She nodded.
“I just got a call from Kat. They identified the second John Doe—our killer’s latest victim.”
“And?”
“His name is Arnold Kern. Until recently, he worked for Robertson Technologies.”
“Benjamin Robertson’s company?” Angela asked.
Jackson nodded gravely. “They let him go not that long ago. He has a record, something he kept hidden at first. But, apparently, it was information that came out when the human resources department did a deeper dive on some of their employees. He had a drug conviction. However, he didn’t do any time. Was only put on probation.”
Angela sat back, frowning. “That doesn’t make sense. I mean, Arnold Kern was the one who lost his job. If there was going to be a murder... Well, what are the most common motives? Money, love, jealousy—or revenge. But if revenge were the case in this, wouldn’t Benjamin Robertson be the one in trouble?”
“Ah, well, that’s when there is a real motive for murder. And when it’s not someone who is, in layman’s terms, batshit crazy.”
“But this doesn’t seem random.”
“No, it doesn’t. Anyway, despite the state of decomposition in our other victims, Kat said they’re hoping for identifications on them soon. There might be a connection between the victims. We’ll have to speak with Benjamin Robertson again.”
“But not now. Jackson, I really want to get back into the cemetery.”
“All right. But we have video now to scan.”
“Philip will be a lot better at watching the video and determining what might have been going on with someone.”
Philip Law, like his sister, Colleen, was a valuable member of the Krewe. They were two of a set of triplets, and the third member of their trio, Megan, was now married to Agent Ragnar Johansen. She had kept her day job, editing for a major publishing house. Still, with her ability to read between the lines, so to speak, she often helped out.
Philip, however, had degrees in not only psychiatry but also psychology, in addition to his talent for something akin to mind reading.
Jackson nodded his agreement. “I already have him listening to the recordings I made in the conference room this morning—our sessions with Debbie Nolan and Benjamin Robertson. I’ll ask him to look at the videos that were posted of the funeral, as well. Mark and Colleen can help him with that. I’ve also requested the security recordings from the cemetery’s office. Later, we’ll get it all up on the main screen and see if any of us can find anything suggesting someone might have been at the funeral or in the office absconding with a key. Plus, we still have the office personnel to interview. And so many others. Then again, Rome wasn’t built in a day—”
“Jackson, we have to figure out how to build Rome in a day—or at most a couple of days.”
“Because?”
“Because I’m afraid if we don’t, something even worse will happen by Halloween.”
He grimaced. “Okay, so we’ll build Rome in day or two. Come on. We can head out for the cemetery now. Maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll find someone among the dead who might be able to give us something we can’t get from the living.” He hesitated and then shrugged. “Maybe revenge could go the other way. But it’s hard not to wonder how an employee of Robertson Technologies ended up in the Robertson tomb.”
“Too obvious, perhaps? Someone who wants to see him blamed for the murder?” Angela suggested.
“That’s a possible theory, yes. Anyway, let’s head out and trust our fellow agents to use their talents to uncover what they can see and hear in those conversations on the videos.”
Angela nodded and closed her computer. They headed out to the parking lot.
The drive to Gordon Town and the Gordon Town Cemetery took them about twenty-five minutes. While the Krewe offices were in northern Virginia, traffic getting out of the D.C. area was seldom easy.
And yet it was strange. They went from an area that was heavily populated and continually congested to roads with almost nothing.
Finally, they reached Gordon Town and the cemetery.
The place remained roped off—yellow crime scene tape stretched around the entire burial grounds from triangle point to triangle point. And the local police presence was visible as intended. Before hopping over the stone wall by the embankment where they’d parked the car, Jackson waved to an officer and produced his credentials. The officer nodded and approached.
“Anyone trying to get in?” Jackson asked.
“Not in this area,” the man told him and waved a hand in the air. “No way the media missed what happened last night. Captain Denning held a press conference this morning, warning people to stay away. Not quite anything like ‘trespassers will be shot,’ but a serious suggestion that they might be arrested. He has a way with words. So, no problems here.”
Jackson thanked him, and they slowly headed toward the Robertson tomb.
Angela linked her arm with his, looking about as they moved along.
“There!” she said suddenly.
Jackson paused, looking in the direction she’d indicated with a nod.
And there, legs folded beneath him and perched on an aboveground tomb, was a man.
One that most probably wouldn’t see.
He was clad in the uniform of a Continental soldier, the basic blue coat and white shirt that George Washington had ordered in 1779. Even at a distance, Angela knew the uniform from a few of the deceased she’d made friends with throughout the years. This uniform had a red facing with white lining and white buttons, typical of those worn in Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia.
“That couldn’t be... Ethan Robertson?” Jackson murmured.
“That would be too lucky,” Angela said.
“Probably, but I think we are in luck,” Jackson said.
“Oh? Right! If it isn’t Ethan,” Angela said, smiling grimly at her husband, “I think it’s far more than likely he indeed knew Colonel Robertson, Virginia hero of the Revolutionary War.”
Chapter 3
One of Angela’s best assets, Jackson thought, was her ability to appear as if she were just a friendly, interested person. It didn’t hurt that she was a naturally beautiful woman with her inquisitive, bright blue eyes and fall of long, blond hair.
Nor did it hurt that her caring was real. Of course, there was that division. They had to care. But they had to keep their emotions at a distance during many investigations.
But as they approached, the ghost watched Angela curiously, his eyes on her rather than Jackson. As he realized they could see him, he smiled through a frown, surprise evident.
“Hi, sir,” Angela said. “I’m Angela Hawkins Crow, and this is my husband, Jackson. We’re delighted to make your acquaintance.”
For a moment, the ghost looked around as if assuring himself they were actually speaking to him.
“You are seers,” the ghost said. “My dear Lord, I have not met such gifted people in... ah, well, let me see. A hundred years or so.”
“Really? Oh. Well, we do exist. In truth, we have many friends and coworkers who are... seers, as you say.”
“What do you call it?” the ghost asked.
“We’re never sure,” Angela told him with a grin. “Sometimes, people think we’re gifted. Others sometimes think we’re cursed, but... well, I imagine you know. We don’t talk about our abilities to those without them because they—”