Death of a Bankster

by David Bishop

  Chapter 24

  At noon the next day, Maddie met Sue in the hallway outside her office. Lieutenant Harrison drifted out of his office to join them.

  Sue handed Maddie a folder. Inside she found three pictures of Gibbons at a shooting range using the same type of rifle they had found in his room.

  “Where did you get these?” Maddie asked.

  “I spend this morning going to a couple shooting ranges passing Gibbons picture around. I hit pay dirt. One had some film of their range and there was Mr. Gibbons, shooting.”

  “I wondered where you were all morning. You should have told me what you were up to,” Maddie said before turning to Lieutenant Harrison. “Sir, Sue Martin is a crackerjack detective.” Then she turned back to Sue, “I love ya, girl.”

  “Great work, Detective,” the lieutenant said while extending his hand.

  Sue shook it and smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Sue, it’s time we put it to Mr. Gibbons. He’ll be taken before the grand jury this afternoon. The D.A.’s going for first degree murder unless Mr. Gibbons has something worthwhile he’s willing to trade.”

  “Like who hired him?”

  “Correct, Detective Martin,” Lieutenant Harrison said. “But more than just a name, proof that will allow us to nail the killer behind the shooter.” Then Harrison turned to Maddie. “Gibbons is in interrogation room one. He’s yours. I’ll be watching and listening. So far, he hasn’t lawyer’d up. I don’t know how long that will hold, but the D.A. would likely drop it down a good measure if he gives us identity and proof for a strong case of capital murder against his employer.”

  “If he knows, Lieutenant.”

  “Let’s not be negative. Defeat comes often enough without an invitation.”

  “Yes sir. Ready, Sue?”

  “Let’s do it. I figure I’m there to observe and to leave the questioning to you. Right?”

  “Let’s play it that way. If you have something you feel I’ve missed or needs to be covered, give me the sign without his seeing you. I’ll call a recess for a minute and we’ll step out. Okay?”

  “Okay, Sergeant, time’s a wasting.” The lieutenant stepped to the side and swung his arm to motion Maddie forward.

  * * *

  “Hello, Mr. Gibbons. You know who I am. This is Detective Sue Martin.” Sue held the file folder she had carried in against her chest and inclined her head slightly. Then Maddie said, “You do remember me?”

  “Surely do, Missy Richards.” Bennie Gibbons moved his feet a short distance. Even that rattled the manacles that linked his feet to the steel grommet cemented into the floor. “I liked you a lot better in that yellow dress you wore to my place last night. The one cut down to your navel, damn near. Seems almost inappropriate for a detective lady to be such a fox, sure fooled me. I thought you was the real McCoy.”

  His smile was charming, but he was a jerk, not to mention a killer.

  “Sergeant Richards would be better now, Mr. Gibbons. No sense making things harder for yourself than need be.”

  “I expected you’d be by today to chat. So what can I do fer ya, ma’am?”

  “More what can I do for you, Bennie. You mind if I call you Bennie?”

  “Sure, Maddie, me darlin’.”

  “Okay. We’ll go with Mr. Gibbons and Sergeant Richards.”

  “How ‘bout taking these manacles off my wrists? You got my feet secured. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” He held his hands as high as he could, a few inches off the table top. “Don’t you agree this here’s overkill?”

  Maddie ignored his request. “You’re facing a charge of first degree murder. The barrel markings from your rifle match with the bullet taken from Sam Crawford’s head. Shame on you, you shouldn’t have been so slow about changing out the barrel.”

  “Sounds like you think you’ve got my hide nailed, Sergeant Richards, ma’am.”

  “Given the effort to take Sam Crawford’s body and the genius, yeah absolute genius, of hiding his body in the office of the Medical Examiner, why didn’t your shooting team remove the bullet from his body? Without that, we wouldn’t have much on you.”

  “That sure would ’a been smart. I agree.”

  “Why didn’t you do it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Even if I did take the shot as you’re claiming I did, why would I want the body or give a rip where it was?”

  There it is. The loose end I haven’t been able to tie down from the start. Sam Crawford was killed by an assassin smart enough to hire Bennie Gibbons to be the shooter without letting him know who hired him. An assassin smart enough to have imposters set up to play FBI agents and the medical examiner. Smart enough to arrange for those fake officials to take Sam’s body in plain sight and with the cooperation of his wife and neighbor. Smart enough to get in to search Sam Crawford’s home as boldly and openly as they had taken Sam’s body. Yet, at the same time, an assassin stupid enough to not remove the bullet from Sam Crawford’s brain before leaving him in a bag at the medical examiner’s office. Why? What benefit did they get from the risk of having Bennie Gibbons found and arrested? Sure, Gibbons would be a scapegoat, but they had to know we would realize Gibbons was incapable of masterminding such a complex scheme. The real assassin would know we would realize there had been others involved. That Gibbons was only a shooter, a dead-end, and that the case would remain open. So why did they leave the bullet in Sam’s head? The only answer could be that Bennie Gibbons had only been hired to pull the trigger. That’s all. Gibbons didn’t even know the rest of the plan. He had been that compartmentalized. The taking of the body and the searching of the house were part of something apart from the murder of Sam Crawford. Two acts independent of each other. I’m still stuck on the WHY and WHO of this murder. Why was Sam Crawford killed? And the biggest question: could Ryan Testler be the who?

  My God. I’ve been in his bed. He’s been in my home. He’s played catch with my son. I’ve brought him home to meet my mother. I don’t want to believe this, but Ryan didn’t just know Bennie Gibbons, he knew where to find him. He didn’t have to help me. Or was he helping me? Maybe he wanted Gibbons caught? Maybe hoping that would wrap up the case. Is Ryan Testler behind all of it? Did he not only mastermind the assassination itself, but now is masterminding my investigation?

  “Earth to Sergeant Richards.”

  Maddie startled when Gibbons spoke. “What do you want, Mr. Gibbons?”

  “You’ve been staring at that blank wall for several minutes, are we done here? I’ve got a warm cell waiting for me with a cockroach for company.”

  “Why was Sam Crawford killed?”

  “I got no clue. I never heard of the dude until you mentioned his name a few minutes ago. I’ve been in town sightseeing for a couple weeks. Met a girl, name a Carla. Hung around. It didn’t work out. I found the rifle in a lot not far from Carla’s house. I was in the military. Knew what it was, so I brought it back home. Next thing I know, you come around in your hot hooker outfit, busted in and handcuffed me.”

  Maddie turned to Sue who opened the folder she had in her hand since they came in, took out three pictures and slid them across the table in front of Bennie Gibbons.

  “You notice the time and date stamp on them. These were taken at the range where you shoot.” It had been the same one to which Maddie had followed Paige’s mother. The same range where Barbara Davis met her brother for one of their shooting outings. The range where Barbara Davis and Rusty had clammed up whenever Maddie’s former partner, Jed Smith, had moved close enough to hear anything.

  “So? The pictures are of me. Okay. Shooting’s legal.”

  “Not shooting people. You’re using the same rifle there that you used to shoot Sam Crawford. The same one ballistics used to confirm it as the murder weapon.”

  “So, I had the same kind of weapon. So what? When I found the newer one, I threw out my older one. No biggie.”

  Maddie slid her butt over the end of the table nearest the one
-way mirror, the one through which they were all being observed by Lieutenant Adam Harrison.

  “Now that’s lame, Gibbons. Here’s what a jury will believe. You were a sniper in the military. You have no visible means of support, yet you live modestly well. That nearly thirty-five-thousand dollars in cash was found in your apartment. You were photographed shooting a specific make and model of rifle at a local range. A few days later that exact type of weapon was used by someone to murder Sam Crawford. That Mr. Crawford just happened to live next door to a woman you were dating up until the day before the murder. That you later found a matching rifle in a field near that same woman’s home, and that you then threw away the matching rifle you had owned prior to the murder and kept the found murder weapon. And that you don’t remember where you threw away the one you owned previous to all this. And you can’t explain where the large amount of cash you had came from other than to claim you won it gambling at a couple of local Indian casinos. Mr. Gibbons, no jury will buy that pile of manure. You’re going to do serious time.

  “Your only avenue to mitigate your circumstances is to tell me, right now, who hired you to murder Sam Crawford. If you do, I’ll talk to the D.A. before he hauls your ass in front of the Grand Jury later today under a charge of first degree murder. See if we can soften that a bit for you. But we need time to proof up your story, so now is the time to tell us who hired you.”

  Maddie got up and moved around behind Bennie Gibbons. Sue Martin moved over to stand beside Maddie. They remained quiet. Bennie Gibbons sat still mostly, raised his hands some, and rattled his leg irons now and then.

  Five minutes later, he said, “Sergeant Richards.”

  Maddie and Sue moved around in front of Gibbons, remained quiet, and stared at his face.

  “Sergeant Richards, all I can tell you is no one hired me to kill Sam Crawford or anyone else. I know nothing about this shooting. I want a lawyer. Don’t want to talk no more until after that.”

  Five minutes later, Bennie Gibbons was back in his cell and Maddie and Sue were in the office of Lieutenant Harrison. “Well, Sergeant, what do you think happened in there?”

  “For my money, we confirmed Bennie Gibbons was the shooter. I don’t think he knows anything more. He was hired blind, probably got enough money on the front end that he was willing to take the shot. Maybe he got the rest of his money, maybe he didn’t. He’s left with no other tack now. I think he gets convicted and serves his time, but he’s got nothing to bargain with.”

  “That was my take as well. Bennie Gibbons is too dumb by a long measure to put together all of what happened the night of the shooting.”

  They all nodded in agreement. “You got any ideas on who your anonymous caller was who pointed you toward Bennie Gibbons and where we could pick ‘im up?”

  “Not at this point, Lieutenant.” Maddie didn’t like lying to Adam Harrison, a man she respected, but she just wasn’t ready to give up Ryan Testler’s name. However, that might change later tonight.

  Chapter 25

  At four-forty-five that afternoon, Sashay, the receptionist at Nation’s First Bank & Trust passed a call through to the bank president, Maxwell Norbert.

  “Hello, Norbie. We need to meet.”

  “Who is this?”

  “There you go hurting my feelings. You told me nobody but your wife and I call you Norbie. And this sure as hell isn’t your wife Joan calling. At six-thirty, meet me in the back booth of the bar two blocks down from the bank on your side of the street. You’ve been there. Take your car. We may be meeting someone else after that. If so, you’ll drive. That’s one hour and forty-five minutes from now, Norbie. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  “But I was ready to leave and go home.”

  “Work a little overtime, Norbie. Earn that fat paycheck you take.”

  At six-fifteen, Maxwell Norbert got out of the elevator that took him to the largely empty parking lot below the bank. He listened to the sounds of his footsteps as they echoed in the nearly empty cement parking level. He wore taps on his heels to prevent them from wearing down. He hated the look of worn shoe heels. He used the remote to unlock the door to his black Cadillac XTS 4-door sedan, and slipped into the well-padded black leather bucket seat. It fit him perfectly. He buckled up. Then he sat back, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath trying to calm himself before going to meet dart man.

  Ahhhhhhhh. Norbert clutched at his throat. Both hands. He could do nothing to loosen the cord or wire that encircled his neck. His breath wouldn’t come. His tongue grew thicker. Then the cord slackened, some—enough—barely. He gasped.

  “Evening, Norbie, nice to see you again. I’m going to keep this loose enough that you can talk, but I can tighten it in a second if you try to move or turn around. Don’t do that. If you make me angry, your head might fall onto your lap. You understand me?”

  Norbert nodded slowly. Then several more times, short quick nods. “I was on my way to meet you. Why … this?”

  “I decided more private would be better. Besides, if things don’t go well you can be found in the morning in your private parking space. Sort of like Sam Crawford being found in the doorway of his home. Poetic justice, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I told you I don’t know anything about Sam’s murder. That’s the truth. You gotta believe me.”

  “No, I don’t gotta believe you, Norbie. You gotta convince me and so far, well, you’re not doing so well at it. But we can talk later about the unfortunate end to Sam Crawford, a man whose death made me feel no sadness. He was a greedy crook, a bankster, a traitor. Sort of like you, Norbie. You’re another man whose death would make me feel no sadness.”

  “I’ve done what you asked. I hired Ted Styles. Gave him Sam’s old job. I’m following his orders.”

  “Yes you are, Norbie. I appreciate it. Your country appreciates it. We’ve gotten copies of back bank statements and are keeping current on the disbursements out of the accounts for the Peace for the Lambs Foundation. Thank you for that.”

  “Then why this? I’m cooperating.”

  “So far you are. Still, you must understand that bringing down a fat cat banker with a big public trial, well, the politicians would love that. The public wants to see some of you banksters go to prison after their money was taken to bail out your banks. We’d benefit by having a bunch of politicians pleased enough to approve more money for our intelligence budgets. It’s a win-win for us no matter what you do.”

  “Hey. Wait a minute.” Norbert reached forward and gripped his steering wheel with both hands. “Our deal was that I cooperate and my life gets left alone. When you’re through with this I get to retire without scandal.”

  “And, that option still exists, Norbie. I’m only letting you know that I come out just ducky no matter what you do. It doesn’t get better than being in a position to win no matter what happens to the asshole traitor.”

  “What do you want? I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”

  “Two more things come to mind at the moment.”

  “What now?”

  Ryan tightened the slip wire around Norbert’s neck. His hands came off the steering wheel to again clutch at his throat. “Ahhhh.” When Ryan eased off again, Norbert said, “Why’d you do that?”

  “You’re a bit too full of yourself for my liking. I just wanted to remind you that you’re mine. Live or die. Cooperate or not. I own you. I own your future. Your very life.”

  “You said two more things.”

  “The first: tomorrow evening at six-thirty I want you to stop at Fry’s market on the corner where you turn to go up the hill to your house. Park on the side of the store, then walk around front and go inside for a half hour. Shop a little. Maybe pick up some roses for Joan. Yeah, that’d be nice. She’d like that.”

  “What does that have to do with us?”

  “I forgot to mention it. Thanks for reminding me. I want you to leave the doors on this car unlocked. On the floor behind the driver’s seat leave a plastic bag like the kind
in the wastebasket in your office. Inside the bag, put the money you took from the Crawfords’ safe-deposit box.”

  “I don’t know what you’re tal—ahhhhh.” A moment later, Ryan eased off again. “Okay. Okay,” Norbert said.

  “All three-hundred-fifty thousand dollars, Norbie.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “The price of freedom can get up there, can’t it?”

  “But there was only two-fifty—” Norbert stopped himself.

  “Too late, Norbie. You’re not all that good at this kind of stuff are you? Cat’s out the bag. Stealing from a recent widow, but then you guys foreclose on the homes of widows all the time, so it’s not all that far from there to simply stealing their cash from the boxes you rent them under a promise of safety. Have you bankers no shame?”

  “Two-hundred-fifty-thousand, that’s all there was.”

  “Come on, Norbie. Late fees. My service charge. Handling charges, processing fees, and a delivery charge. Remember, I’ve got to come pick it up. Then there’s penalties and interest. That stuff compounds you know that. Certainly as a banker you realize how this kind of thing happens. Three-fifty, Norbie. Do you understand me?” Ryan had tighted the slip wire a bit to punctuate his message. Then he loosened it again.

  Norbert nodded. Then spoke. “Three-hundred-fifty-thousand. Yes.”

  “Good boy, Norbie. Don’t think of it as your money. You’ve only had it for a few days, maybe a week since you raided the Crawfords’ box. It’s the terrorist money, Norbie. Then we’re set. Fry’s. Park on the side. Go in the front door. Stay for thirty minutes. Leave the bag of money behind the seat. Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Don’t make me come to your house for it. You wouldn’t want that.”

  “You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

  “No, Norbie. Not true. The worst thing in your life is greed. Your desire for more and more money is so important you would risk your freedom, betray even your country. As for me, I’m your best friend. I’m fighting to keep you free, forcing you to help protect your country. Your wife could be on the next plane they blow up. She could be shopping in the next store into which they throw a hand grenade.”