Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

He looked down at his hand. “Yes. I’d forgotten. But we met in basic training. After that, we all ended up in separate units, and I’m the only one who stayed in the service. But unless you count the time we got caught sneaking into boot camp drunk, there wasn’t a lot that happened between us.”

“What about after, when my father was a civilian employee? Was there something my father did that was wrong? Something McKnight did that he’d apologize for?”

Gnoble took a deep breath. “Your father was a good man, Sydney.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“A stellar military career for the short time that he was in. And then the contract work he did, the photography, the artwork… Had he not retired because of that tragic accident, who knows? Maybe we’d be viewing his work at some gallery.”

“Why would McKnight be apologizing?”

“I have no idea. Your father overextended himself, made a few mistakes when he opened up the pizza parlor. I think McKnight might have lent him money, money that didn’t come from the most reliable source, which is what was-I think that’s what was found in the background check. I don’t have all the details.”

That could possibly explain the note telling McKnight to send the money to her father’s pizza place, but not the reference about why it would be for the boat, Cisco’s Kid. Nor did it explain Scotty’s remark about her father’s manager, McKnight’s wife. “And Becky Lynn’s involvement?”

“Sydney. Don’t ask me about this.”

“I need to know.”

He hesitated, looked away for a moment, before saying, “I think your father and Becky Lynn were having an affair…”

The first thing she thought of was her mother telling her that her father wasn’t a saint. Then she thought about Becky Lynn’s connection to organized crime.

Sydney stood, walked toward the window, then paused at a photo of Gnoble shaking hands with the president. “Did McKnight have something to do with my father’s death?”

Silence reigned. She turned, faced Gnoble, who still sat, giving her a look of sympathy. Finally, he stood. “We know who killed your father. He’s in prison.”

“And he says he didn’t do it.”

“He has the burns on his hands.”

“Which I can’t explain. But he knew things.”

“What things?”

Suddenly she felt foolish for even bringing it up, but she was in it this far, and she wanted answers. She told him. And when she finished, his look once again held nothing but sympathy.

“You’re tearing yourself up for a few little things, coincidences, if that. I saw the evidence, Sydney. I read the investigation. He’s guilty.”

“But what if he isn’t?”

“A twenty under the till? A can under the counter? Even if it was true, there isn’t a court that would reverse it based on that.”

“No, but you could contact the governor and tell him there are doubts that need to be looked into.”

“I’ve publicly come out in support of his death sentence, and now you want me to approach the governor for clemency? Never mind that they’ll rip me apart on every campaign ad between now and the election, the man killed your father.”

“And if he’s guilty, he pays. But what if he isn’t? What if this has something to do with why McKnight killed himself? You might be the one man who can do something about this.”

“All right. I’ll look into it. But I want some sort of promise from you in return.”

She waited.

“You tell no one of this conversation. Not your mother, not your stepfather. No one. If this gets out before I have some proof, my opponents will ream me.”

“Agreed.”

“And I don’t want McKnight’s name brought up publicly. It’s already bad enough that he’s linked to me through the nomination process, then ends up killing himself.”

“I’d like to see this letter for myself-” She stopped when Gnoble’s secretary knocked on the door.

“Sorry to disturb you, but that call you were waiting for came through.”

“Yes. I’ll pick it up.” He turned back to Sydney. “Call me the moment you discover anything that… might help with your case. I’m here for you. You know that.”

“Thank you, Senator,” she said, then walked out the door.

As she left, she heard Gnoble say, “You can put the call through,” and she couldn’t help but wonder if he would really do as he said, look into the matter, or was it just another politician’s promise?

Sydney took the elevator to the thirteenth floor, thinking about Donovan Gnoble and his answers, his nonanswers to her questions. In her mind most politicians that high up in the political spectrum got there or stayed there by means less than altruistic. Gnoble, however, had always seemed on the up-and-up. Surely her mother would never have remained friends with him otherwise? She was about to add that her father would never have remained friends with him, but she wasn’t quite sure what to make of her father after the last two days.

She waved at the receptionist who buzzed her into the Bureau offices. Just down the hall to the left, she stopped at a wall-mounted counter, pulled her time card from the slot above it, and signed in. Hard not to see the blank space from yesterday, a day that was supposed to be spent in quiet introspection, remembering her father as he was supposed to be remembered.

She didn’t necessarily trust Gnoble to do what needed to be done. Not because he wasn’t a good politician, but precisely because he was a good politician. He’d always put his political interests first. That was the name of the game. And what of McKnight? she wondered, as she shoved her time card back in the slot. Could she trust that Gnoble would look into that, tell her what he found, even if it conflicted or cast doubt on his political ideals? After all, McKnight committed suicide while being looked at for a political appointment, and his name was connected to Gnoble’s.

And wasn’t that the point? Damned good one at that. She took out her cell phone, called Scotty as she walked to her desk.

“What are the chances you can get a copy of McKnight’s suicide note from Houston PD?” she asked.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Can you?”

“Figuring you’d want to see it, I’ve already tried. It’s not going to be easy. Hatcher’s already back in D.C., and Rick Reynolds, the agent who was looking into it after Hatcher left, says he’s not touching it with a ten-foot pole. There’s some political voodoo on the case, according to him, and he’s this close to being transferred to an outhouse in the wilds of some state with a population less than a thousand.”

“What do you mean political voodoo?”

“The note’s off-limits, which, I suppose, is good news, because if there is anything about your father in it, it’s not coming out in the papers. Gotta go. Another call coming in.”

“Scotty-” He disconnected, and before she could try calling him back, Lettie walked by, saw her, and said, “Dixon told me the moment you get back from court, he wants to see you.”

The first thing anyone noticed upon walking into Dixon’s office was the brochure for Tahiti on the wall, and below that a calendar marking off how many days until his retirement, which Dixon could cite not only to the day, but to the minute, maybe even the second. The calendar’s placement, as well as the Tahiti brochure, were there as a not-so-subtle reminder that if his subordinate agents knew what was good for them, they had better not do anything to screw up and keep him from the long-anticipated trip he intended to take once he reached the magic age of fifty. According to the calendar, he’d hit that in about four years.

Those in the know used that calendar as a gauge for his moods. If he was staring at it, be careful. At the moment Sydney walked in, he was buried in paperwork, a good sign, or so she thought, and she knocked on the open door.