WE WOKE TO THE SOUND of cranking diesels early Monday morning. Enjoyed breakfast at the same greasy spoon, then returned to our room. It was almost eight. I phoned the FBI on my cell phone and asked for Gombold. The receptionist asked my name, but I declined because I didn’t want Polk to know I’d called the bureau. She put me on hold for what seemed like an eternity. “Agent Gombold,” he said.
“Agent Keane,” I said.
“Pepper,” he said, “why the hell didn’t you give her your name?”
“I need to set up a meeting with you and Dittmer this morning.”
“What about?”
“I think Polk murdered the three math professors.”
“You out of your mind?”
“You won’t think so when you hear the evidence.” I gave him a detailed summary of the evidence we’d developed. The gun, the car, everything.
“It’s circumstantial,” he said, but his tone suggested he knew the bureau had cause for concern.
“We’ve gotten indictments with less,” I said.
“How soon can you be here?” he asked.
“Little more than an hour.”
“Okay,” he sighed, “I’ll set it up. Dittmer’s gonna love this.”
“Don’t tell Polk,” I said. “The son of a bitch sent one of his coconspirators out to kill us a couple of nights ago.”
“You’re shittin’ me?”
“The guy’s tied up in the back of my truck,” I said. “Tried to off us with a nine millimeter. I’ll bring him with me if Scott doesn’t kill him first.”
We checked out of the motel and drove several miles down a desolate country road until we found an old shack, then helped Koch out of the truck so he could empty his bladder. He was wearing the same clothes for the third day and sharing the back of the truck with the dogs, so he smelled like a bum, but that was the least of my concerns.
We arrived downtown at nine-thirty and parked in an all-day lot. We left Buck and Wheat in the truck with our prisoner, then walked the two blocks to the federal building. I phoned Gombold from a pay phone in the lobby and asked him to come down. “Why don’t you just come up?” he asked.
“I’m not inclined to surrender my weapon,” I said. “Figure you could help us get past security.” He sighed but said he’d be right down.
He stepped off one of the elevator cars two minutes later. Navy suit, white shirt, solid green tie. Saw us, said a few words to one of the security people, and motioned for us to walk around the metal detector. “You’ve looked better,” he said as he led us into one of the elevators. I hadn’t shaved in a few days and my forearms were covered with abrasions from crawling around in the brush.
“Felt better too,” I said. “You say anything to Dittmer yet?”
“Just that there had been some developments that might impact the bureau. Told him you seemed kind of itchy to discuss them.”
Dittmer was at his desk wearing a white oxford-cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a leather shoulder holster. A paisley tie hung loose around his unbuttoned collar. He looked haggard. His weathered face bore a stoic look—one of those men who had seen it all and consequently had toughness etched into his features. Gombold escorted us in and closed the door behind him. I introduced Scott and we all took chairs in front of Dittmer’s massive mahogany desk. Scott was the only one not wearing a shoulder holster; his gun was tucked into the small of his back.
“What’s this all about?” Dittmer asked. “Tim said there had been some developments.”
“I think Polk killed those math professors,” I said. He leaned forward and gave me a hard look.
“I hope you’ve got something to back that up,” he said.
“I do,” I said. “I’ll start with this. The weapon used to kill Fontaine was a five-shot thirty-eight-caliber Taurus revolver Polk took from a bank robber named Bailey Green last summer. Polk logged it into evidence and, as you know, the weapon later came up missing. Here’s the ballistics report from the Washington State Patrol.” I handed the report to him. He reached for a legal pad and began taking notes.
“What else?” he asked.
“A witness claimed to see a brand-new Ford or Mercury luxury sedan, dark blue, with Colorado plates in front of Carolyn Chang’s home the night of her disappearance. The prefix on the plate was A-M-K. The only Colorado vehicle fitting that description with an A-M-K prefix is an unmarked Crown Victoria registered to your office.”
“What’s the plate number?”
“A-M-K 8115.”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “That’s one of ours. What else you got?”
It took more than a half hour, but I laid it all out for him. Everything. Polk’s lie to Gilbert, his ties to the Koch Group, a man fitting Polk’s description breaking into Jayne’s town house, Polk’s being in Boston at the time of Underwood’s death and in Washington at the time of Fontaine’s death, and Koch’s attempt to kill us the other night. Polk was a southpaw and the man who had stabbed Carolyn Chang had been left-handed. “This look familiar?” I asked. I handed him the tracking device we’d found on my truck. He studied it.
“It’s ours,” he said, sighing again.
I told him my theory. Showed him the documents Gilbert had found that established conclusively that the three victims had been working together on a model designed to predict market behavior. He was initially skeptical, but I thought I saw his doubts dissipate as the circumstantial evidence of Polk’s involvement became overwhelming.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered as he leaned forward and placed his hands on his desk, “a weapon taken from our evidence room is used to commit a murder we’re supposed to have investigated.” He shook his head slowly from side to side. Gumby just stared out at the Denver skyline. Scott sat quietly and took it all in. I inventoried the military awards and college degrees behind Dittmer’s desk. “Where’s Polk now?” Dittmer finally asked, the question clearly directed to Gombold.
“He’s in the building,” Gumby said. Dittmer pressed a button on his telephone set and a young woman’s voice came over the speaker.
“Sir?”
“Have Agent Polk come in here,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Several minutes passed before Polk arrived. He wore gray slacks, a light blue shirt with short sleeves, a solid navy tie, and a leather shoulder holster with his howitzer in it. He wasn’t happy to see me. “What’s this?” he said.
“Close the door,” Dittmer said. Polk complied. “I need your weapon and badge,” Dittmer said.
“What’s going on, boss?” Polk asked. Surprised.
“Your weapon and badge,” Dittmer repeated.
“What the fuck is going on?” Polk demanded.
“You’re suspended until further notice,” Dittmer said loudly as he stood. “Now give me your goddamned weapon and badge.”
“Why?” Polk demanded.
“Killing three math professors seems like a pretty good reason,” I said from my chair. I was roughly halfway between Polk and Dittmer, and I made no effort to hide my contempt.
“You think I killed them?” he shouted.
“That’s where the evidence points,” I said.
“We’re not discussing this now,” Dittmer said. He extended his long arm to signal Polk he still wanted my former classmate to surrender his badge and gun.
“What evidence?” Polk shouted. His denial angered me. I stood up and faced him.
“I’ll tell you what evidence,” I shot back. “A weapon you logged into evidence was used to kill Fontaine. You lied to the police about it. You’re in Boston at a sex crimes seminar when Underwood dies in an autoerotic death, you’re in Richland when Fontaine takes a bullet. A blue Crown Victoria with Colorado plates is seen outside Carolyn Chang’s home the night she disappeared, and that plate traces to the Denver office of the FBI. Carolyn’s killer was left-handed and you’re a lefty. Three people who developed a revolutionary way of constructing economic models are dead and you work for an economic consulting company. You reinterviewed witnesses who had already been interviewed by other agents, to make sure nobody was on your trail.”
“I was working on the goddamned case!” he shouted. “You think I didn’t know something funny was going on? You think I didn’t know that I was in the vicinity when all three murders took place?”
“You broke into Jayne’s house and—”
“To find out what you knew,” he said. “I couldn’t get into your house because of your fucking dogs.”
“We’re not discussing this now,” Dittmer repeated firmly, but the situation was slipping away from his control.
“By the way,” I said to Polk, “Koch botched the job the other night. We confiscated his FBI tracking device and gave him a good beating. Probably should’ve killed the fucker, but the prosecutor may need him to testify against you.”
“What are you talking about?” Polk demanded.
“We’re not discussing this now,” Dittmer shouted.
Polk turned to Dittmer. “You son of a bitch,” he said. “You set me up.”
Dittmer pressed the intercom again and said, “Send some agents in here to take custody of Agent Polk.”
“Right away, sir,” a female voice replied.
Polk looked at me, then at Dittmer, then back at me. “Don’t you get it?” he pleaded. “Dittmer’s the one who decided our office would run the investigation. That’s why he was so interested in knowing whether the phone records could connect any of the victims.”
“You’re the one who logged in the gun,” I said.
Polk turned to Dittmer again. “You fuckin’ set me up,” he repeated. He was as angry as I’d ever seen him. Every vein and artery in his neck was bulging. “You got me that job with Koch. You sent me to Boston. Told me to take time off to attend my reunion. You had me drive to Lincoln with you for that stupid meeting. How fucking stupid could I have been? I ought to fuckin’ kill you right now.” I knew what was about to happen and reached for my Glock. Then everything went into slow motion.
Polk started for Dittmer, his face filled with rage. “You fuckin’ set me up,” he repeated yet again. Dittmer stepped back and began to draw his weapon with his left hand. Gumby saw what was about to happen and went for his gun, as did Scott, but I got to mine first. I shot Dittmer once in the chest.