Whatever forensic evidence had once been on the bodies of Pendleton and Farmer had since gone up in a thousand degrees of gasoline-fueled flames. Faye Farmer’s unborn child might lead to a motive—but it would be weeks before we’d know if there was viable DNA from the fetus’s remains.
Conklin said, “Sergeant Rinker, what’s this about a lead to the shooter?”
“I’ve got some crap-quality videotape. What other kind is there, right?”
As the sergeant punched keys on his computer, he told us that Ely was a small town, not much in it but a café, a few Western-style brick storefronts, something called the Frosty Stand, and a gas station called the Stagecoach that held down the intersection of the highway and the strip mall.
“The Stagecoach Gaseteria is your typical gas and food mart—three pumps and sandwiches to go. But here’s the thing,” Rinker said. “It’s one of only a few gas stations around here for about a hundred miles.
“Here we are.”
Rinker clicked his mouse to play the footage.
The so-called crap-quality video was grainy. Still, there was no mistaking the black Escalade when it pulled off the highway and parked at the pump.
Rinker said, “See, I can just make out two numbers on the plate, but they’re Ohio plates. Stolen off a car about three months ago.”
We watched the driver get out of the Escalade, take his wallet out of his back pocket, and go into the gas station, presumably to pay. The angle of the camera showed us the back of his head.
I was pretty sure I knew who he was from that partial view, but it wasn’t what you’d call a positive ID.
Conklin asked, “Is there footage from inside the store?”
Rinker said, “Would have been, but the camera was broke. So this is it. Now look, here he comes out of the store. And now he lifts his hand, waves to this guy parked out on the street.”
There was a hulking guy standing next to a silver Audi that had pulled up on the roadside, just barely within the camera’s range.
“That’s Cal Sandler,” I said. “Plays for the Niners with this man right here.”
I stuck out my finger and stabbed the ghostly image of Jeff Kennedy, who was now filling up a red five-gallon gas container. I could make out Kennedy’s face this time.
I thought anyone could.
Kennedy put the gas container in the backseat of the Escalade, got behind the wheel, and pulled out. His friend driving the Audi moved out right behind him.
Claire said, “Sons of bitches killing those women. A murder of an innocent person done to cover up the murder of an innocent person. Makes me sick.”
“Three homicides,” I said. “Baby makes three.”
Chapter 114
IT WAS SUNDAY evening and I was alone in the bathtub with my thoughts.
I had just come back from a meeting with attorney George Fenn and his superstar client, the former football hero Jeff Kennedy.
Neither of them looked as self-assured in our little interview room as they had at Fenn & Tarbox’s extraordinary conference room only a few weeks ago.
Today, Fenn blustered.
Kennedy denied shooting anyone, claimed that the man in the gas station video wasn’t him, and that he was going to sue the city for defamation of character.
It was a nice try, but no sale. We had Kennedy with the gas container, the Escalade, and we had a solid witness who wanted to keep himself off death row—Cal Sandler, Jeff Kennedy’s best friend and accomplice.
It was a bad day for pro football.
But it was a good day to be a cop.
I was running more hot water into the tub when Joe brought Julie and Martha into the bathroom. It was a tight fit. Joe sat on the lid of the toilet seat and bounced our little girl on his knee. He asked me if I wanted reheated lasagna or if I wanted to go out to eat.