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Chapter8
KEN FINGER WAS INDEED STILL AROUND.
Decker had finally reached Lancaster, and she arranged to meet them at Finger’s office, which was located a block over from the downtown courthouse.
His secretary, Christine Burlin, a woman in her midforties, met their request with a stern look. “Mr. Finger is very busy at present,” she said when confronted with Decker, Jamison, and Lancaster.
Lancaster took out her badge. “I think Ken can make some time for this.”
Burlin stared at the badge far longer than was needed.
“Come on, Christine,” said an exasperated Lancaster. “It’s not like you don’t know who I am. Some of your kids go to the same school as Sandy. And you know Decker as well from working with Ken.”
“Well, I try to maintain a professional atmosphere at work, Detective Lancaster.”
“I’m all for professional,” said Decker. “So where’s Ken?”
Burlin looked up at him. “I heard you were back in town for a few days,” she said. “You still working for the FBI?” Decker nodded and she looked at Jamison. “I remember you too. I take it you’re still consulting with the Bureau?”
“I’m actually a special agent now,” said Jamison.
“That’s a strange career change, from journalist to FBI agent.”
“Not that strange,” replied Jamison.
“Why?”
“An FBI agent looks to find the truth and make sure the right people are punished. A journalist digs to find the truth and makes sure the public knows about it, and that sometimes leads to bad people being punished.”
“Hmmm,” said Burlin, looking skeptical of this. “I guess that could be.”
“Where’s Ken?” said Decker impatiently. “We’re wasting crucial time here.”
Burlin frowned. “I see thatyouhaven’t changed one bit.” She picked up her desk phone and made the call.
A few moments later she escorted them into Finger’s office. It was large with ample windows. His desk was constructed of dark wood with a leather top. It was strewn with books, legal pads, files, and stapled pleadings. A large bookshelf held old law books and red file folders, neatly labeled. There were chairs set around a coffee table. A credenza against one wall was set up as a bar, and also held two large glass jars of M&M’s. Ken Finger sat behind his desk.
Finger had only been about thirty when he had defended Hawkins against a capital murder charge. There apparently had been no other takers who wanted to defend in court the man charged with brutally murdering two men and two kids.
He was now in his forties and worked as a defense attorney for those who needed it. And in Burlington, like most towns, there were a great many who needed his services. His tidy brown hair was turning gray, as was his trim beard. His pleated trousers were held up by bright red braces and his white shirt had French cuffs. His striped bow tie was undone and hung limply around his wattled neck. His belly stuck out from between the braces.
He rose and greeted them, motioning them over to the seating area around the coffee table.
“I guess I know why you’re here,” he said, after Burlin closed the door behind her.
“Guess you do,” replied Lancaster.
“How the hell are you, Decker?” Finger said.
“Okay,” said Decker as he sat down. “So you’ve heard?”
“How could I not? Burlington’s not that big. And although it’s not like the attack on the high school when you lived here, it’s still newsworthy when a convicted murderer comes back to town and then gets murdered.”
Lancaster said, “Had he come to see you?”
Finger shook his head. “Hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since he went to prison.”
“You never visited him there?” asked Jamison.
