“The gun’s stolen, okay? Stolen guns make the rounds. I bought it from a pawnshop in Lynchburg two weeks ago. It’s probably changed hands a dozen times in the past year.”

A good point, and one they could not argue with, at least not until the ballistics tests were completed. When they had the proof, though, no jury would believe Quinn’s story about a stolen gun.

Pankovits said, “We found a pair of combat boots in your mini–storage unit. A cheap pair of fake Army surplus, canvas, camouflage, all that crap. They are fairly new and have not been used that much. Why do you need combat boots, Quinn?”

“I have weak ankles.”

“Nice. How often do you wear them?”

“Not often if they’re in storage. I tried them, they rubbed a blister, I forgot about them. What’s the point?”

“The point is that they match a boot print we took from the soil not far from the cabin where Judge Fawcett was murdered,” Pankovits said, lying but doing so effectively. “A match, Quinn. A match that puts you at the scene.”

Quinn dropped his chin and rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot and tired. “What time is it?”

“Four fifty,” Delocke replied.

“I need some sleep.”

“Well, that might be difficult, Quinn. We checked with the county jail and your cell is quite crowded. Eight men, four bunks. You’ll be lucky to get a spot on the floor.”

“I don’t think I like that jail. Could we try another one?”

“Sorry. Wait till you see death row, Quinn.”

“I ain’t going to death row because I didn’t kill anybody.”

Pankovits said, “Here’s where we are, Quinn. Two witnesses put you in the vicinity at the time of the murder, and the vicinity is not exactly a busy street corner. You were there and you were noticed and remembered. Ballistics will nail your ass. The boot print is icing on the cake. That’s the crime scene. After the crime, it gets even better, or worse, depending on one’s perspective. You were in Roanoke the day after the bodies were found, Tuesday, February 8, by your own admission and by way of the city’s jail records and court docket. And suddenly you had a satchelful of cash. You posted bond, then paid $24,000 for the Hummer, pissed away plenty more, and when we finally catch you, there’s another stash hidden in a mini-storage. Motive? There’s plenty of motive. You had a deal with Judge Fawcett to rule in favor of Jakeel Staley. You bribed him, something like $500,000, and after he took the cash, he forgot about the deal. He threw the book at Jakeel, and you vowed revenge. Eventually, you got it. Unfortunately, his secretary got in the way too.”

Delocke said, “A death penalty case, Quinn, open and shut. Federal death penalty.”

Quinn’s eyes closed as his body shrank. He began breathing rapidly as sweat formed above his eyebrows. A minute passed, then another. The tough guy was gone. His replacement said weakly, “You got the wrong guy.”

Pankovits laughed, and Delocke, sneering, said, “Is that the best you can do?”

“You got the wrong guy,” Quinn repeated, but with even less conviction.

“That sounds pretty lame, Quinn,” Delocke said. “And it’ll sound even weaker in the courtroom.”

Quinn stared at his hands as another minute passed. Finally, he said, “If you boys know so much, what else do you want?”

Pankovits replied, “There are a few gaps. Did you act alone? How did you open the safe? Why did you kill the secretary? What happened to the rest of the money?”

“Can’t help you there. I don’t know nothing about it.”

“You know everything, Quinn, and we’re not leaving until you fill in the gaps.”

“Then I guess we’re going to be here for a long time,” Quinn said. He leaned forward, placed his head on the table, and said, “I’m taking a nap.”

Both agents stood and picked up their files and notepads. “We’ll take a break, Quinn. We’ll be back in half an hour.”

CHAPTER 15

Though pleased with the progress of the interrogation, Victor Westlake was worried. There were no witnesses, no ballistics report linking Quinn’s .38 to the crime scene, no boot print, and no simultaneous interrogation of Dee Ray. There was motive, if they believed Malcolm Bannister’s story about the bribe. The strongest evidence so far was the fact that Quinn Rucker was in Roanoke the day after the bodies were found and that he had too much cash. Westlake and his team were exhausted from the all-nighter, and it was still dark outside. They reloaded with coffee and took long walks around the Freezer. They occasionally checked on the screen for images of their suspect. Quinn was lying on the table but not sleeping.

At 6:00 a.m., Pankovits and Delocke returned to the interrogation room. Each had a tall glass with a refill of Red Bull and ice. Quinn got off the table and settled himself into his chair for another round.

Pankovits went first. “Just got off the phone with the U.S. Attorney, Quinn. We briefed him on our progress here with you, and he says his grand jury will convene tomorrow and hand down the indictment. Two counts of capital murder.”

“Congratulations,” Quinn replied. “I guess I’d better find me a lawyer.”

“Sure, but it might take more than one. I’m not sure how much you understand about federal racketeering laws, Quinn, but they can be brutal. The U.S. Attorney will take the position that the murders of Judge Fawcett and his secretary were the actions of a gang, a well-known and well-organized gang, with you, of course, as the triggerman. The indictment will include a lot of charges, including capital murder, but also bribery. And, most important, it will name not only you but other nefarious characters such as Tall Man, Dee Ray, one of your sisters, your cousin Antoine Beck, and a couple dozen other relatives.”

Delocke added, “You guys can have your own wing on death row. The Rucker-Beck gang, all lined up, cell to cell, just waiting for the needle.” Delocke was smiling and Pankovits was amused. A couple of comedians.

Quinn began scratching the side of his head and talking to the floor. “You know, I wonder what my lawyer would say about this, got me locked in this dark room, no windows, all night long, started at, what, ’bout nine last night and here it is six in the morning, nine straight hours of nonstop bullshit from you two, accusing me of bribing a judge, then killing a judge, and now threatening me with death, and not only my ass but my whole family as well. You say you got witnesses out there, all lined up and ready to testify, and ballistics on a stolen gun, and a boot print where some sumbitch stepped in mud, and how am I supposed to know if you’re telling the truth or lying your ass off because I wouldn’t trust the FBI with anything, never have, never will. Lied to me the first time I got busted and sent away, and I assume you’re lying here tonight. Maybe I lied a little, but can you honestly tell me right now that you ain’t lied to me tonight? Can you?”

Pankovits and Delocke stared at him. Maybe it was fear, or guilt. Maybe it was delirium. Whatever, Quinn was really talking.

“We are telling the truth,” Pankovits managed to say.

“And chalk up another lie. My lawyer will get to the bottom of this. He’ll nail your ass in court, expose you, expose all your lies. Show me the boot print analysis. Now, I want to see it.”

“We’re not authorized to show it to anyone,” Pankovits said.

“How convenient.” Quinn leaned forward with an elbow on each knee. His forehead almost touched the edge of the table, and he kept talking to the floor. “What about the ballistics report? Can I see that?”

“We’re not authorized—”

“What a surprise. My lawyer’ll get it, whenever and wherever I get to see my lawyer. I’ve asked for him all night, and my rights have been violated.”

“You have not asked for your lawyer,” Delocke said. “You’ve mentioned a lawyer in vague terms, but you have not requested one. And you’ve kept talking.”