Wilde answered that one. “No suicide note.”
Oren nodded. Hester looked confused.
“Hold up,” Hester said. “Why would no suicide note make you think it was suicide?”
“If you wanted to fake a suicide,” Wilde said, “you’d definitely leave a note. If Peter Bennett went to all the trouble of posting that picture and taking care of his estate and flying to that island all to fake a suicide, it would be logical that he would have left a note in his own handwriting to seal the deal.”
“I see,” Hester said. Then: “But then I have another question. Either way, if he faked it or if it was real, why isn’t there a suicide note?”
Wilde had been wondering that himself.
“If you read his last post on Instagram,” Oren said, “there kind of is one.”
“What did he write?” Hester asked.
Wilde took that one. “‘I just want peace.’”
They all sat there.
Hester said, “A friend of mine used to quote Sherlock Holmes a lot. I don’t remember the exact words, but it warned that you shouldn’t theorize before you have facts because then you twist facts to suit theories rather than the other way around. In short, we don’t know enough.”
“Exactly,” Oren said. “Which is why you two need to cooperate with the FBI now and get ahead of this.”
“You know everything now,” Wilde said. “There is nothing I can add.”
“I know. But they insist. They won’t let go until you do.”
Hester said, “In other words, they’ll illegally harass my client.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“I’m a lowly small-town police chief,” Oren said. “The FBI doesn’t confide everything in me.”
“I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean,” Hester said.
“It means I think there’s something else, something big, something they aren’t telling me.”
“And yet you’re suggesting we just waltz right in there and talk to them?”
“I think you have two choices,” Oren said, again turning his attention to Wilde. “The first is, you go in and cooperate with your attorney present.”
“And the second?”
“You run.”
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
The Boomerang menagerie logged on in the following order: Alpaca, Giraffe, Kitten, Polar Bear. Chris Taylor’s Lion hosted the meeting as always. After everyone was in place, they all sat in silence, looking suddenly very silly to Chris in their digital disguises, waiting, hoping that the Panther would join them.
The Panther did not.
Chris spoke first. “We need to doxx the Panther.”
“You realize what that means?” Polar Bear asked.
“I do.”
“It’s the end of Boomerang,” Kitten said. “That was part of our agreement. Once we break the emergency glass, it’s over. We disband. We never communicate with one another.”
Chris’s Lion nodded. “Do you all remember another Panther case with an abusive troll named Martin Spirow?”
“Rings a bell,” Alpaca said.
“I’m going to share the file summary on the screen.”
Chris Taylor pressed the share button.
“Oh, I remember him,” Polar Bear said.
“He was the creep who tormented the grieving family,” Kitten added.
“Exactly,” Chris said. “In the end it was only one post. We checked. There were no others. We found out that Spirow may have been blackout drunk when he posted that.”
“Which I never bought,” Kitten said. “If you post blackout drunk, you don’t make sure that it’s from a new anonymous account.”
“Which was the argument Panther made. In the end, Spirow only got a Category 1 response.”
“Lion, why are you raising this now?”
“Because Martin Spirow was murdered. Also shot in the head.”
Silence.
Polar Bear finally said, “My God.”
Kitten: “What the hell is happening?”
“I don’t know,” Chris said. “But I don’t think we have a choice anymore. Polar Bear?”
“I now agree. We need to know Panther’s identity.”
“We can’t fool ourselves,” Alpaca added. “This is the end of Boomerang.”
“I’m not so sure,” Chris said.
Polar Bear cleared their throat. “Those are the rules we all agreed to. Once one identity is discovered by anyone—law enforcement, perps, victims, even us—we need to disappear for our own safety.”