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“Dirk Conrad. The name of the man who was identified as the shooter. And the bank has security footageof Conrad coming into the bank to sign an access card and pick up his debit card. They’re sending the footage over as we speak. Something else I found out about Fairchild: after he supposedly came back from vacation, he returned to the bank, removed the name from his account with the excuse that the person changed his plans and access was no longer necessary. But the bank has Dirk Conrad’s debit card used at check-in at the Hotel Devon in Jubilee, Kentucky. And when Conrad checked out, he paid cash, and the deposit from the card was returned to his account.”
Sosa’s eyes widened. “That fits in with what I’ve been reading in Woodley’s files. Conrad asked the hotel to wipe the card from their system and paid cash when he checked out, supposedly to protect his number from being stolen.”
At that point, Sosa’s computer signaled the arrival of a new email. It was from the bank, with an attachment of the security footage.
“It’s here,” Sosa said.
King moved to Sosa’s desk to view it. It only took moments to realize it was the same man from the hotel footage.
“It’s Dirk Conrad,” King said.
Sosa nodded. “But it’s also Nyles Fairchild. See how he drags his foot as he walks and tilts his shoulder down the same way? The only difference is Fairchild didn’t wear a beard, but if he intended to hide his identity in other ways besides a fake ID, he’d want to change hisappearance, too. Growing a beard would be the easiest and quickest way to do that.”
“Looks like we’re on overtime tonight,” King said.
“Check to see if his lawyer ever showed,” Sosa said. “If he’s there, tell them we’re about to pay Fairchild a visit.”
King went back to his desk and made a call. After being on hold for a couple of minutes, he got his answer.
“The lawyer showed up about thirty minutes ago. By the time we get there, they should be ready to talk,” he said.
Sosa picked up the file he’d been reading, slipped his notes inside, and stood.
“Let’s do this,” he said.
Cheryl Vlasek was a lawyer who served as a public defender. She was at the dentist when she got a text to go see a new client named Nyles Fairchild, who was in custody in a holding cell in the Alexandria Police Department.
She signaled her dentist to stop for a moment and texted her response, letting them know it could be as long as a couple of hours before she could get there, hoping they’d send someone else in her stead. But they didn’t. She was told to proceed to the address as soon as possible.
She groaned, then eyed the dentist. “How much longer?” she mumbled.
“About thirty minutes,” he said.
She leaned back in the chair again, gave him a thumbs-up, and closed her eyes.
About forty-five minutes later, Cheryl was in her car and driving toward the police station. One side of her face was numb, and her mouth didn’t quite close all the way. All she could do was hope she could talk well enough to make herself understood, and began practicing as she drove, saying aloud, “Jack be nimble. Jack be quick. Jack jump over the candlestick,” over and over.
By the time she reached the police station, the numbness was beginning to wear off and she could feel her lips. The downside was that her mouth hurt like hell.
A few minutes later, she was escorted to an interview room. She asked for a bottle of water and sat down to wait. After they brought the water, she downed a couple of painkillers and was ready to proceed when they brought her client into the room. But she could tell by the look on her client’s face that he was not happy.
“I thought it would be a man,” he said.
Cheryl stood. “I’m Cheryl Vlasek. Have a seat, Mr. Fairchild.”
“I wanted a man,” Nyles persisted.
“When you ask for a public defender, you get the luck of the draw. Sit down and start talking. What have you been accused of, and did you do it? What you say in confidence stays with me. But if you don’t tell me the truth, then I can’t defend you against your own lies.”
Nyles blinked. She sounded tougher than she looked, and beggars can’t be choosers. He started talking.
By the time the detectives arrived, Cheryl was a little bit in shock. She’d seen the national news reports about the shooting. She even remembered the kid’s name, Charlie Raines. She’d been horrified at the time, thinking what the hell kind of man would shoot a kid and leave him to die like that? Now they had this man in for questioning in the case, and after what he’d just told her, she was smack-dab in the middle of it. She knew only what Fairchild had told her, and was absolutely certain he had not told her everything, which meant this was probably going to blow up in both their faces.
Nyles was scared. His lawyer hadn’t given him any straws to hold on to.
“There are no arguments for murder,” Cheryl told him.
“But I didn’t mean to do it,” Nyles said.
