can Google someone’s address easily enough,” said Jamison.
“He just got out of prison and was terminally ill. I’m not sure I see the guy walking around with a computer and an Internet connection. Or finding one all that easily.”
“But he might have gone to get some info from her, especially if he thought she did it.”
Decker shook his head. “No, Hawkins knew from the trial that she had a firm alibi.” He paused and added thoughtfully, “Theoretically, she could have hired someone to do it for her, though there was absolutely no evidence of that. But we still arrive back at the problem with motive. With her husband around, she could stay home and raise the kids. She never got remarried, there was no boyfriend waiting in the wings. She didn’t get rich off her family’s murders. I just don’t see it. And no way she was going to kill her own kids.”
“I agree,” admitted Jamison.
“There’s one guy we can talk to who might be able to tell us more.”
“Who’s that?”
“Ken Finger.”
“Ken Finger? How does he figure into this?”
“He was Hawkins’s public defender.”
“Is he still around?”
“Let’s go find out.”
Chapter 8
KEN FINGER WAS INDEED STILL AROUND.
Decker had finally reached Lancaster, and she arranged to meet them at Finger’s office, which was located a block over from the downtown courthouse.
His secretary, Christine Burlin, a woman in her midforties, met their request with a stern look. “Mr. Finger is very busy at present,” she said when confronted with Decker, Jamison, and Lancaster.
Lancaster took out her badge. “I think Ken can make some time for this.”
Burlin stared at the badge far longer than was needed.
“Come on, Christine,” said an exasperated Lancaster. “It’s not like you don’t know who I am. Some of your kids go to the same school as Sandy. And you know Decker as well from working with Ken.”
“Well, I try to maintain a professional atmosphere at work, Detective Lancaster.”
“I’m all for professional,” said Decker. “So where’s Ken?”
Burlin looked up at him. “I heard you were back in town for a few days,” she said. “You still working for the FBI?” Decker nodded and she looked at Jamison. “I remember you too. I take it you’re still consulting with the Bureau?”
“I’m actually a special agent now,” said Jamison.
“That’s a strange career change, from journalist to FBI agent.”
“Not that strange,” replied Jamison.
“Why?”
“An FBI agent looks to find the truth and make sure the right people are punished. A journalist digs to find the truth and makes sure the public knows about it, and that sometimes leads to bad people being punished.”
“Hmmm,” said Burlin, looking skeptical of this. “I guess that could be.”
“Where’s Ken?” said Decker impatiently. “We’re wasting crucial time here.”
Burlin frowned. “I see that you haven’t changed one bit.” She picked up her desk phone and made the call.
A few moments later she escorted them into Finger’s office. It was large with ample windows. His desk was constructed of dark wood with a leather top. It was strewn with books, legal pads, files, and stapled pleadings. A large bookshelf held old law books and red file folders, neatly labeled. There were chairs set around a coffee table. A credenza against one wall was set up as a bar, and also held two large glass jars of M&M’s. Ken Finger sat behind his desk.
Finger had only been about thirty when he had defended Hawkins against a capital murder charge. There apparently had been no other takers who wanted to defend in court the man charged with brutally murdering two men and two kids.
He was now in his forties and worked as a defense attorney for those who needed it. And in Burlington, like most towns, there were a great many who needed his services. His tidy brown hair was turning gray, as was his trim beard. His pleated trousers were held up by bright red braces and his white shirt had French cuffs. His striped bow tie was undone and hung limply around his wattled neck. His belly stuck out from between the braces.
He rose and greeted them, motioning them over to the seating area around the coffee table.
“I guess I know why you’re here,” he said, after Burlin closed the door behind her.
“Guess you do,” replied Lancaster.
“How the hell are you, Decker?” Finger said.
“Okay,” said Decker as he sat down. “So you’ve heard?”
“How could I not? Burlington’s not that big. And although it’s not like the attack on the high school when you lived here, it’s still newsworthy when a convicted murderer comes back to town and then gets murdered.”
Lancaster said, “Had he come to see you?”
Finger shook his head. “Hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since he went to prison.”
“You never visited him there?” asked Jamison.
“Well, I take that back. I did go visit him there because we filed an appeal, but it was turned down flat. I mean, we didn’t really have any grounds for an appeal. If anything, the judge went out of his way to accommodate us. And the jury could have returned a death sentence, but they didn’t. I actually told Meryl that his escaping the death penalty was the best he could expect. Why make waves?”
“Were you convinced of his guilt?” asked Lancaster.