Hour Game (39 page)

K
ING HAD ALREADY LEFT IN A RENTAL CAR BY THE TIME
Todd Williams called Michelle with the news of Jean Robinson’s death. When she arrived at the stricken home, it was surrounded with police and emergency vehicles. Neighbors stared terrified from windows and porches. There was not a child to be seen anywhere. The three Robinson children had gone to a nearby relative’s home with their father.

Michelle found Williams, Sylvia and Bailey in the master bedroom; all three were staring down at the former lady of the house.

Michelle recoiled slightly as she saw what had been done to the woman.

Sylvia looked over at her, and nodded in understanding. “Stigmata.”

Jean Robinson’s palms and feet had been mutilated as though to resemble the markings of Jesus on the cross. And her body had been laid out too, like the son of God on that piece of chiseled wood.

Bailey said wearily, “Bobby Joe Lucas. He did the exact same thing to fourteen women in Kansas and Missouri in the early 1970s, after raping them.”

“I’m pretty certain no rape occurred here,” said Sylvia.

“I wasn’t suggesting that. Lucas died of a heart attack in prison in 1987. And her nightgown is missing according to the husband. That would fit our killer’s M.O.”

“Where’s Sean?” asked Williams.

“Out getting some questions answered.”

Bailey looked at her suspiciously. “Where?”

“Don’t really know.”

“I didn’t think Batman went anywhere without Robin,” said the FBI agent sarcastically.

Before Michelle could fire back a response, Williams said, “Well, can’t you call him? He’ll want to know about this.”

“His cell phone was broken during the chase with Roger Canney. He hasn’t replaced it yet.”

“I’m sure he’ll hear about this soon enough,” said Sylvia. “Bad news always travels faster than good.”

“Where’s the husband?”

Williams answered, “With the kids. He was on the road when it happened. He’s a salesman with a high-tech outfit. He said he got a call from his wife’s cell phone a little before one o’clock this morning. The voice said his wife was dead. He tried calling her cell phone back but there was no answer. Then he tried calling the house but the line wasn’t working. We later found the wires had been cut. So he called 911.”

“When did Robinson arrive here?”

“About an hour after my men. He was on his way to Washington for a sales conference.”

“He likes to travel pretty late at night.”

“He said he wanted to put his kids to bed and spend time with his wife before he left,” answered Bailey.

“Any reason to suspect him?” asked Michelle.

“Other than that there was no forced entry, none that we can see,” replied Williams.

“And no one saw anything?” she asked.

“There were only the three kids here. The infant of course can’t help us. The oldest boy—”

A female deputy rushed into the room. “Chief, I just finished interviewing Tommy, the middle child. He said his father was in the house last night when he woke up. He doesn’t know what
time it was. He said his father told him he forgot something, to go back to bed.”

At this instant another deputy burst in. “We found something in the plumb pipe in the basement.”

They placed the Baggie taken from the plumb pipe on the dining room table and observed its contents through the clear material.

“St. Christopher’s medal, belly ring, gold anklet, belt buckle and an amethyst ring,” inventoried Williams.

“All the things taken from each of the first five victims,” said Bailey.

Williams immediately turned to one of his deputies. “I want Harold Robinson taken into custody right now.”

K
ING’S FIRST STOP HAD BEEN A PHYSICIAN FRIEND OF HIS IN
Lynchburg who was also a well-respected pathologist. They’d gone over Battle’s autopsy results very carefully. A more detailed report had been prepared by Sylvia, which included the toxicology results and microscopic examination of Battle’s brain tissue.

“From the gross finding of the unusual wrinkling on the thoracic aorta and the microscopic lesions on the brain, I certainly can’t discount it, Sean,” said his learned friend. “Those certainly are telltale signs of the disease.”

“One more question,” said King. “Can it affect the fetus?”

“Do you mean can it cross the placenta? Absolutely.”

King’s next stop was UVA Hospital, where he met with a professor in the pharmacology department. This was really what had started it all going in his mind.

He quickly received confirmation of his suspicions.

The professor informed him that “a person who abuses strong narcotics builds up a tolerance to them. Over time the desired effect is diminished, and higher doses of the drugs are required to achieve the desired result.”

King had thanked him and went back to his car.
Well, I certainly know someone who’s been taking strong narcotics: Dorothea.

His next target was an antique shop in Charlottesville’s downtown mall area that he’d been to several times. With the shop owner’s help he found the object he was looking for.

“It’s a cipher disk,” explained the owner. He pointed to the round piece of metal that had an outer ring of letters and an inner one. “You can decode encrypted messages that way. You move the rings to line up the two sets of letters:
a
for
e, s
for
w
and so on.”

“And if you’re off by one letter or one
tick,
the whole meaning of the message changes? One tick off?”

“That’s a good way to phrase it. One tick off and the whole thing changes.”

“You just don’t know how unbelievably satisfying that is.” King purchased the cipher disk and left, the curious owner staring after him.

A little later he was speaking with Bobby Battle’s private physician, a prominent doctor in the area and a man he knew well.

He discussed the results of the autopsy with the gentleman, who looked at the report very carefully and then took off his wire-rim glasses and said cautiously, “I’ve only been his doctor the last twenty years, you know.”

“But you’ve noted changes?”

“In his personality, yes, I suppose. But he was getting on in years. Half my patients have personality changes when they get to that age.”

“But in Bobby’s case did you suspect that was the cause?”

“Not necessarily. Usually, it’s a case of mild dementia or the beginnings of Alzheimer’s. Obviously, I didn’t have the benefit of a postmortem exam.”

“Did you run any tests while he was seeing you?”

“The symptoms weren’t extreme, and you know what he was like. If he didn’t want any tests run, none would be. However, these autopsy results could indicate he’d reached an advanced stage. I emphasize the word
could.
”

“Did you ever talk to Remmy about it?”

“It wasn’t my place and I had no hard proof. I suspected she knew that something was amiss,” he hastily added.

“Yet they had Savannah.”

“Typically, penicillin has been very effective against the disease. And the fact is, Savannah is hale and hearty.”

“If Bobby had it, how long could it have been in his body?”

“Decades. It’s chronic. It can have a long evolution in the body if left untreated.”

“So he might have contracted it after he had Savannah?”

“Or he could have had it before. In the late stage it’s not sexually transmittable, so even if he had it when Savannah was conceived, there would have been no danger for the fetus.”

“Yet Remmy could have contracted it.”

“I don’t know her doctor, but if she had, I’d imagine she would have sought treatment.”

King spoke with the doctor for several more minutes, then thanked the man and left.

He had one more stop to make. He phoned ahead to make sure the shop was open. Two hours later he was pulling into a parking garage in downtown D.C. Minutes after that he was walking into a very special retail store, where he spoke for some time with one of the employees there.

“It’ll do the job?” King asked the employee, holding up the piece of equipment the man had given him in response to his request.

“Without a doubt.”

King drove back to his houseboat, a big smile on his face. As he’d learned over the years, information was
king.

He’d just walked into his houseboat when he heard footsteps outside. He looked out the window and saw Michelle hustling toward the dock.

He stepped outside as she ran up to him.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said.

“What’s up?”

“They think they found the killer.”

King looked at her in bewilderment. “What? Who?”

“Come on, there’s a lot you need to be filled in on.”

They ran for her truck.

“A
ND THE LITTLE BOY’S
CERTAIN
IT WAS HIS FATHER?” ASKED
King for the third time.

They were at police headquarters going over the events at the Robinson house the night before.

“That’s what he said,” answered Williams. “I don’t know why he’d lie about it.”

“But he told you he was at the top of the stairs looking down into the dark.”

“His father spoke to him. Knew his name, his brother’s name, and that there was a baby upstairs and even the name of Tommy’s stuffed animal. Who else could it be?” King didn’t respond; he sat back and fiddled with a pen he was holding.

Williams continued. “And we found all the items taken from each of the five murder victims in the man’s house.”

“Any prints on them?” asked King sharply.

“None. But that hardly surprises me. We haven’t found fingerprints at any of the other crime scenes either.”

“Pretty convenient, leaving all the evidence at his house.”

“No, we were damn lucky to stumble on it. My deputy only noticed it because the cap was screwed on crooked while the other pipe caps were on straight. He was down there looking for ways the guy got in and spotted it.”

“What’s Robinson’s story?”

“He left the house at midnight and was almost halfway to D.C. when he got the phone call.”

“He didn’t stop anywhere?”

“No. His wife’s cell phone did ring on his at that time. We checked. But he could have been standing right in his house and done that with both phones.”

“Yet he showed up over an hour after you got to the house?” said King stubbornly.

“So he drove around all that time giving himself an alibi. And he really didn’t seem all that choked up that his wife was dead. He took the kids and went to a relative’s house.”

“And his motivation for killing all those people?”

“He’s a serial killer disguised as a dad in the burbs. It wouldn’t be the first time. He picked his victims out and did them.”

“But what about the connection between Deaver, Canney and Battle?”

“Coincidence, or the connection was wrong.”

“And the theory of why he killed his wife?” persisted King.

“Maybe she suspected him,” offered Bailey. “And he had to take her out before those suspicions became dangerous, and he tried to tie it to the serial killings. The guy’s on the road alone a lot at night, perfect for a serial killer. Right now we’re looking into his whereabouts at the time each of the murders took place. It was a risk, killing her in his own home. But he might have felt he had no choice. Had his kid not seen him, we never would have suspected.”

“Yep, my gut tells me he’s our guy,” said Williams.

“Yet his son talks to him and the boy’s still alive?” said King.

Bailey answered, “Maybe even an animal like that has his limits. Or maybe he thought his son was half-asleep and wouldn’t remember the conversation, or that no one would believe him if the boy did tell someone. You’re a lawyer. A defense counsel could have a field day with a kid that young.”

King sat back in exasperation while Bailey eyed him closely. “Your partner said you were out doing some investigating of your own. Find anything?”

There was just enough mirth behind the FBI agent’s question
to make King want to strangle the man. As if sensing this, Michelle, for once, put a calming hand on his shoulder.

“Just be cool,” she whispered under her breath.

“Is this where I’m supposed to say, ‘Screw you, Michelle’?” he muttered back.

Instead, he stood and said, “Well, if he
is
the guy, I congratulate you. Just keep us informed.” He took out his deputy badge. “Do you want this back,
Chief
?”

“No. It’s not
officially
over until we get a confession or some more evidence.”

“Good, because I like being a deputy right now. In fact, it might come in handy.”

He walked out.

“Talk about your sour grapes,” said Bailey.

Michelle immediately rose to her partner’s defense. “We don’t know for sure Robinson is the guy.”

“Well, we’re fast approaching that point,” Bailey replied.

Michelle stood to leave.

“Oh, Michelle,” said Bailey, “be sure and keep us informed of any more
progress
you two make. I’m sure it’ll prove invaluable to the investigation.”

“Chip, that’s the smartest thing you’ve said since I met you.”

She followed King outside.

“So what do you think?” she asked.

“I think we’ll let them keep Robinson locked up. He’ll probably be safer in jail.”

“But you don’t think he did it?”

“No, I
know
he didn’t do it.”

“But you know who did?”

“I’m getting there. Did you have a chance to talk to the Battles?”

“Not after all this went down. Do you still want me to?”

King thought for a moment, his hand tapping the roof of her truck as he did so.

“No, we’ll just cut to the main course. We’re running out of time.”

“You think he’ll kill again?”

“He’s arranged it so the police think the killer’s locked up in jail. That’s his way out. Even so, odds are Robinson must have an alibi for at least one of the murders. But the longer we wait, the less chance we have of nailing the real murderer.”

“If he won’t strike again, why keep Robinson in jail?”

“Because if he gets out, I’m convinced he’ll be found in some alley with a bullet in his brain and a handy note clutched in his cold, dead hand that reads, ‘I did it.’ ”

“So what do we do now?”

King opened the door of her truck. “Now it’s time to take our best shot. And hope to God it’s a knockout.”