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“The gun’s stolen, okay? Stolen guns make the rounds. I bought it from a pawnshop in Lynchburg two weeks ago. It’s probably changed hands a dozen times in the past year.”
A good point, and one they could not argue with, at least not until the ballistics tests were completed. When they had the proof, though, no jury would believe Qui
Pankovits said, “We found a pair of combat boots in your mini–storage unit. A cheap pair of fake Army surplus, canvas, camouflage, all that crap. They are fairly new and have not been used that much. Why do you need combat boots, Qui
“I have weak ankles.”
“Nice. How often do you wear them?”
“Not often if they’re in storage. I tried them, they rubbed a blister, I forgot about them. What’s the point?”
“The point is that they match a boot print we took from the soil not far from the cabin where Judge Fawcett was murdered,” Pankovits said, lying but doing so effectively. “A match, Qui
Qui
“Four fifty,” Delocke replied.
“I need some sleep.”
“Well, that might be difficult, Qui
“I don’t think I like that jail. Could we try another one?”
“Sorry. Wait till you see death row, Qui
“I ain’t going to death row because I didn’t kill anybody.”
Pankovits said, “Here’s where we are, Qui
Delocke said, “A death penalty case, Qui
Qui
Pankovits laughed, and Delocke, sneering, said, “Is that the best you can do?”
“You got the wrong guy,” Qui
“That sounds pretty lame, Qui
Qui
Pankovits replied, “There are a few gaps. Did you act alone? How did you open the safe? Why did you kill the secretary? What happened to the rest of the money?”
“Can’t help you there. I don’t know nothing about it.”
“You know everything, Qui
“Then I guess we’re going to be here for a long time,” Qui
Both agents stood and picked up their files and notepads. “We’ll take a break, Qui
CHAPTER 15
Though pleased with the progress of the interrogation, Victor Westlake was worried. There were no witnesses, no ballistics report linking Qui
At 6:00 a.m., Pankovits and Delocke returned to the interrogation room. Each had a tall glass with a refill of Red Bull and ice. Qui
Pankovits went first. “Just got off the phone with the U.S. Attorney, Qui
“Congratulations,” Qui
“Sure, but it might take more than one. I’m not sure how much you understand about federal racketeering laws, Qui
Delocke added, “You guys can have your own wing on death row. The Rucker-Beck gang, all lined up, cell to cell, just waiting for the needle.” Delocke was smiling and Pankovits was amused. A couple of comedians.
Qui
Pankovits and Delocke stared at him. Maybe it was fear, or guilt. Maybe it was delirium. Whatever, Qui
“We are telling the truth,” Pankovits managed to say.
“And chalk up another lie. My lawyer will get to the bottom of this. He’ll nail your ass in court, expose you, expose all your lies. Show me the boot print analysis. Now, I want to see it.”
“We’re not authorized to show it to anyone,” Pankovits said.
“How convenient.” Qui
“We’re not authorized—”
“What a surprise. My lawyer’ll get it, whenever and wherever I get to see my lawyer. I’ve asked for him all night, and my rights have been violated.”
“You have not asked for your lawyer,” Delocke said. “You’ve mentioned a lawyer in vague terms, but you have not requested one. And you’ve kept talking.”