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Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission

Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission

Titel: Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Michael Norman
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including members of his family, but if everything checks out, we’ll turn our attention to prison staff. The CO found the vic’s body at five-fifty. Aside from the perp, we need to determine who last saw him alive and when. Assuming it was five o’clock or a few minutes after, it was probably a civilian employee or one of his inmate co-workers. That’s a pretty narrow window. I wonder how many staff won’t be able to account for their whereabouts during that forty-five to fifty-minute period?” asked Webb. “We’re sure as hell gonna find out.”

Chapter Thirty-nine
    With the work of the crime scene unit complete, Webb and Gill released Sorensen’s body to the State Medical Examiner’s Office. The body showed no sign of defensive wounds on the forearms or hands. The victim had encountered sudden, overwhelming, and deadly force, affording no opportunity for resistance.
    The plastic shank and metal pipe would be processed for latent prints. Sorensen’s clothing would be carefully examined for the presence of trace evidence. The hope for a quick resolution to the case was fading fast. We needed a witness, and so far, none had materialized.
    ***
    Webb and Gill sat cloistered in an office near the crime scene where they had temporarily set up headquarters. Gill spoke first. “What do you think of Kincaid’s theory that one or more employees made the hit?”
    “There isn’t a shred of evidence that supports that notion right now. Think about it. Over the years, how many times have you and I been here handling cases just like this one? This seems like a carbon copy of most of the other inmate-on-inmate murders we’ve investigated.”
    “Sure does,” replied Gill. “But if the hit was carried out by prison employees, how difficult would it be to make it look like the work of inmates? Real easy, if you ask me. It makes perfect sense to cast a guilty shadow over the inmate population. It would keep the heat off of them.”
    “I think you’re right. Here’s another thing. Kincaid has been involved in cases like this for a very long time. He’s good, damn good. For him to be pointing fingers at people inside his own department takes balls. Evidence or not, we can’t afford to ignore his instincts on this,” said Webb.
    “I agree. And by the way, how do you want to play it with the press?”
    “The usual drill. We tell them as little as possible. I’d rather have them think that this is another inmate-on-inmate homicide. They already know about the forged suicide note. Let’s hope, for now at least, that they don’t connect the dots linking the Watts/Vogue murders to this one, assuming that’s how it turns out,” said Webb.
    “I’ll tell you what,” said Gill. “I don’t get nearly enough credit for how well I trained you. It ought to be worth at least a one-grade salary adjustment, don’t you think?”
    “In your dreams.”
    Webb said, “I called this furniture plant employee, Steve Jensen, at home. He was the last employee to leave the floor—that was 5:08 p.m., according to his timecard.”
    “What’d he have to say?” asked Gill.
    “Said there was nothing out of the ordinary going on. Sorensen was cleaning up as usual—nobody else around.”
    “If my math is correct,” said Gill, “that leaves a relatively short window of opportunity for the murder to have occurred—forty-two minutes to be exact. Officer Warner found the body at 5:50. All we gotta do is figure out who was in the plant during that forty-two-minute stretch.”
    ***
    Kate and I didn’t leave the prison until after midnight. We spent the evening interviewing inmates. Between us, we interviewed nineteen prisoners employed in the furniture factory and another half dozen who had been identified as either friends or acquaintances of the victim. My brain was fried.
    If Milo Sorensen felt threatened in the days or weeks leading up to his death, he didn’t share it with anybody inside the prison. We found nothing to indicate that he had accrued drug or gambling debts, or that he was the victim of a gang-run prison protection racket. He didn’t have a reputation as a snitch and never had.
    I had called Milo’s next of kin to inform them of his death. I spoke with an older brother in Logan, Utah, and to a younger sister in Salt Lake City. Both sounded genuinely distraught at the news, particularly his sister. Neither had visited the prison recently, nor had they received any communication from the victim that

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