Either the man was a good actor—it was always possible—or he was truly distraught over what had been discovered in his family’s tomb.
“We all agree it was terrible,” Jackson said. “We’re hoping you can help us.”
“Me? How?”
“Nothing unusual happened when your father was interred?” Angela asked, keeping her questions polite and her manner that of someone seeking help rather than accusatory in any way.
Angela had done her research and knew the man was in his early forties. Naturally proud of his heritage, he’d written several books on the Founding Fathers. When he wasn’t writing, he ran a tech company that specialized in helping those who did their own income taxes. He’d created the company along with a college buddy from Yale. The two continued to do well—so well, in fact, their employees now handled the day-to-day.
Which left Benjamin Robertson time to pursue his research and whatever other interests he might have.
Murder?
He was a handsome man with strong bone structure, curly, dark hair, and a clean-shaven face. He wasn’t quite six feet tall but had a fit body for his medium build.
He wore a crisp, clean, dark blue business suit.
He frowned, looking from Jackson to Angela. “When we interred my dad? No, nothing unusual. There were no bodies in the tomb then. I mean, none that didn’t belong there. Oh, my God. Even talking about this is ridiculous. Don’t take that wrong. It’s horrible and tragic, but...” He paused, lifting his hands helplessly. “Nothing was unusual the day my dad was interred. My pops died of natural causes—a bad heart. We knew he was also going into kidney failure, and those who knew and loved him were prepared. Ready to see him at peace. Many people attended his funeral, and the priest was in the tomb with him, too. Honestly, no, there was nothing.”
“Is that the last time you were in the crypt?” Jackson asked him.
Benjamin Robertson nodded. “Other people were in there that day. Not just to honor my father, but... my several-times great-grandfather was a famed patriot. People like to see the tomb. Even architecturally, it’s a historical monument.”
“But you didn’t leave anyone in it after the funeral?” Angela asked.
He shook his head. “No. No, of course not.”
He didn’t sound entirely convincing.
“And you locked it when you left. Are you certain?” Jackson asked him.
“I, yes. I’m sure. I...”
He appeared somewhat perplexed, then suddenly exploded with confusion and anger.
“I don’t know! I think I locked it. I was ready and prepared for my dad’s death, but it was still... it was a damned hard day. I think I locked it, but I was trying to watch over my mother and talking to the priest. To others. I think everyone was out. I think I locked it. And I probably did. You know the cemetery office keeps a copy of the key, too.”
“We do,” Angela assured him quietly. “And we know how upsetting this must be for you. I’m sorry to put you through it. We’re trying to get to the truth, make sure someone is held accountable, and ensure such horror never takes place again.”
Robertson let out a long sigh. “Yeah, of course. I’m sorry. I guess... well, the media has it out there that bodies were found in, as they called it, the patriot’s tomb. And then they act all sanctimonious, like they aren’t going to say anything. The victims’ families need to be notified. And, of course, they are all aware it’s an active investigation. That fellow who wrote the article, Jefferson Moore, is after me again. At first, it was just fine and cool, but not now. People always want to be sensational. You know, whoever shocks the world the most gets the best ratings or reviews.”
“Don’t worry,” Jackson told him. “It is an active investigation, and the media will not be getting anything else until we know more. But we’ll speak with the fellow who did the article.”
“Jefferson Moore,” Robertson repeated. “I thought it was great that he wanted to write about Gordon Town Cemetery. It’s notable, but it’s too close to Arlington and other historic cemeteries and places that are all major sites for historians. I was glad for the opportunity to explain that decorating was a way to include our lost loved ones in our holidays. And he did a damned good job with the article. But I just don’t want to talk to anyone now.”
“Understandable,” Jackson told him, handing him a card. “If anyone causes you difficulty, or if you think of anything, please call us.”
“Absolutely,” he assured.
“By the way, do you have a list of people who attended your father’s funeral?” Jackson asked.
“A list? Well, it was in the paper, so...”
“Was anyone filming? Doing video?” Angela asked.
“I... I don’t know,” Robertson said. “Maybe. I can ask around. My cousins were there. The service was beautiful. A soprano from the church sang Ave Maria, and my cousin’s son did an amazing job with Danny Boy. You never know. I guess maybe...”
“Please find out for us,” Angela implored.
“My friends, my family... no one would do anything so horrible.”
“But as you said,” Jackson reminded him, “the funeral was listed in the paper, and you don’t know who might have been there. We’ll appreciate anything that might help.”
Robertson offered them a grimace and said dryly, “You know, I’ve heard rumors. You guys are supposed to be ghost hunters or something. Maybe the dead guy can just tell you who killed him, huh?”
“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Jackson asked, smiling ruefully. “Afraid we’ll just have to do a real investigation and see what we discover. Amazing what the living can tell us when we have brilliant psychologists and psychiatrists on hand.”
Robertson frowned. “You don’t need a psychiatrist for this. A sick mind is sure as hell involved.”
“Absolutely,” Jackson agreed. “Please call us if you think of anything.”
“Yes, I will. Um, am I free to go?”
“Of course. You’ve always been free to go,” Jackson said pleasantly. “We’re just seeking any help we can get.”
Robertson nodded. “All right, then. You’ll keep me informed on what’s going on?”
“Naturally. And thank you for coming in,” Angela said.
He nodded, and then Jackson told him, “I’ll see you out.”
Angela followed but hurried to her office and computer. She quickly did a search on the recent funeral at the Robertson tomb.
Videos had been posted to various media outlets. She wasn’t sure how Benjamin Robertson could have missed the number of people who had been filming.
Most of the videos were of the priest or the singers. Benjamin had been right, the Ave Maria soprano had a gorgeous voice, and Benjamin’s cousin’s son had a lovely tenor, his tone plaintive as he sang Danny Boy.
But one video also showed the tomb and the crowd surrounding the service outside what would become the deceased’s final resting place.
At least twenty-five to thirty-five people attended, each who might easily be identified.
Jackson came into her office. “You found video?”