Flash and Bones (31 page)

My epiphany in the shed was dead-on. Bogan had killed Cindi and Cale, then threatened Grady Winge with the loss of his job if he didn’t help a fellow posseman dispose of a couple of bodies.

The Gambles and Ethel Bradford would be vindicated. The task force finding was indeed flawed. The couple hadn’t run off to get married or to join an extremist group out West.

Lynn Nolan and Wayne Gamble were also wrong. Cale hadn’t killed Cindi, then gone into hiding for fear of being caught.

Slidell and I had not been any more accurate. Cale wasn’t an FBI informant and hadn’t been murdered by members of the Patriot Posse. Nor had he and Cindi been piped into witness protection.

Eugene Fries’s theory was also off base. Cale hadn’t fled to avoid arrest for a terrorist act.

It was Tuesday, one week after Wayne Gamble’s death. Slidell, Williams, Randall, and I were drinking coffee in my study.

Slidell was being Slidell.

“You clean up pretty good, Doc. Last time I saw you, you looked like something climbed out of an unflushed toilet.”

“Thank you, Detective. And thanks for the flowers. They were very thoughtful.”

“I tried hiring baton twirlers, but everyone was booked.”

“That’s OK. It would have been rather crowded in here.”

It was tight anyway. Skinny was at the desk. The specials were in chairs dragged from the dining room. I was on the sofa, with Birdie curled on my quilt-covered lap.

“Bogan’s going to make it?” I asked.

“Not because I wasn’t aiming. The peckerwood hunkered down in the backhoe just as I fired.”

The pops I’d heard weren’t backfires.

“How did you know I’d gone to the Speedway?”

“A tip from a man of the cloth.”

“Reverend Grace?” Of course. I’d mentioned my whereabouts in our phone conversation.

“Hallelujah, sister.” Slidell waggled splayed fingers.

“Why did you go to the dirt track?”

“I learned that Bogan was supposed to fill the sinkhole. I hauled ass out there, saw the headlights, heard you cursing like a sailor on shore leave.”

“Thank God you finally called Winge’s pastor.”

“Big Guy had nothing to do with it. And I didn’t call Grace. He called me around ten, all in a twist because we’d collared one of his flock. I was still sweating Winge.”

“Grace persuaded him to talk?”

“Yeah. Told him that salvation would be his only if he bore witness to the truth. Or some bullshit like that. According to Winge, Bogan killed the girl and his own kid, then told Winge they’d been agents of an anti-patriot conspiracy and ordered him to bury the bodies, or both his membership in the posse and his job were toast.”

“Two years later, Bogan used the same arguments to force Winge to help dump Eli Hand.”

Williams’s comment was news to me.

“It was like a damn pyramid scheme,” Slidell said. “Danner was squeezing Bogan. Bogan was squeezing Winge.”

“J. D. Danner? The leader of the Patriot Posse?” Clearly I’d missed a lot while incapacitated.

“The head wrangler,” Slidell said.

“After events at the Speedway, the bureau decided it was time to bring in some individuals we’d had under surveillance,” Williams explained.

“Round ’em up.” Slidell circled a finger in the air.

“Danner’s lawyer allowed him to cooperate in exchange for immunity from prosecution. The DA agreed to a deal covering criminal acts prior to 2002.”

“The year the Patriot Posse disbanded.”

“Yes. As you know, Grady Winge is not the sharpest knife in the drawer. And he was still drinking back in ’ninety-eight. Winge let slip to others in the posse that Bogan had killed Cale and Cindi. According to Danner, certain group members used that knowledge to blackmail Bogan.”

“They made him their whore,” Slidell said.

“When Eli Hand died, higher-ups in the posse pressed Bogan into service to dispose of his body,” Williams said. “As with Cindi and Cale, Bogan forced Winge to do the dirty work.”

“Conveniently, at the time they were filling potholes at the Speedway,” Slidell said.

It seemed incredible that a person, even one with Winge’s limited IQ, could be pressured to do such a thing.

“How do you get someone to cram a corpse into a barrel, cover it with asphalt, and haul it to a landfill?” I asked.

“Bogan told Winge if he refused to dump Hand, he’d make sure Winge took the fall for Cindi and Cale. And he threatened to burn Mama Winge’s place to the ground.”

“It was Bogan who killed Eugene Fries’s dog and torched his house,” I guessed.

Williams nodded. “And it was Bogan who was stalking Wayne Gamble.”

I considered that. “When Gamble first came to see me at the MCME, he offered to locate Cale Lovette’s father and give him a call. He must have done that.”

“Freaked Bogan out.” Slidell was playing with a water globe I keep on my desk, a gift from my nephew Kit.

“Bogan used his usual MO to try to dissuade Gamble from pursuing the reopening of his sister’s case,” Williams said. “But this time intimidation didn’t work.”

I remembered Gamble’s calls to me, the anger and fear in his voice as he talked of his stalker. Again felt the heavy weight of guilt.

“It was Bogan who threatened Galimore,” Williams added. “And you.”

I thought back to the day at CB Botanicals. The greenhouse. Daytona.

“His cat startled me, and I dropped my iPhone. Bogan probably got my number while pretending to clean it. But he was with me when the call came in.”

“When Bogan went to the kitchen for sodas, he phoned an employee, offered fifty dollars, and provided your number and the message to be delivered or left on voice mail.”

The kid on the ladder cleaning the gutters: Bogan’s call must have beeped in while he was listening to music on his cell phone. Fifty bucks? Sure. The kid hit a few keys. Done.

“That a bird?” Slidell was holding the globe up to the light, squinting at the object sealed inside.

“It’s a duck. Please put it down. How did Eli Hand die?”

“Danner claims it was accidental self-poisoning,” Williams said.

“The prick pricked himself.”

I ignored Slidell’s witticism.

“Hand’s skull was fractured.”

“Danner speculates he may have fallen.” Williams shrugged. “No witnesses. We may never learn the truth on that one.”

He cleared his throat and looked straight at me. “The FBI confiscated Hand’s body out of legitimate concern for ricin contamination.”

“And destroyed it for what reason?” I kept my gaze steady on his.

“The cremation was accidental.”

“And stealing our goddamn file? That accidental, too?” The base of the water globe smacked the desktop.

“I have been asked to formally apologize to Dr. Brennan and Dr. Larabee for the destruction of Eli Hand’s remains. Requesting files from the top level of local law enforcement is routine.” Williams coolly flicked a speck from his perfectly creased pants leg even as he directed the same coolness toward us. “The bureau is in possession of information concerning the Loyalty Movement that I am not—”

“Yeah, yeah. At liberty to divulge. You’re bloody James Bond.”

“I can tell you this. Members of the Patriot Posse also blackmailed Bogan into experimenting with abrin.” Williams’s calm was unshakable.

“Why?” I asked.

“In Danner’s words, certain elements were not morally opposed to acts of civil disobedience. Ricin had its drawbacks. They wanted something better.”

“The bastards were thinking of killing people,” I said.

“But not Danner. He’s Peter frickin’ Pan.”

“Wayne Gamble wasn’t paranoid.” I ignored Slidell’s sarcasm. “The FBI did have his family under surveillance back in 1998.”

Williams nodded.

I turned to Slidell. “What about Bogan? Is he talking?”

“Like Danner, he’s looking to cut a deal. Bogan’s got shit to offer, so the DA’s offering zilch.” The chair creaked ominously as Skinny leaned back and stretched his legs. “I’m floating some legal jargon his way. Stuff like ‘lethal injection.’ ‘Shank.’ The ever popular ‘bend over, punk.’ ”

“Is Bogan impressed?”

Slidell laced his fingers behind his head.

“He will be.”

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON BIRDIE AND I WERE RELAXING ON THE
terrace. I was reading a book on the history of NASCAR. He was batting a mangled cloth mouse around on the brick.

We were both enjoying a Dr. Hook CD. The cat’s favorite. He actually stops to listen when “You Make My Pants Want to Get Up and Dance” plays.

Hearing a car, I glanced to my left.

A blue Taurus was cruising past the manor house on the circle drive.

“Heads up, Bird. Our day is about to be filled with sunshine.”

The cat stayed focused on his burlap rodent.

The Taurus disappeared behind a stand of magnolias, reappeared, and pulled in beside the Annex. Seconds later, Slidell hauled himself out.

I closed my book and watched Skinny trudge up the walk. He really is a very good trudger.

“Glad to see you’re following doctor’s orders.” Sun shot from the lenses of Slidell’s mock Ray-Bans.

“One more day,” I said. “Then back to work.”

“Yep. The lady’s stubborn as belly fat.”

“Is Bogan talking?” I shifted the subject away from my health.

“Like a cockatiel with a crack pipe.”

Slidell’s metaphors truly are something. Or was that a simile?

“Why?”

“He’s gambling the DA will go south a bump on the charges.”

I raised spread fingers. And?

“The night they died, Cale told his old man he and Cindi were getting out of Dodge. She had some kind of offer down in Daytona. Bogan flew into a rage. Get this. He’s justifying the shooting, saying he was provoked because a broad was taking his son away from him. The son he hadn’t said ten words to in years.”

“And I suppose Wayne Gamble called him mean names?”

“Eeyuh. Hard to sell temporary insanity on that one. Want to hear a sick sidebar?”

I wiggled my fingers, indicating I did.

“Bogan kept their shoes.”

“What?”

“Before the shooting, he made Cindi and Cale take off their shoes and walk down to the pond.”

“The one by his greenhouse.”

“Yeah. All these years, he kept their shoes in a box in his closet.”

I could think of nothing to say to that.

“Has Bogan said how he murdered Gamble?” I asked.

“He was watching, saw the other mechanic leave the garage. When Gamble bent under the hood, Bogan released some thingamajig that dropped the jack. The engine was cranking full throttle, so when the wheels hit the floor, it was sayonara.”

“Bogan had been poisoning Gamble. Why kill him in the garage?”

“Several triggers. First, Bogan was frustrated because the abrin wasn’t working the way he’d expected. Probably because the dumb shit screwed the stuff up.”

“Or the toxin was old and degraded.”

“Or that. Second, Bogan was getting nervous because Gamble seemed to be making progress. You and Galimore showing up at his greenhouse scared the crap out of him.”

“He didn’t let on.”

“No. But he recognized Galimore, both because of the task force back in ’ninety-eight and from seeing him at the Speedway. He knew who Galimore was, felt things closing in.”

“Why didn’t Galimore recognize Bogan?”

“Bogan got the landscaping contract before Galimore hired on at the Speedway. Since he already had his security clearance and employee ID, the two never intersected. Bogan kept an eye on Galimore but never really entered his orbit. Bogan’s on-site man was Winge.”

“So Galimore had little opportunity and no reason to notice Bogan.”

“Bingo. Third, Gamble had confronted Bogan earlier that day, threatened to clean his clock if he didn’t knock off the bird-dog act. Bottom line, Bogan saw an opportunity at the garage and grabbed it. Figured Gamble’s death would pass as an accident.”

Guilt vied with the anger knotting my gut.

Shoving both aside, I asked another question.

“According to Maddy Padgett, Cale was planning to quit the Patriot Posse. Was that true?”

“Eeyuh. And Cale knew a lot of their dirty little secrets. He and Cindi were crapping their shorts to get out of town. They feared posse hardliners might use muscle to keep them from leaving. Or worse.”

“That’s why she had the locks changed. She was afraid of the posse, not Cale.”

“Bogan also gave it up on Owen Poteat. We were right. He paid Poteat to lie about seeing Cindi and Cale at the Charlotte airport.”

“How did Bogan recruit him?”

“Before he got canned, Poteat sold Bogan a sprinkler system for his greenhouse. One day he was checking out a problem and they got to talking. Poteat needed money. Bogan needed the cops thinking his kid was alive and well and living somewhere with his girlfriend. Bogan undoubtedly gave some innocent-sounding reason for wanting to place the two of them at the airport. Poteat bit.”

Reflections from the magnolias moved in shifting patterns across the dark lenses covering Slidell’s eyes. I suspected his emotions were paralleling mine.

“It’s hard to believe a man could murder two young people, one his own flesh and blood, over an outmoded definition of what a sport should be. But I guess with him, it wasn’t a sport. It was a religion carried to the point of fanaticism.”