Four Blind Mice - James Patterson [26]
“Blood that didn’t match the murdered women’s, or Sergeant Cooper’s, was found at the homicide scene.”
General Borislow’s demeanor didn’t change. “The judge in the case made the call not to allow that into evidence. If I had been the judge, I would have permitted the jury to hear about the blood. We’ll never know about it now.”
“Sergeant Cooper’s military record before the murders was nearly perfect,” said Sampson.
“He had an excellent record. The army is well aware of that. It’s one of the things that makes this such a tragedy.”
Sampson sighed. He sensed he wasn’t getting anywhere. I did too. “General, one more question, and then we’ll leave. We won’t even take our allotted time.”
Borislow didn’t blink. “Go ahead with your question.”
“It puzzles me that the army made no real effort to come to Sergeant Cooper’s defense. Not before or during the trial. Obviously, the army isn’t going to try and help him now. Why is that?”
General Borislow nodded at the question, and pursed her lips before she answered it. “Detective Sampson, we appreciate the fact that Ellis Cooper is your friend and that you’ve remained loyal to him. We admire that, actually. But your question is easy to answer. The army, from top to bottom, believes that Sergeant Cooper is guilty of three horrific, cold-blooded murders. We have no intention of helping a murderer go free. I’m afraid that I’m convinced Cooper is a murderer too. I won’t be supporting an appeal. I’m sorry that I don’t have better news for you.”
After our meeting, Sampson and I were escorted back through the labyrinth of hallways by General Borislow’s aide. We were both silent as we made the long walk to the main lobby.
Once we had left the building and gone outside, he turned to me. “What do you think?”
“I think the army is hiding something,” I said. “And we don’t have much time to find out what it is.”
Chapter 29
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Thomas Starkey got a clear picture of just how far things had gone for him. The clarifying incident took place less than two miles from his house in North Carolina.
He had stopped at the local strip mall for copies of USA Today and the Rocky Mount Telegram plus some raisin cinnamon bagels from the New York–style deli. It was raining hard that morning, and he stood with the newspapers and warm bagels under the overhang at the mall, waiting for the downpour to slow.
When it finally did, Starkey started to wade through deep puddles toward his Suburban. As he did, he spotted a couple sloshing toward him across the parking lot. They had just gotten out of an old blue pickup, and they’d left the headlights on.
“Hi, excuse me. Left your lights on,” Starkey called as they came forward. The woman turned to look. The man didn’t.
Instead, he started to talk, and it was clear he had a speech impediment. “Wir frum San Cros head’n La’nce. Forgath muh wuhlet n’mah pantz —”
The woman cut in. “I’m awful sorry to bother you. We’re from Sandy Cross goin’ to Lawrence,” she said. “So embarrassing. My brother left his wallet in his other pants. We don’t even have money for gas to get back home.”
“Kin you hep’s?” asked the sputtering male.
Starkey got the whole thing immediately. They’d left the goddamn truck lights on so he could be the one to make the first verbal contact, not them. The man’s speech impediment was a fake, and that’s what really did it to him. His son Hank was autistic. Now these two shitheels were using a fake handicap as part of their cheap con to get money.
Swiftly, Starkey had his handgun out. He wasn’t sure himself what was going to happen next. All he knew was that he was really pissed off. Jesus, he was steamed.
“Get on your knees, both of you,” he yelled, and thrust the gun into the male’s unshaved, miserable excuse for a face. “Now you apologize, and you better talk right, or I’ll shoot you dead in this fucking parking lot.”
He struck the