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 anything. 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.”
SEVEN 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.
He took the photograph of his wife and sons from his wallet and set it on the table in front of him. Think about the good things, Gil. The things that are coming.
Chapter 43
A DELICIOUS AROMA of sherry-cooked oyster chowder permeated Chez Bowers as Luke came through the front door, following his afternoon visits to Memorial Hospital and Tidewater Hospice. Classical music played very softly from the kitchen, something he recognized as baroque. Bach, maybe, or perhaps Handel.
Charlotte and Sneakers were nowhere to be seen, though. Luke knew that meant one of three things: she was having a great workday, she was having a bad workday, or else she was going to seduce him.
He could tell as soon as she spoke that it wasn’t option three. Not today.
“I’m in here,” she called from her study. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Take your time,” he said.
Luke got a local-brewed Chesapeake beer from the refrigerator and walked into the living room. He looked through the window at the bay, which was yellow and orange with the sun. Sneakers finally came out to greet him and to collect his neck, head, and belly rub.
“Damn!” Charlotte said, twice.
“Everything okay?” Luke called.
“Oh, crap, I just lost part of a file. Damn it!”
“Anything I can do?”
Luke and Sneakers hovered for a moment in the doorway to Charlotte’s office. But he knew better than to try to help. Normally, she had the most wonderful temperament. But occasionally she became wildly flustered over some minor problem. The best response, Luke had learned, was to give her space to work through it.
He walked out onto the deck, thinking about his day, feeling grateful for having Charlotte and Sneakers and for the gift of this life he’d been given. Sunset blushed the wetlands, the light sharpening, the air cooling. He kept thinking about Jackson Pynne, wondering what was going through his mind right now.
Charlotte finally joined him, with a glass of wine. The air was breezing up and there were still five or six minutes before sunset.
“Sorry,” she said, giving him a kiss. “I found it.”
“Good,” Luke said. “So everything’s hunky-dory again?”
“Everything hunky-dory,” she said, leaning against him. “Except we haven’t eaten yet.”
“I know. But we can’t waste the sunset.”
“No.”
Several minutes later they went in, Sneakers following, and settled for dinner.
Luke told her about his visit that afternoon with Millie Blanchard at the hospice, as they ate oyster chowder and corn bread. And then, to his surprise, Charlotte asked him about Jackson Pynne, even though she’d made him promise not to talk about the case anymore.
“What I heard,” she said, “is that Jackson is going to be charged with the murder in another day or two. And it seems that people know about the numbers in Kwan Park’s hand all of a sudden now, too.”
“Well, how about that,” Luke said. “Although, of course, we’re not supposed to be talking about the case, right?”
“No, that’s right.”
“But what else did you hear?”
A sly smile animated Charlotte’s face. “My friend Claire, at the Humane Society, told me this. ‘He’s capable of it,’ she said. But isn’t everyone?”
“Capable of it? Some more than others, I’d say.”
“They’re saying he might be responsible for these other murders, too,” Charlotte said.
“They may be saying it,” Luke said, “but it’s not true.” He wondered if Amy Hunter knew how these new rumors were flying.
The sun was gone now, and he could see lights along the docks at the harbor and the crab houses brightening across the cove.
When they finished, Luke cleared the table. Then he scooped out cups of chocolate chip ice cream for dessert.
> “How are they keeping him in jail, anyway?” Charlotte asked. “Don’t they say on TV crime shows that you can’t hold someone beyond twenty-four hours? Or is it forty-eight?”
“He doesn’t want to leave,” Luke said. “And no one’s in a rush to throw him out. He says that if he leaves, he won’t make it to the county line.”
“Very dramatic.”
“Yes. I know. He doesn’t want out. He wants police to solve the case while he waits.”
“You want to help him, don’t you?” Charlotte said, her pale blue eyes softening as she watched him.
“I wish I could,” Luke said. “I feel bad for him. I think he really loved this woman.”
“Kwan Park.”
“Yeah. I think for him this was a real love story. He wanted to have a life with her. He expected to.”
“Despite the age difference.”
“Despite everything,” Luke said. “Part of it was the impossibility of it. I think that’s what appealed to Jackson. That’s how he is. He saw it as something real, a real love story. And then it was all pulled away from him. And now, on top of that, he’s being accused of killing her. I feel bad for him.”
Sneakers’s head suddenly shot up, for no apparent reason. He produced a very subdued growl before he let his face ease back to the floor.
Luke realized after a moment what he must’ve heard: his cell phone was vibrating in the living room.
“Wonder who that is.”
He didn’t get there in time, but saw that the call had come from the Tidewater Correctional Facility. Which could only mean one thing: Jackson Pynne wanted to talk.
PART THREE
Violent Man
“See, I have set before you an open door, and none of you can shut it.”
—REVELATION 3:5
“The hunter is taken in his own snare, as the great Psalmist says.”
The Psalmist Page 23