Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30)(60)

“That’s the word he used,” Lang said.

Lucas said to Jackson, “White Fist is prison-based. They’re on our list. The three of us . . .” He nodded at Bob and Rae “. . . were going to look them up. We can still do that. You could send an investigator along, if you want.”

“Maybe a SWAT team,” Jackson said.

“Bob and Rae are SOG,” Lucas said.

“Then you won’t need our SWAT—I’d like to come along, if I can get a break here.” Lang told them that Gibson had been asking about the 1919 website when he approached White Fist and two other groups, one called River Klan and the other called Bellum. River Klan and Bellum were both small, no more than a dozen or so members each, and both were focused on states’ rights issues, Lang said. Both had been present at a violent demonstration in Charlottesville, Virginia, in 2017.

“‘Bellum’ is Latin,” Lang said. “It means, ‘civil war.’”

“Terrific,” said Rae.



* * *



—

CHASE’S PHONE RANG and she walked away to answer it.

Lang asked, “What happens now? What about Stephen’s . . . body?”

Jackson explained the crime scene routine and the body’s removal to a medical examiner, and gave him a timeline. There was a chance that they’d be finished in the garage and the apartment by the end of the day, but they might want to look at it again, depending on the preliminary findings, so it would be sealed for an indefinite time. Gibson’s car would be taken to a secure parking lot where the crime scene techs could scour the interior for DNA.

“We’ll need to interview you about Gibson’s lifestyle,” Jackson said. “We can best do that at the station . . .”

“Do I need a lawyer?” Lang asked.

Jackson shrugged: “That’s up to you. If you haven’t done anything . . .”

Chase came back, had overheard the last comment, and said to Lang, “As a law enforcement official, I hate to say this, but you’d be better off with an attorney present when you’re interviewed. It’s best to have somebody on your side with you, even if you’re totally innocent.”

“Thanks,” Jackson said.

Chase shrugged: “Hey, I’m an attorney.”

She turned to Lucas: “The man they arrested this morning is named William Christopher Walton. They’re sure that’s his real name because they found his fingerprints, taken when he joined the Army twelve years ago. He was discharged after four months as being psychologically unsuitable for military duty. He has no priors of any kind, that we can find. They’re entering his house now, he apparently lives with his mother. They did find a rather unusual letter in his pocket, which refers him to the 1919 site, explains what it means, and suggests that he might want to take action. The letter is smudgy, apparently a Xerox copy of an original. It was still in an envelope addressed to him. Walton’s asked for a lawyer—or as he put it, a white lawyer—so we’re not getting anything from him.”

“Lone wolf,” Lang said. “How are you going to stop that?”

Lucas said to Jackson, “Give us some booties. We need to look at the body and up in the apartment. We really can’t wait all day.” And he asked Lang, “How did Gibson take notes? Did he take them on a laptop, or in notebooks, or a recorder?”

“He had a recorder, a very expensive one. Digital. A lot of the time, though, it wasn’t possible to take notes. He had a lavalier microphone that he could put inside his shirt, with a wire to the recorder, but he rarely tried to do that. Getting caught would be . . . disastrous, in some cases. Like with White Fist, you wouldn’t want to risk it. What he usually did—he had a very good memory—he’d interview people and then drive around a block and get his recorder out and talk into it. That’s what he probably did yesterday. I doubt that he would have transcribed anything, getting home when he did. He was an early-to-rise fellow. If he needed to transcribe anything, he would have waited until this morning.”

“We need to listen to that recorder,” Lucas said to Jackson.

“And look at his computer,” Chase said. To Lang: “Do you know if it’s password-protected?”

“Of course it is, but I happen to know the password,” Lang said. “I’ll have to write it down for you. It’s complicated, it’s one of those super-strong ones you can get generated on the internet.”

“Please do that,” Chase said.

Lang said, “I will. Oh, I do want to call my attorney.” He nodded at Chase and said, “Thank you for that, young lady.”

They got the password from Lang and as they walked away to the apartment, Chase muttered, “Nazi nincompoop.”

“About that password,” Lucas said.

“I’ve got it . . .”

“Looks quite a bit like the password to the 1919 site.”

Chase stopped in her tracks, looked at the slip of paper in her hand. “Now that’s a thought.” She looked back at Lang’s house. “Charles Lang is exactly the kind of person who’d love to have some power over a senator.”



* * *



—

LUCAS, CHASE, BOB, and Rae followed Jackson out to the garage, where a crime scene technician was pulling on a pair of Tyvek overalls. Somebody had run up the garage overhead door, and even standing back, they could see Gibson’s body on its side, with a puddle of blood around his head. He had the sudden-shot, rag-doll look, collapse and complete relaxation, his tongue partway out of his mouth, his eyelids half open, reddish streaks under the skin of his face, where gravity was pulling blood down through his flesh.