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Walker sat back, the chair creaking with the onslaught. “So you can explain the fibers and blood?”
“I don’t need to, do I?”
“I just thought you might want to help us out. Clear your client once and for all.”
“Tell you what I’ll do.” Hester scribbled down a phone number and passed it to him.
“What’s this?”
“A phone number.”
“I see that. For?”
“The Gun-O-Rama shooting range.”
Walker just looked at her. The color in his face ebbed away.
“Give them a call,” Hester said. “My client was there just this afternoon, an hour before you picked him up. Doing a little target practice.” Hester did a little finger wave. “Bye-bye, gun residue test.”
Walker’s jaw dropped. He looked at Stanton, tried to regain his composure. “Convenient.”
“Hardly. Mr. Grayson is a decorated retired federal marshal, remember? He shoots frequently. Are we done here?”
“No statement?”
“ ‘ Don’t eat yellow snow.’ That’s our statement. Come on, Ed.”
Hester and Ed Grayson stood.
“We will keep looking, Ms. Crimstein. You should both know that. We have a timeline. We will trace Mr. Grayson’s steps. We will find the body and the weapon. I understand why he did what he did. But we don’t get to play executioner. So I will make that case. Make no mistake.”
“May I speak frankly, Sheriff Walker?”
“Sure.”
Hester looked at the camera above his head. “Turn the camera off.”
Walker looked back, nodded; the red light on the camera went off.
Hester put her fists on the table and leaned down. She didn’t have to lean far. Even sitting Walker was nearly her height. “You could have the body and the weapon and, hell, a live feed of my client shooting this child rapist at Giants Stadium in front of eighty thousand witnesses—and I could still get him off in ten minutes.”
She turned. Ed Grayson had already opened the door.
“Have a nice day,” Hester said.
AT TEN PM, Charlie texted Wendy.
POP WANTS TO KNOW WHERE THE NEAREST TITTY BAR IS.
She smiled. His way of letting her know that he was fine. Charlie was pretty good about staying in touch.
She responded: I DON’T KNOW. AND NOBODY CALLS THEM THAT. THEY’RE GENTLEMEN’S LOUNGES NOW.
Charlie: POPS SAID HE HATES THAT POLITICALLY CORRECT SH*T.
She smiled as the home phone rang. It was Sheriff Walker returning her call.
“I found something on my car,” she said.
“What?”
“A GPS. I think Ed Grayson put it there.”
“I’m around the corner,” he said. “I know it’s late, but do you mind if I take a look now?”
“No, that’s fine.”
“Give me five.”
She met him outside by her car. Walker bent down as Wendy reminded him of Ed Grayson’s visit, this time adding the seemingly unimportant detail of him checking her back tire. He looked at the GPS and nodded. It took him a moment or two to get himself back upright.
“I’ll send some people out here to take pictures and remove it.”
“I heard you arrested Ed Grayson.”
“Who told you that?”
“Mercer’s ex-wife, Jenna Wheeler.”
“She’s wrong. We brought him in for questioning. He was never arrested.”
“Are you still holding him?”
“No, he was free to go.”
“And now?”
Walker cleared his throat. “Now we continue our investigation.”
“Wow, that sounds official.”
“You’re a reporter.”
“Not anymore, but okay, let’s make this conversation off the record.”
“Off the record, we don’t have a case. We don’t have a body. We don’t have a weapon. We have one witness—that would be you—and she never saw the shooter’s face, so she really can’t positively ID him.”
“That’s crap.”
“How so?”
“If Dan Mercer was a prominent citizen instead of a suspected pedophile—”
“And if I lost a hundred pounds and became white and good-looking, someone might mistake me for Hugh Jackman. But the truth is, until the body or weapon is found, we have nothing.”
“Sounds like you’re giving up.”
“I’m not. But the brass has absolutely no interest in pursuing this. As both my boss and opposing counsel reminded me today, the best-case scenario is that we charge a retired fed whose son was sexually abused by the victim.”
“And that would be bad for any political career.”
“That’s the cynical viewpoint,” Walker said.
“What other viewpoint is there?”
“The real-world one. We have a limited amount of resources. One of my colleagues, an old-timer named Frank Tremont, is still looking for that missing girl, Haley McWaid, but after this much time, well, it is all about resources, right? So who wants to divert resources away from that case, for example, to—one—find justice for an undeserving scumbag and—two—a case we can’t possibly win because no jury will convict?”
“Again I repeat: Sounds like you’re giving up.”
“Not quite. I plan to retrace his steps, figure out where Mercer had been living.”
“Not the trailer?”
“No. I spoke to his lawyer and ex-wife. Mercer moved around a lot—I guess it was tough for him to settle. Anyway he had just rented out the trailer that morning. There’s nothing there, not even a change of clothes.”
Wendy made a face. “So what do you expect to learn when you find his place?”
“Damn if I know.”
“What else?”
“I’ll try to track down that GPS on your car, but I can’t imagine that’ll get us anywhere. Even if we get extra lucky and prove it belongs to Grayson, well, that shows he kept tabs on you? We’d still have a long way to go.”
“You need to find the body,” she said.
“Right, that’s priority one. I need to retrace Grayson’s driving route—and I think I might be able to get a rough idea. We know that two hours after leaving that trailer, Grayson stopped at a shooting range.”
“You’re kidding.”
“That was my reaction. But actually it was pretty ingenious. Witnesses saw him firing a gun at targets, thereby making our gun residue test null and void. We checked the weapon he brought with him to the range, but no surprise—the slugs didn’t match the ones we found at the trailer park.”
