—
MASILLA WAS SITTING in his office chair, in shirtsleeves, and a large, pink-faced, sweaty man in a blue suit sat in a corner chair. When Virgil, Jenkins, and Shrake arrived, there weren’t enough chairs, but a secretary quickly wheeled in another one, and they all sat down, and the man in the blue suit said, “I’m Benjamin Rogers, Mr. Masilla’s attorney, and Mr. Masilla isn’t going to say anything at all until I hear your story, and then we’ll decide how to proceed.”
Virgil said, “Well, the Buchanan County school board has been stealing a lot of money, could be as much as a million dollars a year, and this has been going on for some time, and Mr. Masilla is in on it.”
Masilla blurted, “I am not.”
The attorney said, “Shut up, Fred. Just keep your mouth shut.” He turned back to Virgil and said, “Mr. Masilla rejects your claim, of course. I would like to hear what you have to support it, just as a matter of curiosity.”
“Sure,” Virgil said, keeping his tone amiable. “A reporter working for the newspaper down in Trippton was shot to death last week. Upon investigation, we found his notes, along with copies of the school district’s financial records. Even if we didn’t have the records, we have so many entries into this embezzlement that the whole scheme is coming down. More important than the theft, however, is that three murders have been committed to cover up the thefts. They are part of the whole process of the crime, of course, so everybody involved is going to Stillwater prison for thirty years . . . unless they get some consideration for their testimony.”
Masilla cried, “Murders—”
“Shut up, Fred,” Rogers said. He turned to Virgil and said, “I can tell you, son—can I call you son?”
Virgil said, “No.”
Rogers said, “I’ll tell you, son, if, hypothetically, Fred could tell you anything at all about this case, he’d need absolute and total immunity from prosecution, and I’d have to insist on a written arrangement with whatever county attorney you’ve got covering this case.”
“I’m actually working this out of the AG’s office.” He looked at Masilla, and enlarged: “The state attorney general’s office. I’ve got a name you could call, but I’ve got to tell you that we have no time. A man was beaten to death last night, and the man we believe is the killer can’t be found. We’re talking to three different people, and the first person who puts a finger on him gets the consideration. Everybody else hangs.”
Masilla groaned, and Rogers glared him into silence, then said to Virgil, “Give me the name of your guy in the AG’s office.”
Virgil gave him the name, and asked, “You want to call him from here? We could step outside if you want privacy.”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Rogers said.
Virgil led the way out, and the instant he was in the hallway, pressed the redial number for his friend in the attorney general’s office, who answered: “What? I’ve been trying to call you—”
“Our guy here is ready to pop, but you’re going to have to deal with him. You know what we’ve got, and we don’t think this guy knew about the murders. You can shape the deal so that if he lies about that, and we find out otherwise, you can hang him. I gotta tell you, if these folks down in Trippton walk, it’s gonna look bad when your guy runs for governor, and you let them get away.”
“You motherfucker, Flowers, this is blackmail—”
“Careful, you’re impugning my integrity. Tell you what—talk to this guy’s attorney, his name is Rogers, he’s probably on your other line right now, pretend you know all about it. But, Dave—we got no time. We’ve got three dead, and a guy running, and we got no time.”