Stuart Woods: Capital Crimes

“We both know that’s not true,” Kinney said.

“Do we?” Stribling asked.

“It’s pretty obvious that a woman spent a lot of time here,” Kinney said. “All the decorating looks feminine. And who fried that chicken and cooked those collards in the fridge? Come to that, who put freshly ironed sheets on the bed that the senator got out of this morning? And one more thing, who called this in, a passing stranger?”

The sheriff gazed out the window toward the lake. “Okay, Bob, I guess I’m going to have to tell you about this and trust your judgment on whether to pass it on to your people and the press.” He told Kinney about Elizabeth Johnson and the senator’s relationship with her.

“I see,” Kinney said. “Let’s go talk to Ms. Johnson.”

THE MEN WERE ADMITTED TO Elizabeth Johnson’s home and were invited to sit down in the living room. Kinney had left Emerson in the car.

Ms. Johnson was an attractive woman with cafe-au-lait skin and carefully coiffed hair, and she seemed puzzled by the visit. “What’s this about, Sheriff?” she asked.

“Mr. Kinney, here, is with the FBI in Washington, Elizabeth, and he’s investigating the death of Senator Wallace.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Such a tragic thing.”

Stribling took a deep breath. “Mr. Kinney knows, Elizabeth. He just wants to talk to you about what happened this morning.”

Her shoulders sagged a bit, and she looked out the window. “Well, I guess this had to happen,” she said. “What do you want to know, Mr. Kinney?”

“How long had you and the senator been at the cabin on this occasion?” Kinney asked.

“Since yesterday afternoon around two,” she said.

“Did anyone call to see either of you while you were there? Were there any telephone calls?”

“No one came to the house, and there is no telephone in the cabin. The senator turns-turned off his cell phone when he was there, unless he wanted to make a call.”

“What did you do last evening?”

“I cooked us dinner, and then we talked for a while and played Scrabble. There is no TV in the cabin.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

“Around eleven o’clock.”

“Did you or the senator wake up during the night?”

“The senator tended to wake me up once or twice when he went to the bathroom. When he was back in bed, I would go to sleep again.”

“Tell me about the events of this morning.”

“The senator always woke earlier than I, and I would wake up for a minute, too, then I would fall asleep again. It was that way this morning, then I woke up when I heard the sound of him falling.”

“Did you hear a shot or hear the window break?”

“No. I’ve heard the sound of him falling before, when he had a heart attack last year, so I guess I was kind of on the alert for that.”

“What happened then?”

“I went into the kitchen and found him there. I couldn’t get a pulse, so I guess he died quickly. I gave him CPR when he had the heart attack, but when I saw the wound in his head, I didn’t try that. I sat with him for a minute, then I did what he had always told me to do if he died. I got my things packed up and got out of the house. On the way home I called the sheriff.”

“Did you see or hear anyone outside the house?”

“No, no one.”

Kinney stood up. “I thank you for your time, Ms. Johnson. This conversation will not go into my report nor will I tell the press about it.”

“I thank you for that,” she said, sounding relieved.

Kinney turned toward the door, then stopped. “Sheriff, could I have a moment alone with Ms. Johnson, please?”

“Sure,” the sheriff said, and stepped outside.

“Just one more question,” Kinney said. “Ms. Johnson, the senator apparently kept some personal files at one of his residences. Are you aware of any file drawers or cabinets or files anywhere in the cabin?”

“No,” she replied, “I’m not.”

“Thank you,” he said. He shook her hand and went out to the sheriff’s car, where Stribling and Emerson waited for him.

“Get what you need?” Stribling asked.

“Yes, but it wasn’t much,” Kinney replied. “I’m going to want to go back to the cabin alone tomorrow.”

“I’ll fix you up with a car,” the sheriff said. “You want to go to your hotel now?”

“Yes, please.” Kinney looked at his watch. It was after five, and he had not turned on his cell phone since leaving the airplane.

“It’s more of an inn, I guess,” the sheriff said. “Widow lady runs it. She’s only been open a couple of months, but it’s the best we’ve got around here.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Kinney said.

THE CAR STOPPED before a large Victorian house, freshly painted and with a carefully tended lawn. A sign out front said Kimble House. Mrs. Kimble met them at the door, and Kinney was impressed.

She was fortyish with long, dark hair and lovely skin. Her clothes did not hide her very impressive body.

“Mr. Kinney? I’m Nancy Kimble. Welcome.”

"Thank you, Mrs. Kimble. Ralph, are you staying here, too?“

”No, Bob, I have to drive back to Columbia,“ Emerson replied. Kinney shook his hand and that of the sheriff. ”If you could have a car for me at nine tomorrow morning, Sheriff.“

“Will do.” The sheriff got into his car and drove away.

“Let me show you to your room, Mr. Kinney,” she said.

“It’s Bob, please.”

“And I’m Nancy.” She took him to a large bedroom with a four-poster bed, a fireplace, and a comfortable sofa. “I hope this will be all right,” she said. “Oh, I almost forgot, you have some messages.” She reached into her pocket and produced half a dozen pink message slips.

Kinney glanced at them; they were all from the director.

“I can offer you dinner, if you like,” she said. “You’re my only guest tonight.”

“I’d like that very much, Nancy,” he said. “Perhaps you’d join me?”

“Thank you, I will.”

“I’d better return these calls now.”

“Seven-thirty all right?”

“Perfect…”

She closed the door behind her.

KINNEY CALLED Washington and got the director on the phone.

“So, what have you got?” Heller asked anxiously.

“Senator Wallace was killed instantly by a single shot from a sniper outside his lake cabin. The perpetrator was tracked back to a rest stop on a highway nearly a mile away, but he left no footprints, tire prints, shell casings, or anything else that might help us find him.”

“That’s it?” the director asked, incredulously. “That’s all you’ve got for the press conference? We’re on in an hour.”

“Sir, I’m afraid I’m in a small town in South Carolina, and I don’t have access to television broadcasting facilities. You’ll have to carry the ball, I’m afraid.”

“But what am I going to say?”

“I’ve told you everything I’ve learned,” Kinney lied.

“But I can’t go on national television with just that.”

“Sir, you may recall that I was opposed to the idea of a press conference, until we have something to report.”

The director made a noise and hung up.

AT SIX-THIRTY, Kinney switched on the television in his room and tuned in a network news show. The director made his appearance during the first five minutes. He repeated verbatim what Kinney had told him, then added, “Of course, our investigation has only just begun, and we expect to begin developing suspects shortly.”

“Then you’re going to have to develop them yourself,” Kinney said to the TV, “because this shooter is not going to give us anything.” He switched off the TV, unpacked his clothes, and began to change for dinner. He was looking forward to dining with Nancy Kimble.