DYLAN
I’ve hired a flight instructor at the Little Rock airport to fly me in his Piper Cub down to Shreveport. We can be there in about an hour.
Now that I know Casey’s safe, I get ready to do what I should have done weeks ago. During the flight, I update the evidence on my thumb drive. I add the information about Keegan taking Casey to kill her, the blood she left in his car, her escape, and his vow to frame her for another murder. And I include the videotape I got from Monnogan’s bar, with Keegan following us out of the parking lot the night Sy Rollins was murdered. Then I copy all of that onto two more flash drives I picked up with the phones.
From the Shreveport airport, I take an Uber back to where my car is. On the radio as I drive, I hear the alert about the manhunt going on in Memphis for the fugitive who broke free of her transporter, and I stew that the media is so clueless. They clearly haven’t been informed that she warned Memphis PD that Keegan would try to kill her.
They will know soon.
I put one of the thumb drives into a padded envelope and address it to Macy Weatherow, the reporter who has defended Casey. I take it by the TV station. Shoving on sunglasses and a baseball cap—a pretty pitiful disguise—I go in and ask the receptionist to get this package to Macy.
Then I slide another flash drive into my pocket and head to the DA’s office.
I think it through. If he’s not there, do I want to talk to an assistant DA? I decide that I have to speak to the district attorney himself, otherwise word might leak out and ruin everything. I can’t take the chance of having anyone give Keegan a heads-up.
It’s late afternoon—almost closing time—when I get to the DA’s office and park, and my hands begin to sweat as I get out of my car and walk up to the building. Inside, I go to the receptionist, who looks up with a smile as I walk toward her.
“Hi, my name is Dylan Roberts.” I explain my connection to the police department. “I need to speak to the district attorney about a matter of great importance, having to do with the Casey Cox case.”
She calls up to his office, then instructs me to get on the elevator and head up to the fourth floor. The building has twenty floors, and I doubt seriously that his office is on a lower floor, but I go there anyway. I get off and look both ways, trying to figure out where to go next.
A man approaches me. “Mr. Roberts?”
“Yes.”
“I was sent to see what it is you need.”
“And who are you?” I ask.
“John Appinet. I’m assistant to the district attorney.”
“Are you an AD?”
“No, sir, a paralegal. Could we go in here and you can go over what you have?”
I clear my throat. “No, actually. I need to see the DA. I have information about Casey Cox that I need to give to him personally. It will impact her case going forward.”
“Do you know where she is?”
I cross my arms, unyielding. “Get the DA for me. It’s highly sensitive, and very urgent. Believe me, it’s something he’ll want to know before the press gets wind of it.”
That raises his eyebrows. He looks up the hall. “Okay, just go into the waiting area and have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
There’s another receptionist or administrative assistant behind a desk in the waiting area, and she doesn’t look up as I sit down. I check my watch and look out the glass, wondering if Appinet is making it clear that this is urgent.
Several minutes later, he comes back. “This way, Mr. Roberts. I’m going to take you to DA Phillips. He’s on a different floor.”
I follow him back onto the elevator. As I walk, I reach into my pocket and fold my fingers around the thumb drive. I can’t wait to give it to him.
The DA’s office isn’t as elaborate as I would have thought. It’s probably bigger than the other offices here, but it isn’t a corner office and probably pales in comparison to the kind of office he would have if he worked in the private sector.
The man I’ve seen often on TV looks distracted and disinterested as he gets to his feet and shakes my hand. “What can I do for you, Mr. Roberts? It sounded important.”
“If we could have some privacy . . .”
Phillips nods to Appinet, and the paralegal leaves. When the door is closed, I sit down and pull out the thumb drive, slide it across his desk. “As you know, I’ve been hired by Brent Pace’s family to find and bring back Casey Cox. Yesterday, Chief Gates swore me in with the police department. But in the course of this investigation, I’ve discovered some things about key police detectives on the force who, I believe, are responsible for Brent’s murder themselves. Casey Cox is innocent, and I have evidence here that Gordon Keegan and Sy Rollins, among some others, murdered Brent and a number of others. And that a few days ago, Keegan murdered Sy Rollins.”
Phillips sits up straighter, his face blanching, and takes the thumb drive. He frowns as he assesses me again, and he shoves the drive into his computer port. “Before I look at this, you have to tell me. Do you know where she is?”
“We’ll talk about that after you see the evidence. Her attorney will negotiate her surrender after you see this, but Ms. Cox fears that Keegan is going to kill her to shut her up. She told this story to the Memphis police, and they blew it off and handed her over to him. Very stupid move. I have evidence that he tried to kill her and she escaped during the attempt.”
He gapes at me. “What evidence?”
“Keegan wasn’t taking her to Shreveport. He took her to a remote, wooded area with every intention of killing her. Her blood is in his rental car, and she can direct you to where he took her. You’ll find her prints in the dirt there and possibly more blood since she had scratches.”
“You’ve seen her, then?”
I evade. “I’ve spoken to her. She told me the story, and based on the evidence that I’ve collected throughout this case, I believe her. Gordon Keegan is an extortionist and a serial killer. He’s a cancer on the Shreveport Police Department, and it’s about to metastasize. Casey’s attorney will make sure that her story gets to the press, and you can imagine how they’ll latch onto this. You need to know all this before that happens.”
“Have you talked to anyone at the Shreveport police department about this?”
“No. I don’t know who’s involved, and these people are deadly. I decided to come to you instead.”
“Not even Chief Gates?”
“No.”
He sighs. “Okay.” Not surprisingly, he seems a little rattled, and he shakes his head and tries to refocus. “Which file should I open first?”
I direct him to the overview of all the information, and I walk through it with him. He listens earnestly, asking questions and making sure he understands. It takes over an hour for us to go over it all, and he tells his assistant to hold all his calls. When we’re finally done, he’s sweating. He gets up and paces across the room, his eyes studying the beige carpet as he thinks.
Finally, he turns to me. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll need to issue an arrest warrant for Keegan. Your life is obviously in danger. And we have to figure out how and when we’ll get Casey Cox in here. I’ll need a number so I can talk to her.”
I don’t want to give it to him, but we’re down to the wire here. He needs to hear her side of it. I give him Barbero’s number instead and tell him Barbero can connect them.
“I don’t want you to leave here until I’ve set some of this in motion,” Phillips says. “I’ll need to talk to you as we’re working on this. I’ll give you a room and ask you to stay in it until it’s safe for you to leave. It’s a secure room—the press and Keegan and whoever else can’t get to you. Are you okay with that?”
It’s such a relief to have someone in authority taking this seriously that I’ll do almost anything. But I’m not sure about this. “I’d rather not be stalled here. I want to help find Keegan.”
“Of course. We’ll need you for that. But I have phone calls to make and I want you close so I can get your input. It won’t take that long.”
I’m reluctant, but in the end I say, “All right. But when Casey turns herself in, I want to be the one to bring her.”
He nods, then rubs his fingers through his hair and lets out a curse. “I can’t believe this is happening. It’s going to be national news. International. It’ll take years for our people to recover from this.”
“Better to start that process now. Get Keegan and his boys off the streets.”
He leads me to the secure room and has his assistant load the small refrigerator there with Mountain Dew and Coke, my two favorite drinks. It has a bathroom, so I won’t have to go out. There’s a TV, and the assistant gives me a wifi password. But when I click on my cell phone, I don’t have any bars.
I e-mail Casey from our Yahoo address. It’s done. Told the DA. He’ll call you soon. They’re setting things in motion. I’m safe in a secure room in their offices until they arrest him.
I press Send, but the screen doesn’t change. I click it again. Nothing. I’m not sure whether the e-mail sent or not. Is something wrong with their wifi?
While I’m waiting to see if I get a response, I turn the TV to the news. My heart feels unburdened, hopeful, and I thank God. I feel like things might really work out now, that there’s a chance that Casey will be vindicated and she and I might have a future together. What will that look like? Where will we go from here?
We could go to a movie, to dinner, hang out watching TV, do actual date stuff. Will our relationship work even if we don’t have the pall of death and murder hanging over us?
Yes, I think it will. We’re not drama queens. We don’t need that kind of stimulation to connect us. She seems like a person who’s simple and low-maintenance. Even though we’ve spent so little time together, I have a strong feeling that she wouldn’t be a drain. Instead, she fills me up, even in the worst times.
Yes, that’s what I feel. Filled up. Like there’s been a piece of me hollowed out, and she has what I need to fill it.
I check my e-mail again. No reply. I try to send my message again, but I can’t—my Internet is frozen. I sigh and chalk it up to the security in the room.
I look out through the small rectangular window with the view of a parking lot. No one is in view, and only a couple of cars are left. The staff has probably already gone home for the day.
I try to open the door. It’s locked. I didn’t know Phillips was going to lock it.
The hair rises on my arms, and I try the knob again. Even though I don’t see anyone through the door’s window, I bang on it and yell.
Too much time has passed. I don’t like this. I knock on the door, hoping someone will hear me and come unlock it so I can ask what’s going on. No one comes. I go to the bathroom, lean over the sink, and wash my face. I dry it off and look into the mirror.
I suddenly get the chilling sense that I’ve done the wrong thing. No, I tell myself. What I’ve done is right. I took the flash drive to the TV station. I came to the DA. I reported a series of grisly crimes. It’s going to be all right. Phillips has a whole case to lay out for Gates. Or maybe he’s talking to Gates’s boss, the mayor, first. It all takes time.
Then I hear someone unlocking the door. I dash out of the bathroom as the door opens.
“Where have you been?” I ask. “You didn’t tell me you were locking me in!”
The DA steps in, but he doesn’t make eye contact with me. I see a shadow on the wall behind him.
Gordon Keegan steps into the doorway, grinning. “Hey, buddy. How you doing?”