Dave Zeltserman - Outsourced

“You think there was someone on the inside?” Resnick asked.

“I don’t know how else to explain it. The system is locked away in a cabinet. Brown unlocked it for us and showed us that everything was up and running. I have to think the system was turned off before the robbery. And according to Brown, he’s the only one who has the key to the cabinet. Figure that one out, boyo.”

Stillwall raised an eyebrow, waiting for a reaction from Resnick. When he didn’t get one, he turned to Maguire. “Your partner’s a hard man to please. Just about talk your ear off if you let him, but you must know that by now.” He waited a few seconds and then sighed after still getting no reaction from either of them. “No sense of humor, the both of you.”

Stillwall led the way to the back of the bank where the safety deposit boxes were kept. Two extension cords plugged into outlets in the hallway snaked through an open door. Resnick walked into the room. Both cords were attached to drills that lay on the floor. He counted the number of safety deposit boxes that had been dumped on the floor. Eight of them, each with three holes drilled into them. Examining one of the boxes, he saw that the holes had cut through bolts that would’ve kept the boxes from being able to be opened.

“Seems they knew what they were doing,” Resnick said.

“That it does,” Stillwall agreed.

Maguire stood squinting at the rows of safety deposit boxes. “I wonder how they happened to pick the ones they did,” he said.

“Do we know who owns them?” Resnick asked Stillwall.

Stillwall showed a thin smile. “So far Brown’s not being very cooperative. He’s making noise about the privacy of his customers, crap like that, but he doesn’t have a leg to stand on. We could get a court order by tonight if we had to, but I think if we lean on him a little he’ll cave fast enough. What do you say, Alex?”

“Sure, just give me a minute.” Resnick stepped back and took several shots of the damaged safety deposit boxes before sliding the digital camera back into his jacket pocket.

They got to the lobby as two FBI agents were entering the bank. Resnick knew immediately they were FBI from their dress and body language. One was a tall, thin man in his late forties with a long dour face; the other an athletic dark brunette around thirty who would’ve been very attractive if her face hadn’t been set in a humorless, rigid expression. Phil Hollings joined them and there was a quick round of introductions. The woman, Kathleen Liciano, was the crime scene investigator, and she quickly left them to go and examine the dead body. The other agent was Donald Spitzer. Stillwall gave him a quick rundown, more tersely than he had with Resnick and Maguire.

“The government is going to be seeking the death penalty for the people behind this,” Agent Spitzer announced glumly. “We’ve been looking for a case like this in Massachusetts ever since the federal death penalty was expanded.”

“I hope we’ll be able to oblige you,” Stillwall said. “The perps who did this deserve at least that much. We were about to talk to Mr. Craig Brown and try to find out, among other things, why the bank’s security system magically stopped working before the robbery. Would you care to join us?”

Spitzer indicated that he would. Brown, who was standing across the lobby, turned a bit green as four detectives and an FBI agent approached him. Stillwall did the introductions. The bank manager had put out his hand to the FBI agent, but pulled it back after Spitzer ignored it.

“We’d like to talk to you someplace quiet,” Resnick said.

“All of you?”

“You don’t have a problem with that, do you?” Spitzer asked

“No, of course not.” Brown’s eyes jerked from Resnick to Spitzer. He took a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped the back of his neck. “My office should be fine.”

After they got situated in the bank manager’s office, Resnick asked Brown about the shootings.

“They had us all lying face down. I don’t think any of us saw the shootings. When that first shot happened I thought it was a bomb. I never heard anything so loud.” Brown’s voice wavered, probably as he replayed the moment in his head. As his attention focused back on Resnick, his skin looked paler, almost waxy. “I still can’t believe this happened,” he muttered. “I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack or something.”

“Do you require medical attention?” Maguire asked.

Brown shook his head. “Maybe a glass of water.” He picked up a coffee mug from his desk and started to get up, but Maguire took the mug from him. “I’ll get you the water,” he told him.

“Why do you think those two women were shot?” Resnick asked.

“One of the robbers was talking to Peggy. I don’t know exactly what he was saying, some strange things, like about a Brazilian bikini wax. I think he was trying to pick her up. Peggy just let him have it, told him what she thought of him. Then he shot her.”

“Peggy – you mean Margaret Williams. You knew her?”

“I’ve known her since she was seventeen. I know her parents also. Peggy was a beautiful girl. Also very feisty – someone who wouldn’t take guff from anyone.”

“Did you have a relationship with her?” Hollings asked.

“What? No, of course not.”

“Why do you think your security system didn’t work?” Spitzer asked. There was a hard edge to his voice and the bank manager flinched at the sound of it, almost as if he had been punched.

“I have absolutely no idea,” he said. Maguire had brought back his coffee mug. Brown’s hands shook as he drank from it, some of the water spilling on to his suit jacket. “Right after I was freed, I checked the cabinet and found that the system was still on. I tested it later with two of the detectives here and the system worked the way it was supposed to. I have no idea what happened.”

“Who was with you?” Spitzer demanded.

“What do you mean?”

“When you checked the cabinet, who was with you?”

“I was alone…” Brown’s mouth closed slowly as he realized what Spitzer was getting at. As he stared at the FBI agent, a shadow fell over his eyes. “I don’t like what you’re implying,” he said. “Maybe I should consult a lawyer.”

“That’s your right,” Resnick said. “And if you’re involved in this, it would probably be a good idea.”

“If you do want to lawyer up, we’ll be more than happy to bring you down to the station for official questioning and make sure the media knows all about it,” Stillwall added.

Brown’s complexion turned a sickly white as he looked from Spitzer to Stillwall. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “I had absolutely nothing to do with this.”

“You can understand why we would be suspicious,” Resnick said.

“No, I don’t understand that.”

“Anyone else have a key to that cabinet?”

Craig Brown shook his head.

“There you go,” Hollings offered.

“Add to that your unwillingness to cooperate with us,” Resnick said.

“Unwillingness to cooperate?” Brown sputtered. “How am I not cooperating?”

“A woman is shot to death, another critically wounded, and you can’t tell us why your alarm system didn’t work,” Stillwall said.

“I’ve been telling you, I don’t know.”

“You won’t even tell us who owns the safety deposit boxes that were broken into,” Resnick said.

“Which is just plain silly,” Stillwall explained. “If we go to a judge, we’ll have a court order within the hour forcing you to provide us with that information.”

“You would make things easier for me if you got a court order,” Brown said. “The person who owns them wouldn’t be happy if I gave you the information voluntarily.”