The Psalmist (24 page)

 

Chapter 41

W
EDNESDAY,
M
ARCH
22

R
ETRIEVING THE MO
RNING
paper, Luke waved to the state police trooper parked up the road. The trooper—­a large, pleasant woman he recognized but couldn't name—­nodded but didn't wave back. The morning sky was bright and cloudless, the temperature probably pushing fifty degrees, the snow long gone. He heard echoes of ­people who were already at work—­hammering nails, scraping barnacles from boat-­bottoms. The world felt delicate and kind of precious this morning.

He unfolded the paper on the kitchen table. Jackson Pynne was there on the top left-­hand side of the first page:
DEVELOPER HEL
D ON CHARGES.

Charlotte stood at the stove in her moose pajamas, making cheese and mushroom omelets
,
Sneakers at her feet, sleeping soundly. A sweeping symphonic music played from her CD box.

On the top of the right-­hand side, Luke saw:
PRAY
ING WOMAN CASE STILL
A MYSTERY.
The subhead read:
FBI to Take Over Investigation.

“The AP picked up on the story, evidently,” he said. “They're calling her ‘Praying Woman' now.”

“More interesting than mystery woman,” she said, turning down her music.

“I guess.”

“Next stop, the tabloids.”

“Might be good for tourism,” Luke said.

“Maybe.”

She dished the omelets from the skillet onto plates, then set their breakfasts on the table, along with glasses of orange juice and a plate of wheat toast.

“So,” Charlotte said, when she had his attention, “feeling any better?”

“Some. I finally got back to sleep around three-­thirty, I think.”

“Good,” she said. “We'll be fine.”

They ate for a while in silence. It felt funny not being able to talk about the case anymore.

“I feel better with the trooper out there,” Luke finally said.

“Deanna.”

“Must get a little boring for
her
, though.”

“I was going to see if she wanted some breakfast or a cup of coffee.”

“Good idea,” Luke said. “Maybe we could send the opera singer out to entertain her.”

“Too bad he only performs in my parents' basement.”

“Yes. A shame.”

Charlotte looked at Sneakers, lying beneath her, who was snoring faintly. They finished in silence.

H
UNTER DROVE TO
work thinking about the phone call and wondered what the caller's next move might be. It was an added wrinkle: for whatever reason, someone was worried about what Jackson Pynne might say to police if he decided to talk.

At her office she found another voice message from Theresa Kincaid, the AP reporter who'd come up with the “Praying Woman” tag for Kwan Park. Hunter ignored it and went back to the case files. Her phone rang shortly after nine-­thirty. Dave Crowe.

“Think you could you come up to the conference room at ten-­ten?”

“I suppose. Are you here?”

“I'm in the building. This has to go a certain way, Hunter,” he said, his voice sounding comically officious. “ 'Kay? Just trust me on it, I'll fill you in later. But I need you to be with me on this.”

Hunter felt her defenses flare up, and fought the urge to challenge him. At five past ten she dutifully walked down the hallway and up the steps to the small conference room on the second floor. Wendell Stamps was already there, along with Deputy Stilfork, state's attorney investigator Clinton Fogg, and public information officer Kirsten Sparks. Seconds after Crowe closed the door, Sheriff Clay Calvert slipped in and sat at the other end of the table. Hunter felt her neck bristle as he sat down.

“Good morning. Thanks for coming on short notice.” Crowe gave everyone the same quick, all-­business look. “I just want to provide a brief update. As you know, the local paper is reporting that the federal government is taking over the Kwan Park investigation.” He waved a copy of the
Tidewater Times
and dropped it on the table. “Not true,” he said, glancing at Sheriff Calvert and then at Kirsten Sparks. Sparks seemed to be mimicking his facial expressions as he talked. “Just to bring everyone up to speed: the FBI is
not
taking over the Kwan Park investigation. We are offering assistance if and when it's requested. But this is
not
a federal investigation. I've spoken with the local media and we'll be issuing a general press advisory to that effect later today.”

Hunter felt a flash of anger.
Why didn't you just tell me?

“To further elaborate—­and, please, this isn't for the media.” He winked at Sparks, who lowered her eyes and, for some reason, fought back a smile. How long has this been going on? Hunter wondered. “Two things: First, I'm satisfied this is a local crime and that the prosecutor and the local and state investigators”—­here he nodded at Sheriff Calvert, and then at Hunter—­“have that under control. Second, we are currently involved in a separate, ongoing federal case. Completely unrelated to this murder. Kwan Park, the victim here, is—­was—­also a tangential figure in the federal investigation.”

“What sort of federal investigation?” Sheriff Calvert said gruffly, as if perceiving this as some sort of personal affront.

“An ongoing federal fraud and racketeering investigation. I'm not at liberty to go into details.”

“Is it related to this county in any way?” the sheriff asked.

“No, it is not.”

This seemed to appease Sheriff Calvert. Moments later he cleared his throat and then slipped from the room.

“So the numbers found carved into Kwan Park's hand are not part of any larger case, you're saying?” Hunter asked, surprised by the attitude in her own voice.

Crowe's face seemed to tighten. “I don't think they are, no.”

Hunter's heart was racing now.

“Okay?” Crowe looked at each of those in the room, one at a time, his eyes sliding quickly past Hunter. “That's all, then.”

Stamps nodded, Hunter noticed, but in his usual understated manner. Kirsten Sparks seemed to blush as Crowe's eyes stayed with her a little too long.

C
ROWE WALKED DOWN
the hall with his clipped stride, deliberately keeping a step or two ahead of Hunter.

She followed him into her own office and closed the door, angry energies roiling inside of her. Crowe feigned a smile. He settled into her guest chair, folded his hands behind his head.

“Why didn't you just tell me this?” she said. “You know this is my investigation.”

“I asked you to bear with me, Hunter. I told you I'd explain later.”

Hunter remained standing.

“Why is the Bureau trying to shut down the larger case? I don't understand that.”

“We're not.”

“Sure you are.”

“We've got to protect
our
case, Amy. Nothing more than that. I'm trying to keep this going a certain way.”

“I can see that.”

Hunter finally sat. But she didn't cool down.

“Let me take a wild guess here,” she said. “The Bureau doesn't want the embezzlement story out there because it might make Trumble seem like the victim?”

“Something like that.”

“And you think maybe that's how Trumble
wants
this to play? That's how he wants his story told? He wants to come off looking like a victim? Victim of Jackson Pynne and Kwan Park? And you think that story is a form of misdirection.”

Crowe shrugged. “You're good,” he said.

Hunter looked out at the pine trees. “So
was
Kwan Park embezzling money from Trumble's organization?” she asked. “And was Jackson Pynne part of the deal? And did they then have some sort of fight over it? Is that what you're thinking now?”

“It's the $64,000 question, isn't it? I can't answer it yet. I'd like to ask Pynne about it. But, as you know, he won't talk with me, or the sheriff. Or the state police. He won't talk with anyone.”

“Except the pastor.”

“Right, so I hear.”

“But, just to be clear,” Hunter said. “We
do
have four murders that are clearly related. Right? As we discussed the other night.”

“I
don't
know that,” he said.

Hunter took a deep breath, wondering what else he wasn't saying. Crowe was like two ­people—­one a player, the other a suit of armor. The difference, usually, was a ­couple of drinks.

“Look,” he said, “you're smarter than these ­people, Hunter. We both know that. I've gone into lots of little jurisdictions like this over the years where someone's in a power play and doesn't want to let go. The Bureau's not getting into the middle of that here. We can't. Let it play itself out. Just let the case go forward. If there are others, we'll take them one at a time. That's the way this needs to go down. There are a lot of moving parts to this thing.”

Hunter felt a fresh surge of anger. He was getting pressure from Washington to pursue the Trumble case a certain way, she suspected.
That's
what this was really about.

“Tell me the rest, then,” she said. “Does this have something to do with your informants? Tell me what's really going on.”

“I will,” he said. “In time.” He sat up straighter and gave her a flinty look. “Okay?”

Then he slapped his hands on his thighs simultaneously to punctuate the conversation, stood and walked away.

Motherfucker, Hunter thought, watching him go.

But she said nothing. And afterward she was glad she hadn't. Although it had been mighty tempting.

 

Chapter 42

H
UNTER SAT IN
Wendell Stamps's waiting room while he finished a phone call. Hearing him say, several times, “I want to do everything I can to help you, Everett, you know that.”

“The Wait” was part of the state's attorney's style. Hunter, like everyone else, was used to it.

She'd studied the case files that afternoon as if cramming for a final exam, but something about this still felt unwinnable. Being right wasn't enough; she had to prove it in a convincing way, which seemed all but impossible as long as the state's attorney wouldn't consider linking this case to the other three.

Finally, at 3:41, Wendell Stamps called her in. His large glass-­topped desk was polished and immaculate, as usual. He stood and nodded as she sat, but in a detached way, as if his thoughts were still with the phone call. Or maybe with his next order of business.

“Let me just say at the outset, Amy,” he began, “that I don't want any bad blood between us. I just think we need to move forward in the most efficient and effective manner possible. I want us all to be on the same team here.”

Hunter nodded. He'd taken her line about being on the same team, one of Stamps's favorite techniques. Calling her “Amy” was a calculated touch, too; it was as if they were not only teammates now, but also friends. Stamps was a shrewd prosecutor and a good judge of character. Unlike the sheriff, there was no question Stamps would be reelected in November. Sheriff Calvert was a maverick, who rubbed some ­people the wrong way and drew oddball challengers every election. The state's attorney was even-­tempered and diplomatic, cordial with everyone. No one had bothered to run against him for his past three elections.

He presented the case much as Hunter expected, beginning with the morning of the crime: Jackson Pynne's truck was seen parked by the church about an hour before Kwan Park's body was discovered. His shoe prints and DNA were later found at both the church and at the alleged murder scene on Oyster Creek. The truck was recovered from a parking lot up on the highway. Boots matching the shoe prints were discovered in the garage at Jackson Pynne's town house.

The state's attorney spoke clearly and convincingly, as if rehearsing his opening argument to a jury, which Hunter supposed he was. After presenting the evidence, he explained Jackson Pynne's motive: Pynne and Kwan Park had been lovers, but their relationship was troubled. The prosecution would produce a coworker from the convenience store in Ohio who had witnessed them arguing in front of the store days before she disappeared. On Monday they met at a parking lot near the Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport, where Kwan Park left her car, and then drove together to the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Five hundred twenty-­six miles, a ten-­hour drive. They arrived at the cottages on Oyster Creek late Monday afternoon or early evening. They got into a fight that evening over their plans for the future. It escalated, became violent; he shot her and beat her. Pynne then loaded her into his pickup truck and drove back to the Western Shore. But feeling remorse, he returned early Tuesday morning, taking her to the Methodist church, which Pynne had once attended, where he left her body.

“That's where we are,” he said, folding his hands.

Hunter nodded.

“The problem is, it's too perfect,” she said. “And there are too many details you're leaving out.”

Wendell Stamps lifted one eyebrow slightly, meaning,
Go ahead, tell me what you've got
. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his fingers tented.

Good, Hunter thought. He's open.

“There's no evidence, for instance, that her body was ever in his pickup truck.”

“That's right,” Stamps said. “But we
are
able to place the truck in front of the church Tuesday morning, as you know. And we've got the shoe prints and cigarette butts at both scenes. And the boots in his town house.”

“The boots weren't his,” Hunter said. “Both the boots and the cigarette butts were planted. And with a little more time to process evidence we'll be able to show that conclusively.”

Stamps nodded, seeming unconcerned. “But is that just him talking, or can any of that be proved?”

“We will be able to prove it, sir. We just need a little more time.

Stamps watched her, but said nothing.

“You're also leaving out the fact that she was beaten postmortem,” she continued. “That wouldn't follow from a fight that ‘escalated.' Nor does it indicate there was any remorse afterward.”

The state's attorney tilted his head as if these were unimportant distinctions. “Remorse following passion,” he said. “He's a volatile character. We both know that.” Hunter saw his eyes studying her, showing nothing. “Go on,” he said.

“And the idea that he left cigarette butts behind? If he was otherwise so careful not to leave fingerprints or DNA, would he really leave cigarette butts at both locations?”

“Why would someone want to frame him, though?” Stamps asked.

“That's the larger story, sir. I believe this killing is connected to a dispute over a complicated embezzling operation, and that Pynne was the man chosen to take the fall. We need a little more time to pursue that angle.”

Stamps sighed, a long drawn-­out sound. “Again,” he said, “if we had any evidence to indicate that might be true, I'd be only too happy to consider it. You know that.”

“You have no evidence showing he was in Cincinnati Monday, either,” she said. This, she thought, was among the most speculative parts of his case. “No surveillance video, no witnesses.”

“And there's no video showing he was in Washington on Monday.”

“But there will be,” Hunter said, her eyes going anxiously to the clock. “We're working on that. There are still hours of tape to go through.”

“Either way, we know he was
here
early Tuesday morning. And that he left evidence at both crime scenes.”

“No, sir, we don't.” Hunter took a breath. “My concern is that we're rushing into this before we've had time to process all of the potential evidence.”

He breathed elaborately.

“And what if the defense brings up those numbers carved into her hand?” Hunter continued. “How do you respond? What do the numbers mean?”

“Who knows?” He was growing impatient, Hunter could see. “You know, a character study of Jackson Pynne bears out the fact that he's a rather unusual fellow. Generous one minute, angry and delusional the next. And, of course, logic and order don't always explain motives in murder cases. I don't have to tell you that. ”

Hunter nodded, seeing that he was giving her a peek at the rest of his prosecution: they were going to put Jackson Pynne's odd personality on trial—­his anger problem, his obsessive-­compulsiveness, the occasional delusions of grandeur.

“And the other three cases?”

“Not germane,” Stamps said. “We just don't have strong enough evidence tying any of them together.” He opened his hands for a moment. “Although in the case of the wax museum, it turns out Pynne does have a connection to that part of Delaware, doesn't he? He used to live one town over.” Hunter nodded; she didn't realize he knew this. “But those other cases, that's something of a Pandora's box, Amy—­which we don't need to open right now.”

“But when the defense brings up the numbers in her hand, what do you say? What if they're able to tie them to these other cases?”

Stamps said nothing at first. This, she had thought, was probably her best argument. The state's attorney's reaction wasn't what she'd expected, though; instead of engaging with her, his eyes glazed over and he leaned back.

“I don't know, a red herring? Like we thought from the beginning.”

“Why, though?” He lifted a corner of his mouth, as if it didn't matter. “What if they go there? Five-­one-­eight. What does that mean? What do the numbers mean?”

“A date? May eighteenth, maybe?” It surprised Hunter how quickly he said this. “I'm going to speculate that five/eighteen is a date that means something to the two of them. Maybe it was a date they were planning to go off together. Maybe they planned to get married. Who knows? But, frankly, I don't anticipate a case being made about the numbers. If they even were numbers.”

“
If
they were?”

“
If
they were.”

“All right.” Hunter took a breath. She leaned toward the desk. “Then here's why I think you'd be making a mistake going forward, sir. This case has the potential to draw national attention. If you prosecute it this way, you're ignoring additional evidence from three other murder cases that, I believe, will take the Kwan Park case in a different direction—­and only end up embarrassing this office. I think we'll find evidence to prove that the four crimes are related and that Jackson Pynne couldn't have committed any of them. We haven't yet exhausted those avenues of investigation, sir. And, with all due respect, I think it's reckless going forward until we do.”

Hunter was wired now. But she could tell that Stamps was fighting a yawn. She understood what he was doing. He wanted to prosecute this thing and put it behind him. Have it over by the time the weather turned, before the gates opened to the summer tourist season. And he knew he probably had the evidence to do that.

“And you're basing this on?” When she didn't reply right away, he held up his right hand. “You don't have to answer. I know what you're basing it on. The Psalms. You think this is about the Psalms.” Watching her without blinking. “Correct?”

Hunter tipped her head to the side, acknowledging it. “Yes,” she said. But who told him? Crowe? Shipman? Or had the detectives in the other jurisdictions begun to put it together and talked to him or to Clinton Fogg, Stamps's investigator?

“That's not my case, though,” he went on, showing a practiced smile. “That's not for me to prove. I'm looking to prove a particular crime that occurred within the borders of Tidewater County, based on available evidence. Period.

“Candidly?” he added. “I don't buy the Psalms theory. I've looked at all four cases very closely, and I don't, frankly, think it holds water. The one with the watch and the one with the tattoo? I'm not convinced those mean
any
thing. The numbers on the glass? Who knows? To me, it's like playing a Beatles record backward and finding a clue that Paul is dead.”

Hunter was silent. How did he know those details? That was the case
she
was going to make to him. The case he didn't want to hear.

“But regardless,” he went on, “they're separate crimes. It's not uncommon, as you know only too well, for someone to be prosecuted for murder in one jurisdiction and later be found guilty of a separate killing in another jurisdiction.

“No case is perfect, Sergeant. Would I prefer to have video footage, DNA in the pickup, eyewitnesses? Why, of course. But I think we have more than enough here to meet the burden of proof, and that's what matters.” He let her look at his reasonable face for a moment. “But if you can give me a good, specific reason not to go forward, other than this somewhat convoluted conspiracy theory. Some piece of evidence I haven't considered. Then, of course, I'll listen.”

Hunter's eyes misted with frustration. But she also began to sense that he had something else—­some sort of ace in the hole that he wasn't telling her. Something about his demeanor seemed too unconcerned.

“Could you give me twenty-­four hours?”

Stamps didn't react at first. But his silence told her he'd go along with it. Hunter had walked in thinking she would ask for forty-­eight, but knew now that would be pushing it. “End of day tomorrow?”

He puckered his mouth slightly and looked at the clock. He was an effective conciliator who wanted everyone to be happy, when possible. Hunter respected that. Despite what the sheriff had said, she wasn't looking for personal glory; and unlike what Calvert had implied, she wasn't trying to overthrow the old guard. She was just interested in justice, in finding out what had happened. Who had killed Kwan Park.

“Okay,” he said. “Fair enough. Five
P.M.
tomorrow, then.”

S
EVE
N MILES AWAY,
in the house on Jimmy Creek, Gil Rankin sat in afternoon darkness, waiting for news from Kirby Moss. Pynne was in custody now. Not an outcome Rankin would have chosen. But at least it would create an opportunity. If Pynne was charged, there'd be an arraignment at the courthouse; if not, they'd let him go. Either way, they'd at last be able to get to him.

This needs to happen as soon as possible,
the Client had told him.
Otherwise, Pynne endangers the whole enterprise. Take care of Pynne, it closes the door, and we all move on.

I'm very saddened by what has occurred, Gilbert.. You know that. But this is as it's written. We had no choice. They received the just fruits of their disloyalties. You understand that.

Rankin did not know the “whole enterprise,” but he knew enough. He'd heard the stories about enormous “tax returns” benefiting various East Coast charities. He'd read about multi-­million-­dollar lottery payouts and knew that the Client was behind some of those as well. Rankin was part of a larger story, but a small, kept-­in-­the-­dark part. That was the nature of the bargain they'd struck.

Certain things were beginning to bother him, though. The killings were fine. A job was a job. But the mutilations—­lips removed, bones broken—­and the numbers left behind, none of that made any sense. Either the Client was testing him or else he was coming unglued, as some of his employees had been saying. But either way, he knew there was nothing he himself could do about it. Nothing at all. So he needed to think about other things.