Heat slid the evidence bag closer to Backhouse. He averted his gaze like a dog confronted by the turd it has just left on the rug.
“We know Nathan Levy had bodywork done on his BMW. We know his tires popped and his rims got bent that night. We also know he damaged the door to his glove compartment.” Nikki picked up the plastic bag. “This is that glove compartment door. It bothered us when we couldn’t find it at first. The body shop didn’t have it. Our crime scene professionals couldn’t locate it at his home. It wasn’t at his Forenetics office, either. Know where it finally turned up?” Heat set it back down, closer to Backhouse. “Of course you know. Because our detectives found it last night when they searched your apartment.”
The sound of chains raking across plastic punctuated the silence as Backhouse stirred in his chair. His attorney’s voice cracked as he said, “This is circumstantial.”
“Yes,” agreed Heat. “And the circumstances are that your client, after he induced Levy to flee his house, probably scaring him with news about Abigail Plunkitt’s death, went there and stole this glove box cover. And why?” Nikki turned to Backhouse. “You want to say it, or shall I?…All right, I will.” She pointed to the black cover inside the plastic. “The damage you see here is an exact match for Nathan Levy’s leg injury.” She took a printout of the X-rays out of her file and shoved them across the table. “Proving,” she said, “that Nathan Levy was a passenger in that car that night. I know you lied. There was never any fistfight with Fred Lobbrecht. During the crash, Nathan’s leg slammed into the glove box. Abigail Plunkitt was in the backseat. How do I know? Because she had to die, too. Because these people knew your dirty little secret, Wilton. That you were driving drunk. That you were at the wheel. That you killed that woman in the middle of the night on Cold Spring Turnpike.”
Nikki let him marinate in that, then continued. “The question is, why kill them? When we get our court order this morning to pull your bank records, we’re going to see that you already bought their silence, aren’t we?” His lawyer rested a hand on Backhouse’s arm as a signal not to answer that. “I am betting your first payoff was to Fred Lobbrecht. You knew him from CRU and your prior work with Forenetics, so New York state trooper Lobbrecht was the one you called that night to come to Cold Spring Turnpike and clean up your mess. And for that, you paid off his mortgage and got him a big, fat job. Abigail Plunkitt quit working to save manatees. Thanks to your checkbook, no doubt. Same for Nathan Levy, who suddenly went from test driver to blues sax man.
“It was all going to be just fine, except for one thing.” She gestured to the chair beside her. “Once this jackass, Jameson Rook, got an assignment to do a story on your auto safety whistle-blowing, everything changed. Because Jameson Rook doesn’t fluff out press releases. Jameson Rook is your worst nightmare: a true investigative reporter. He started nosing around outside the tidy pages of your safety study, and you panicked. Especially when Fred Lobbrecht got pangs of conscience and engaged Lon King to broker his confession to Rook. And Lobbrecht almost talked. But you killed him first. Oh, but what about Lon King? Fred probably told his shrink, so King had to die, too. That left Plunkitt and Levy. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? But you had to divert suspicion. And how does a smart guy like you turn this into a win-win? You set up Tangier Swift to look like the man with the motive to eliminate all the whistle-blowers. What a great idea, too. Because ultimately, if all this had come out—your DWI and the woman you killed—not only would that have indicted you, it would also have undermined all your results. You were willing to sacrifice your entire team for the massive ego stroke of being able to take Tangier Swift down. Which is what you consider your life’s work. Am I right, Wilton?”