see if we can find any connection between the Brockwells and the Becks. Talking to family, friends, acquaintances, people they worked with, anybody we can think of. But as of right now, we don’t have a single suspect.”
“The first thing we should do is tell the media the cases aren’t related,” Mooney said. “That should at least keep people from panicking.”
“Forget about the media,” I said. “Somebody’s going to leak it whether we tell them or not. And what do you mean by ‘panic,’ Lee? Do you think people are going to riot in the streets? They’ll put better locks on their doors and they’ll buy guns and ammunition and guard dogs. They’ll watch out for their neighbors. We don’t need to start stonewalling, and I don’t think we need a task force. We don’t want to bring the feds and their egos anywhere near this, and as far as the local guys go, no offense to the sheriff, but the TBI agents are as good as it gets.”
“So what do you suggest?” Lee said. “Status quo? Tell people we’re doing all we can?”
“Give these guys some more time,” I said, nodding towards Fraley and Blake. “Let them do their jobs. And how about we let the sheriff handle the media from now on? I’ll brief him whenever he wants. He can do the press conferences, press releases, whatever. He has an outstanding reputation in the community and people trust him. What do you say, Sheriff? Will you keep the hounds at bay for me?”
“Whatever you need, brother Dillard,” Bates said.
I turned to Fraley again. He was in his early sixties, a little on the heavy side, with receding gray hair, a pink complexion, and a bulbous nose. Despite our shaky start, I’d already developed a significant amount of respect for him. He was smart, tough, hardworking, and despised bullshit.
“Surely you have some ideas,” I said.
Fraley cleared his throat. “A few,” he said.
I expected him to keep talking, but he sat there in silence.
Mooney stared at him. “Care to share them with the rest of the class?”
“Who kills a school principal?” Fraley said. “Think about it. Forced entry through the window at the side of the house, but there was nothing taken, so it wasn’t a burglary that went wrong. Same MO as the Beck killing, as far as the shooting goes. Shot to pieces. And if it wasn’t just some random killing, then you have to ask yourself, who would want to kill a principal? And who would want to kill him and kill him and kill him?”
“Family member looking to speed up the inheritance?” Mooney said. “Disgruntled teacher? Or maybe it was the wife they were after.”
“It wasn’t the wife. They kidnapped Mr. Brockwell, took him for a long ride, tied him to a tree. They terrorized him. He was the target. They wanted him to suffer. His wife just happened to be in the way.”
“So answer your own question,” I said. “Who wants a high school principal to suffer?”
Fraley shrugged his shoulders. “I’m thinking a kid. A kid with a grudge. Probably looking for revenge.”
“But there were more than one,” I said. “Maybe three or four. How do you explain that? And what about the Becks? Why would a kid, or a group of kids, want to kill the Becks?”
“I don’t know yet,” Fraley said. “But at least I know where I’m going to look.”
Friday, October 3
“Mr. Snodgrass is here,” Rita Jones said over the office intercom.
“Thanks,” I said. “Would you tell him to come on back?”
William Trent, accused of having sex with his young female employees, was scheduled to go on trial in less than two weeks, and my case was in the toilet. Cody Masters, the young investigator who had originally brought the charges against Trent, had gone back out and interviewed more than two dozen of Trent’s current and former employees. Nobody wanted to get involved in a trial that would undoubtedly be highly publicized and would cause as much embarrassment for the victims as it would for the defendant.
“The first thing we should do is tell the media the cases aren’t related,” Mooney said. “That should at least keep people from panicking.”
“Forget about the media,” I said. “Somebody’s going to leak it whether we tell them or not. And what do you mean by ‘panic,’ Lee? Do you think people are going to riot in the streets? They’ll put better locks on their doors and they’ll buy guns and ammunition and guard dogs. They’ll watch out for their neighbors. We don’t need to start stonewalling, and I don’t think we need a task force. We don’t want to bring the feds and their egos anywhere near this, and as far as the local guys go, no offense to the sheriff, but the TBI agents are as good as it gets.”
“So what do you suggest?” Lee said. “Status quo? Tell people we’re doing all we can?”
“Give these guys some more time,” I said, nodding towards Fraley and Blake. “Let them do their jobs. And how about we let the sheriff handle the media from now on? I’ll brief him whenever he wants. He can do the press conferences, press releases, whatever. He has an outstanding reputation in the community and people trust him. What do you say, Sheriff? Will you keep the hounds at bay for me?”
“Whatever you need, brother Dillard,” Bates said.
I turned to Fraley again. He was in his early sixties, a little on the heavy side, with receding gray hair, a pink complexion, and a bulbous nose. Despite our shaky start, I’d already developed a significant amount of respect for him. He was smart, tough, hardworking, and despised bullshit.
“Surely you have some ideas,” I said.
Fraley cleared his throat. “A few,” he said.
I expected him to keep talking, but he sat there in silence.
Mooney stared at him. “Care to share them with the rest of the class?”
“Who kills a school principal?” Fraley said. “Think about it. Forced entry through the window at the side of the house, but there was nothing taken, so it wasn’t a burglary that went wrong. Same MO as the Beck killing, as far as the shooting goes. Shot to pieces. And if it wasn’t just some random killing, then you have to ask yourself, who would want to kill a principal? And who would want to kill him and kill him and kill him?”
“Family member looking to speed up the inheritance?” Mooney said. “Disgruntled teacher? Or maybe it was the wife they were after.”
“It wasn’t the wife. They kidnapped Mr. Brockwell, took him for a long ride, tied him to a tree. They terrorized him. He was the target. They wanted him to suffer. His wife just happened to be in the way.”
“So answer your own question,” I said. “Who wants a high school principal to suffer?”
Fraley shrugged his shoulders. “I’m thinking a kid. A kid with a grudge. Probably looking for revenge.”
“But there were more than one,” I said. “Maybe three or four. How do you explain that? And what about the Becks? Why would a kid, or a group of kids, want to kill the Becks?”
“I don’t know yet,” Fraley said. “But at least I know where I’m going to look.”
Friday, October 3
“Mr. Snodgrass is here,” Rita Jones said over the office intercom.
“Thanks,” I said. “Would you tell him to come on back?”
William Trent, accused of having sex with his young female employees, was scheduled to go on trial in less than two weeks, and my case was in the toilet. Cody Masters, the young investigator who had originally brought the charges against Trent, had gone back out and interviewed more than two dozen of Trent’s current and former employees. Nobody wanted to get involved in a trial that would undoubtedly be highly publicized and would cause as much embarrassment for the victims as it would for the defendant.
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