It isn’t much to go on. And it certainly doesn’t get them any closer to finding Vince Whitaker. But you chase the leads you have.
After lunch, they knock on the front door to the home of the McKenzies, Katie’s parents. The lawn is immaculate, the cars washed, the exterior of the house meticulously maintained.
A woman answers the door timidly. She’s mousy and wears a necklace with a cross pendant outside her sweater.
“Ms. McKenzie, I’m Special Agent Keller with the FBI. This is Detective Singh with the Union County Prosecutor’s Office. We wondered if you have a minute to speak with us?”
Ms. McKenzie starts to speak as a man’s voice calls out from behind. “Who is it?”
Before Ms. McKenzie turns around, the man has joined her in the doorway. He has a sharp part in his hair and a sharper demeanor.
Keller introduces Atticus and herself again.
The man’s face turns to stone. “I’m sorry, but we have nothing to say to you.”
Before Keller can get another word out, the door slams shut.
She looks at Atticus, confused. That’s now two fathers who’ve refused to talk about the case. It doesn’t make sense. She considers knocking again, but she’s distracted by Atticus, who’s intently studying his phone.
“What is it?” she asks.
“They caught the perp.” His eyes jump up from the device. “Arpeggio’s team just made an arrest.”
“Who is it?”
“You’re not gonna believe this.”
CHAPTER 35
CHRIS
When Chris arrives at the office, he feels an electricity in the cube farm. Their work area is normally filled with the clatter of typing and the din of calls with clients, prosecutors, and witnesses, but today there’s an ominous quiet.
“What’s going on?” Chris asks Julia, who’s stationed in the cubicle next to his.
“You haven’t heard?” Julia is eating fruit from a plastic container. They both started at the Public Defender’s Office two years ago, but unlike Chris, Julia still has true-believer idealism.
“Heard what?” Chris asks.
She swings her long braids over her shoulder. “They caught the ice cream shop killer.”
Chris takes in a breath. “When did they—who?”
“A high school kid.”
Déjà vu ripples through every part of Chris.
“I know, crazy, right?” Julia says. “The Blockbuster case all over again.”
Once, Chris came close to telling Julia his secret—his real name, his connection to a notorious crime that had made this very office notorious. The inspiration for Henry’s the best lawyer I ever knew speech. They’d been out drinking, talking shop when he started to tell her, figuring she’d be someone who would understand and not hold it against him. But they were interrupted by Roger, one of the newer lawyers in the prosecutor’s office, who stumbled over, tanked up on artisan beer. He frequently hit on Julia while gloating about his office’s convictions of their clients. Roger is one of those prosecutors who treat the justice system like a game. Maybe he’s right.
Chris looks about the room. The tension is palpable. Then he realizes why. Everyone is worried they’ll be assigned to defend the kid. A quintessential B-file.
Henry Robinson approaches the podium. The head of the office scans the room from over his reading glasses pinched on his nose.
“I imagine you’ve heard that there’s been an arrest in the murders at the Dairy Creamery.”
The room is morgue-quiet now.
“The accused is being brought before Judge Armstrong this afternoon. The judge called me personally to make sure we had someone there. No way this kid can afford a private lawyer.”
Whoever the kid is, he’s gotten lucky so far. Judge Armstrong is fair, not a hanging judge. She worked at the PD’s office for a decade before taking the bench. She and Henry are old friends. She believes in the Bill of Rights. Won’t rush to judgment. But even Armstrong, Chris knows, will have Bartholomew H. Badcock on her mind.
“I’m going to appear myself,” Henry tells the group. “But I need a couple volunteers who can get their arms around this quickly. I don’t want to assign someone who doesn’t want it.”
The room remains quiet.
“All right,” Henry says, after a long pause. “Give it some thought. If you’re willing to help this seventeen-year-old”—he’s laying on the guilt now—“come to my office. If there’re no takers, I’m going to have to—”