Thursday, early afternoon
Savich opened the door to the interview room on the third floor of the Hoover Building, down the hall from the Criminal Apprehension Unit, the CAU. Griffin had Brakey Alcott waiting for them there. He’d picked him up chowing a hamburger at Milt’s Diner. Griffin told him if Brakey was worried about anything, he didn’t show it at the diner. He was chatting up the waitress big-time. But he was scared now.
Savich said, “Mr. Alcott, I’m Agent Savich and this is Agent Sherlock. You’ve already met Agent Hammersmith.” He nodded to Griffin, who sat at the end of the table, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, looking as stern as possible. Sherlock knew that look would never work on a woman. Griffin was too handsome.
Brakey Alcott was slight, and skinny as a parking meter. He had to top out at under one hundred and forty pounds, if that. He had beautiful light green eyes, an artist’s hands—slender, with beautifully tapered long fingers. He was wearing a large silver ring on his fourth finger, a dark sapphire sitting high in the middle. Not a sapphire. Closer up, it looked nearly black. He was nervous, sweaty, his elegant hands moving, clasping, unclasping in front of him on the table. Savich and Sherlock sat across from him.
Brakey said in a sweet Virginia drawl that crawled with fear and confusion, “Agent Savich, Agent Hammersmith hasn’t told me much of anything. I was eating my hamburger at Milt’s when he came up to my table and told me I had to come with him. I’ll tell you, people really looked at me weird then. I’d heard about Deputy Lewis getting killed and being found in the Reineke post office, but he told me somebody put his body in an OTR that was on my truck. I swear I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
Brakey jerked forward in his chair when he realized the three grim-looking federal agents didn’t believe him. “Listen, I swear, I don’t know anything about poor Deputy Lewis, only what I heard at Milt’s. Everybody was talking about his being dead, and looking at me funny. Even Laurie was nervous, brought me my hamburger medium rare instead of my usual well done, but I didn’t mind. I knew she was upset about Deputy Lewis, like everybody else. And then this agent came in. Everybody saw him haul me away. It’s my hometown.” He paused and focused on Sherlock, came out of his chair. “Wait, I know you, ma’am, I saw you on every single TV station yesterday—you took down that terrorist at JFK, kicked him to the ground. You’re Agent Sherlock.” He beamed at her.
“Thank you, Mr. Alcott, but that was yesterday. Today I want you to tell us about the dead man in your OTR. And please, don’t waste our time telling us you have no idea how Deputy Kane Lewis’s body got there.”
“No, no, honest, I don’t know.” He nodded again toward Griffin. “I already told him I didn’t know he was there. Really, I had no clue. I’m as shocked about it as everyone else. I mean, I’ve known Deputy Lewis all my life, I always liked him—”
Savich interrupted him, leaned forward, his voice hard. “You’re expecting us to believe that? You’re telling us the murderer simply happened upon your truck while you were in Milt’s Diner having your two cups of coffee and a bear claw this morning? There’s no trace anywhere of someone trying to break into your truck, no sign of forced entry on the truck doors, and you’ve said you never leave it open. And if someone did get in without your knowing about it, they somehow stuffed Deputy Lewis’s body into an OTR, even covered the body with parcels, while you were sipping your coffee? You can’t be stupid enough to think we don’t know it was you who killed him.”
Brakey’s mouth opened, closed. He whispered, “Somebody did it somehow. I swear I don’t know anything about it.”
Savich came out of his chair, leaned forward, grabbed Brakey’s shirt in his fist. “Since it’s obvious you were involved, the real question is, what were you thinking? If you didn’t want to get caught, what you did was idiotic. Was it a mistake? Did you panic after you stabbed Deputy Lewis? You stuffed him in the OTR, threw parcels on top of him, and went back to making your daily delivery to Ellie Moran at the Reineke post office? Did you leave that OTR there by accident, or were you too panicked to think straight?”
Brakey looked white as death, horrified, shook his head back and forth. Savich let his shirt go. Brakey leaned back as far as he could in his chair.
Savich slammed down a photo of Deputy Kane Lewis. “Look at him, Brakey. This is what a man looks like after you stab him in the heart.”
Brakey Alcott stared down at the photo, gulped once, twice. “He’s really dead, Deputy Lewis is dead. I liked him, more than that dickhead Sheriff Watson—” Brakey shot a look toward Sherlock. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but he is one, really, but I shouldn’t have said a bad word like that.” Brakey looked from one to the other. “You think I did this to Deputy Lewis? No, I’d never do that to anybody.”
“If that’s true, you’ve got to help us prove it,” Sherlock said. “Where were you last night, Brakey? What did you do?”
Brakey blinked at her. “Last night? I tried to get Laurie from Milt’s to go out with me, but that didn’t happen, so I went home and watched TV with my mom and grandma. We were watching the news, and that’s when I saw you, Agent Sherlock. Jonah, one of my brothers, he came over for a while, brought his kids over like he often does. Both my brothers live on our property, in their own houses across the yard from us.
“After they left, we all went to bed. That’s it, I swear it to you. I went to bed and I slept all night, woke up when the alarm went off at a quarter to four this morning.”
He was telling the truth. Brakey Alcott wasn’t a good enough actor, Savich knew, to be lying. He had no memory of what he’d done. And he couldn’t know that Walter Givens, the man who’d stabbed Sparky Carroll in the Rayburn Building corridor, had said the same thing. The press, thankfully, didn’t know that yet.
Savich placed photos of the two Athames in front of Brakey. “The one on the left is called a Dual Dragon Athame; the other one was used to stab Deputy Lewis to death. Where did you get that one, Mr. Alcott?”
“I didn’t. It’s not mine!”
Sherlock sat forward, her voice soft like Glinda the Good Witch’s. “But you recognize both Athames, don’t you, Brakey? I mean, your family are Wiccans, right? Are these Athames in a collection in your mom’s house?”
He shook his head violently. “No, really. I’m not sure. I’ve seen a lot of them. You should ask my mom, she’ll tell you.”
And now Brakey was lying. Was he protecting his family? Savich saw he was ready to fold down, from ignorance and fear, and too much knowledge.
Savich rose. “I would appreciate speaking with your mother, in fact. And your dad?”
“My dad died six months ago, in an auto accident on route 123. My mom’s still getting over that.”
“I’m sorry. That will be all for now, Mr. Alcott. I’ll have an agent drive you back to Plackett. I’ll be stopping by later this afternoon and talk with your family.”
Savich nodded to both Sherlock and Griffin, and out the door they went, leaving Brakey to sit as still as a block of wood.
PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
The newly widowed Mrs. Lewis wasn’t alone. As Savich turned off First Avenue onto Briar Lane, they saw cars parked in the driveway, at the curb, across the street, stretching almost a block in both directions. The Lewis house was a simple two-story, maybe fifty years old, with a two-car carport attached. It looked comfortable, like an old armchair that had sat through years of ball games. The house could use a paint job and a lawn mower. Oddly, it didn’t seem like neglect, it seemed like a choice that fit the house’s and the owners’ personalities.