The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(76)

She offered a hand and quietly said, “I’m Lacy Stoltz.”

He shook it gently, smiled, and instinctively glanced over his shoulder. “I’m Lyman Gritt, and you look much better than the last time I saw you.”

“I’m doing fine. Thanks for that night.”

“It’s my job. It was a bad scene. Sorry about your friend.”

“Thank you.”

He walked to a window and leaned against it, facing the hallway and the foot traffic. Patients were coming and going to several offices, but no one noticed them.

“We don’t have much time,” he said. “I’m not involved in any of the shenanigans on our land. I’m a cop, an honest one, and I have a family to protect. My name can never be used in any investigation. I will not testify in any court. I will not point the fingers at any of my people or the crooks they’re involved with. Understood?”

“Understood, but you know that I can’t control everything that might happen. You have my word and that’s all I can control.”

He reached into a front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a flash drive. “There are two videos here. The first is the property of the police in Foley, Alabama. They got lucky when someone, and I don’t know who, caught the theft of the truck on video. The second video was taken about fifteen minutes after the crash, at a country store just north of the town of Sterling. I think it clearly shows the guy who was driving the truck when it crashed into your car. I’ve included a memo with all the details I’m aware of.”

Lacy took the flash drive.

Gritt reached into another pocket and removed a plastic bag. “This is what I believe to be a small piece of a paper towel covered with blood. I found this about a quarter of a mile from the scene two days after the accident. My theory is that the blood belongs to the passenger in the second video. If I were you I’d get DNA testing immediately, and pray for a hit. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a name, one you can then match to the guy in the video.”

Lacy took the plastic bag. “And you have copies?”

“I do, and I have the rest of the paper towel, though no one could ever find it.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing. Just do your job and nail these bastards, and keep my name out of it.”

“I promise.”

“Thank you, Ms. Stoltz. This meeting never happened.” He began walking away, and she said, “Thanks, and I hope your wife is okay.”

“She’s fine. Just a routine checkup. She’s afraid of doctors, so I tag along.”

—

Neither Michael nor Lacy had thought to stick a laptop in a briefcase; otherwise, they would have wheeled into an empty parking lot of a fast-food joint, bought coffees, found a table in the corner, and rolled the footage. Instead, they raced home, speculating nonstop as to what the videos might reveal.

“Why didn’t you ask him?” Michael demanded, with some irritation.

“Because he was in a hurry,” she shot back. “He handed it over, said what he wanted to say, and that was it.”

“I would’ve asked.”

“You don’t know what you would have done. Stop bitching. Who’s the head of the state Department of Law Enforcement?”

“Gus Lambert. He’s new and I don’t know him.”

“Well, who do you know?”

“An old friend.” Michael called the old friend twice and couldn’t get him. Lacy called a girlfriend in the Attorney General’s Office, and got the name of a supervisor with the Regional Crime Lab in Tallahassee. The supervisor was busy and uncooperative and promised to call back tomorrow.

When they were both off the phone, Michael said, “The crime lab won’t do it unless DLE is involved.”

Lacy said, “I’ll call Gus Lambert. I’m sure I can charm his pants off.”

Commissioner Lambert’s secretary was beyond charm, said the boss was in a meeting and was a very busy man. Michael’s old friend called back and asked what was going on. Michael explained, as they blitzed down the passing lane of Interstate 10, that it was an urgent matter dealing with the suspicious death of a state employee. Abbott, the friend, said he recalled the story of the death of Hugo Hatch. Michael said, “We have reason to believe it was more complicated than a bad car wreck. We have a source from within the tribe and we now have possession of a blood sample that could be important. How do we get access to the crime lab?”

As they talked, Lacy searched the web with her phone. Having never dealt with DNA testing, she knew almost nothing about it. According to an article on a science site, forensic technicians are now able to test a suspect’s DNA in two hours, quick enough for the police to ram it through their crime databases and determine if the man in custody has committed the crime in question, as well as others. As recently as five years earlier, the testing took between twenty-four and seventy-two hours, enough time for the suspect to post bail and walk out of jail.

Michael was saying, “No, there’s no open investigation, not by the locals and not by DLE. It happened on tribal land and the Tappacola are in charge. That’s part of the problem. I’m talking about a favor here, Abbott. And a quick one.”

Michael listened, said, “Thanks,” and ended the call. “He says he’ll try and see the commissioner.”