by David Clark
“Where do you think?”, asked Neal. “They set up more cameras on each of the rooms holding those willing to talk. His butt is planted in a chair in front of the screens.”
Jordan motioned for Megan to follow him as they went to the observation room. Just like Neal said, Antonio Jackson was planted in a chair with seven monitors in front of him. Like a man on New Year’s trying to watch all the college football bowl games at the same time. His head rotated back and forth, scanning the screens. For what? Jordan didn’t know, but then again, his special was the dead and Antonio’s was the living.
They entered the room, and Neal gave Antonio a slap on the shoulder, causing him to jump a bit. “Who’s first?”, Neal asked.
Antonio took his eyes off the screen to consult the notes he had made on the pad in his lap. He flipped back several pages before he said, “Deputy District Attorney George Chesler.” He then pointed at the screen second in on the right.
“Deputy District Attorney, huh?”, Neal said curiously. “I wouldn’t expect him to be one of the ones that was willing to talk.”
Without taking his eyes off the screen, Antonio provided the reason, “Of course he would. He knew exactly how to make a deal, and he did. He will plead guilty of solicitation of prostitution, in exchange for telling us everything he knows.”
“Is that all?”, Jordan asked. Megan was tugging at his arm, but he ignored her. He knew she was just as bothered as he was by the light charge.
“Yep. That’s all,” Antonio said with his focus still on the screens. “Will probably only be thirty days and community service, but willing to bet he will not bail out and sit in here a bit until the smoke blows over, and then just take time served, and community service.”
Megan yanked harder this time and squeezed Jordan’s hand. He tried to pull away, but she wasn’t having it, so he just ignored her up until she dug her fingernails into his flesh. Jordan turned, and she held up three fingers on her other hand, pointing at the screens. Jordan looked, and before he could locate the screen, he felt a hand guide his head in the direction of the third screen. Sitting right there around a twitchy man wearing an orange jump suit were Sharon, Beth, and Marie. “Who’s the man in screen three?”
Antonio once again flipped through his notes and then let out an uncharacteristic chuckle. “Sam Stain, owner of the local paper and most of the local radio stations. And, you’ll like this detail. According to Officer Daniels, he matches the description called in by an anonymous tip of someone seen outside Sharon Carter’s place the night she went missing.”
Jordan backed out of the room with Megan in tow. “We need to get them out of there. Can you see what you can do? That room is down there, second door.”
Jordan stepped back in the doorway, but stayed half in and half out. His attention alternated between watching the screens and watching Megan. He didn’t ask, but hoped she had a way of communicating with them that didn’t include calling out to them through the door or something. That wouldn’t be subtle. As he watched, he felt rather impressed with how covert she could be. She leaned against the wall, scrolling through her cell phone, not making a noise or a spectacle of herself. Of course, her appearance already had a few heads popping up to look as they walked in in the morning. A few people looked her way, but no one approached for an autograph or selfie. When Jordan looked back at the camera, he saw all three girls moving toward the door. A glance at Megan found them coming with her back to him.
“Jordan, would I be less in the way if I went back and sat in that conference room we were in earlier.”
“Smart idea.”
31
“He may be scared shitless, but he isn’t a liar,” reported Antonio. The Deputy District Attorney, probably former at this point, had spent the last forty minutes being questioned. It started out as a grilling, but his eagerness to answer any question he was asked completely, not just yes or no answers, but with details, dates, times, and people, changed the tenor of the interview to a conversation. Jordan sat and listened as the information flowed through the speakers.
Most of what he heard matched what he already knew. Either from what the girls told them, what they heard from Dean Wilson, or he had figured out on his own. Though George Chesler’s telling was more detailed. The Deputy DA had been involved in this circle of sin, a name Jordan said out loud that appeared to stick with Neal and Antonio, for three years. He didn’t know how long it had been going on before he was involved, but didn’t think it was long. Most everyone appeared new and unsure what to do. The one detail he provided sounded like a man trying to solve the case himself. A hint of his own profession sneaking in.
“Malcom Frances was the contact, but I fully believe someone else was in control,” the shell of the formerly confident prosecutor said.
“George, I am confused,” said the Richmond City Detective, who Jordan hadn’t been introduced to yet. He leaned against the table as if talking to an old friend. In truth he was and appeared to be taking full advantage of it. “Why do you say that? Everyone we have talked to, and what we have pulled of the phones, Malcom Frances was the center of all this.”
The stiff wearing a black suit in the room, turned, and appeared to bump the Richmond City detective. The look on his face caused a collective “whoa” from those watching with Jordan. It was quite obvious the FBI Agent didn’t want information shared with the former prosecutor, now turned suspect.
“Relax,” the detective said in reaction, and he turned his attention back to George. “From our view, it was him. Why are you thinking different?”
“Every time I met him, I got the feeling he was the task man. The one whose hands would get dirty, but not the one pulling the strings. He didn’t seem to be bright enough or even well connected enough to bring everyone together.” The man joined his hands on top of the table and leaned toward his interviewers. “I am sure you have already done a background check. I did one once out of my own curiosity. Not for the same reason as you, though.” The man chuckled before continuing, “Knowing what all I had to lose, I needed to be sure he could be trusted. Imagine that.” The absurdity of the thought and the juxtaposition of what he just admitted to compared to his profession appeared to be a source of humor for him. “Anyway, you know he has been in and out of trouble for small misdemeanor charges, traffic and drug possession mostly. Not college educated. No real history of work, just odd jobs here and there for a few of the folks you have here, but yet he has a place in Windsor Farms. I can’t even afford that. I could be wrong about this, but I don’t think he is the money man here. He was paid well for his services and his silence. That is what I believe.”
“Well then, George, do you have a suspicion of who was?”, the detective asked.
He leaned back, hands parted, and shoulders shrugged. “No clue. I am pretty sure it is one of us, so you probably have him here now.”
“Is it you?”, the detective asked.
“No, that you can be sure of,” George Chesler said. “Rob, you know me.”
“I thought I did,” mumbled the detective just loud enough to be heard over the camera. George Chesler acted surprised at the statement. Just then, Jordan felt his phone vibrate several times in a row. He reached down and pulled it from his pocket. The notification on the lock screen showed a message from Megan. Jordan excused himself for a moment to check the message. It said, “Need to talk ASAP.”
He walked back to the conference room and opened the door. To anyone else coming in, it would look like Megan sat at the table playing a game or browsing social media on her phone. To Jordan, he saw a woman taking notes furiously while the ghosts of three college age girls told them everything they had learned. He heard Beth clearly when he walked in the room and knew instantly why Megan had texted him.
“The radio guy? Are you sure?”
“Yes, positive,” Sharon said. “I don’t know his name, but I remember his face clearly. Malcom took me to meet him first, before any of the jobs started. He wanted to know t
he details of my school costs and was the one who told me to never worry about them again.”
That was all Jordan needed to hear, and he started back for the door.
“Jordan, wait,” Megan asked. He turned toward her. “There is something more Sharon needs to tell you.”
“I heard his voice tell someone to ‘do it already’ the night they grabbed me,” Sharon said, with a pissed off attitude. “He was there. I am sure of it. He is still wearing that same cheap ass cologne.”
“Smelled like straight alcohol,” recalled Beth.
That explained why they focused in on him, and not the others. Jordan knew he needed to move the investigators toward this guy, but how? Luckily, he had his team that knew who he was, and what he could do. The others didn’t though. It would take more than asking them just to trust a hunch founded on nothing they could see. A little fib, and he knew the exact one to use. “Hang tight. I have an idea.”
Jordan returned to Neal and Antonio. The agent and detective were still having a leisurely chat with George Chesler. Songbirds had nothing on how much this guy appeared to be singing. Jordan grabbed Neal by the arm and pulled him out into the hallway.
“What’s up?”, Neal asked, surprised.
“The guy in the third screen. We need to move the focus to him,” Jordan said. His eyes staring straight into Neal’s.
“The radio station owner?”, Neal asked to clarify, but sounding both curious and surprised.
“Yea,” was the only response Jordan gave, and Neal seemed to get it. He looked around, almost uncomfortably, his head nodding slowly up and down.
“One of those hunches? How good is it?”
Jordan let him have it straight, “Straight from the victim’s mouth.”
If Neal had been any older or out of shape, Jordan would have held the truth from him. Shock can be the great convincer, and he needed it now with his team. “Okay, then. What do we tell them?”
“Well. I have an idea for that,” Jordan explained. “Ask them to check to see if he has the strong odor of cheap cologne. The type that burns your nose. Real strong alcohol content. I can say when I participated in the autopsy of Sharon Carter, I picked up that smell from her clothes and person.”
“That will work,” Neal leaned back through the door. “Toni, flash the light. We need to talk to the agent.”
“Flashed,” Antonio said.
It wasn’t more than a few seconds before the door opened and both the agent and detective came out. They walked toward Jordan and Neal. Who both introduced themselves to the agent and detective. Neither returned the pleasantry and seemed perturbed they were interrupted. “What is it?”, the agent asked gruffly.
“Agent,” Jordan said, addressing his fellow FBI agent, not knowing the rest of his name. “I was present at the autopsy of Sharon Carter. When I examined her and her clothes, I picked up a strong cologne smell. The type that burns your nose with the alcohol content. Have you noticed if anyone we picked up had that smell on them?”
“That’s kind of a stupid question,” dismissed the agent, but behind him, the detective appeared lost in thought with a finger over his lips while his jaw twitched.
“Damn it. Sam,” blurted the Detective. “He always smells like he bathes in that cheap stuff.”
Neal reached back in the room and yanked the notepad out of Antonio’s lap. He protested with a, “Hey!”, and what he was writing became nothing but a squiggle as the pad was yanked from under the pen. Neal flipped back some dozen pages to the one Antonio referred to earlier. Antonio had joined the group in the hall. Jordan watched as both the agent and detective appeared to feel the gaze of Antonio’s always active eyes. There was no doubt the man was reading them. Neal had to cough twice to get Antonio’s attention back to his notes. “Read that,” Neal said as he pointed out a note.
“Sam Stain, owner of the local newspaper and several local radio stations including one sports talk station, three top forty stations, a country station, and the most popular news talk radio.”
Neal’s hand motioned for Antonio to pick up the pace, but Antonio stayed his steady self, reciting the man’s bio. “Forty-seven years old. Never married. No priors, felony or misdemeanor. Member of the chamber of comm...”
Neal slapped the page with his finger and said, “Here.”
“Physical description matches the description called in of someone seen outside Sharon Carter’s place the night she disappeared,” read Antonio, before Neal pushed the notepad back into his chest. With his reading done, he continued his study of the two men that stood before him. The agent seemed uncomfortable as he tried to avoid looking at him. The detective was uncomfortable about what he had just learned. Jordan had seen and felt that look a few times himself. It was the, how did I miss it, look.
“Agent, Detective Robert Anderson,” he stepped forward and introduced himself to both Jordan and Neal. He avoided Antonio, giving him just a passing glance. “Good catch there.” He turned and walked down the hall, his head looking at the worn grey carpet just ahead of each step. Detective Anderson passed the room they just left and continued to the door Megan had stood outside to retrieve the girls. He paused and called back, “Agent Franks, shall we?”
The other agent appeared relieved at the opportunity to break away from Antonio’s examination and hurried to join in as they went in.
Antonio stood there stone still and gave his report in a way that sounded outright mechanical, “Senior agent, felt like he was in charge, even though he wasn’t. You took that from him, but pointing out what should have been right in front of their face. The man is driven by ego. That ego is hurt and want’s redemption. This should be fun to watch.”
32
“Look at him,” remarked Antonio.
“A rat stuck in a trap,” Jordan added.
“Not a rat. A mouse,” contributed Neal. “He shrunk the minute they walked in the door. Makes me wonder why he didn’t lawyer up. Doesn’t seem to be the defiant type.”
“That’s exactly what he wants you to think. He is nothing. A small time person. Just a piece player. Stay small and unremarkable, and we will look right over him. That is what he thinks, or hopes to be the case. Of course, he doesn’t know we already know everything. Now the question is, who is he really? When they spring it on him, will he crack, or double down?”
“And I thought that is why they paid you the big bucks,” sniped Neal.
The three of them watched, with a crowd of other interested detectives as two FBI agents, agent ‘Ego’ brought in another one to join them for this one, and Detective Robert Anderson started the game of I know what you are, but need you to tell me. So far, Sam Stain was playing right along with them.
“Almost done,” Antonio said. “I just need a few more minutes watching him. He has quite a few tells. Watch his hands. They are unnaturally still, like he is trying to force them to stop shaking or fiddling with something. When he lets his guard down, like there.. see it?” Antonio’s hand jerked forward and pointed at the screen. He was right. It was right there in front of all of them. Not a big movement, but as soon as his focus dropped just a bit, it twitched. Like his subconscious or something exhaled after holding its breath to get through the momentary act he was putting on. “That, and the spot just between his eyes above the bridge of his nose. It crinkles when he answers. I watched him when they came and said hello. It didn’t then. So, it’s not connected to the movements of his facial muscles when he talks. Its all nerves. If only I could get a straight on view of his eyes. I could tell you everything you need to know about the man.”
“I don’t need that, and I can tell you everything you need to know about the guy. Knock. Knock,” said Rachel Adams. She leaned in the door frame with a rather satisfied look on her face. She held several pieces of paper in her hands that she handed to Jordan. Before he could read it, Rachel gave her full report, “Your man Malcom’s number had been called by each and every one of those phones. Ranging from four times to nineteen, ex
cept for one phone. One phone called Malcom a total of two hundred and thirty-one times. That same phone received one hundred and sixty-four calls from Malcom, and no one else. No texts, all calls. That phone belonged to the man behind door number three, Sam Stain. Now flip to page number two, where you will see the financial holdings of Mr. Stain.”
Jordan flipped to the second page and almost dropped the papers when he saw the details. Four years ago, Sam was almost bankrupt. Both personally and professionally. The stations ran in the red for eleven months, then out of no where he became liquid again. As if some great angel donor had written him a very large check to pay off his debts and load the bank account. That was just the start of the picture that told Jordan more than a thousand words. The balance sheet summary for each of the following years didn’t make sense. The stations broke even most months, a profit in a rare few, but yet the cash balance of his personal account continued to climb with no evidence of a source for the cash flow. “Nothing adds up.”
“Turn the page, that is where the best stuff is,” Rachel said. Her eyes full of anticipation.
Jordan turned to page three and started reading. This time, his hand holding the papers did drop. The papers slapped his leg when his arm reached the bottom of its arc.
“Huh, that just takes the cake, doesn’t it,” Rachel said eagerly.
Neal yanked the papers from Jordan’s hand and read them, and then looked at the screen. “That guy?”, Neal said. His face and voice dripped with disbelief. “There is no way he is that smart.”
“That is what he wants you to think,” Antonio said. “Let me guess. He runs a fund and categorizes their payments as investments.” He added air quotes around both payments and investments for emphasis. “That fund probably was a major investor in the radio stations, and, I bet it had a scholarship fund. Oh, he is, as you called it, smooth.”