Page 7 of Fatal Strike
Rachel whispered her thanks. “Parenting is more difficult than I ever imagined.” She took a breath. “Back to helpingyou and Agent Colbert. I need to compile a list of those who opposed my husband, and I apologize for not having it this morning. He had many enemies, and someone is guilty. If you’ll check back tomorrow, I’ll have it ready for you.”
“We’ll be here all day,” Leah said. “The list is critical for the investigation. Are there any names that rise to the surface?”
Rachel’s chin trembled. “I suggest looking at all of his cases. Have you filed search warrants for our home and my husband’s office?”
“Do we need them?” Leah said.
“My attorney would not approve of what I’m about to say, but I want to help find my husband’s killer. For his professional office, I require a search warrant. For here at home, I give you permission to search through his desk drawers, any storage folders in the closet and credenza, and image his computer and other mobile devices. I have his passwords. He had his phone with him, and Chief of Police Everson has it. I assume he’s run prints. You can obtain a copy of his calls from him.”
“We appreciate your cooperation. An FBI team will be assigned to the sweep here and later at the courthouse when the warrant is in place. In the meantime, Agent Colbert and I would like to look at the judge’s office.”
“I’ll show you where he worked.”
5
IN THEIR BRIEF SEARCHof Judge Mendez’s office, Jon and Leah didn’t turn up anything of note. Jon contacted Houston FBI for a team to image the computer, sweep the room, and request a search warrant for the judge’s courthouse office. He hoped the FBI team had better luck.
In his truck with Leah beside him, Jon drove down Thirty-Second Street toward the home of Edgar Whitson, the witness to this morning’s crime. Leah had called him as a courtesy to make sure he was home.
GPD officers surrounded St. Peter’s on the corner. Jon parked half a block away from the church near the Whitson home, afreshly painted white bungalow facing seaward and backing up to the church. With residences lining only one side of the street, the chances of neighbors having cameras that might have picked up those who’d dumped the judge’s body decreased.
An elderly man with a full head of snow-white hair stepped out of the house onto a porch bordered with yellow roses as thick as dandelions in spring. An American flag waved from one porch post, and a Texas flag saluted them on the other. As Jon and Leah approached the porch, the man introduced himself. Jon reached out and shook his hand. “I’m Agent Colbert, and this is my partner, Agent Riesel.”
She grasped his hand. “We appreciate your willingness to talk to us.”
“I fought in the Punchbowl in 1951, the Korean War.” He nodded. “The families here on the island who’ve been hurt need to see justice served.” Mr. Whitson returned her smile. “Miss, the FBI’s doing a great job of recruiting pretty gals.”
“Thank you.”
“The wife’s lying down. Feeling a bit puny today. The older we get, sleeping comes full circle like we’re babies again.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We won’t be long.”
“Whatever y’all need. Come on inside, where it’s cooler.” He opened the door to a living room bright with sunlight. Usually older people lived in the dark, at least in Jon’s experience. The scent of freshly brewed coffee met his nostrils.
Mr. Whitson led the way into the kitchen. “Made a new pot a few minutes ago. Want a cup?”
“A jolt of caffeine sounds wonderful,” Leah said.
“You, sir?”
“Never met a cup of coffee I didn’t like.” The three filled their cups, rich and dark like Jon preferred. He picked up a framed wedding photograph near the coffeemaker. A much younger Edgar, dressed in his Marines uniform, stood erect beside a lovely petite woman.
“That’s me and the missus some sixty-five years ago. The war was over, and we were ready to put it behind us.”
Jon handed it to Leah. “What a beautiful couple.” She glanced up. “Mr. Whitson, you’re still the same size as you were then.”
He laughed. “I’ll be sure to tell the missus. She complains about my middle. Our granddaughter’s an interior decorator, and she says pictures don’t go in the kitchen. But I don’t care.”
“Me, either.” Leah peered at the vintage photo. “Looks perfect here.”
“Mr. Whitson, we’d like to record your testimony.” Jon held up his cell phone. “Are you okay with that?”
The older man hesitated. “But can you keep my name out of it for the missus’s sake? The Venenos won’t take kindly to me talking to you folks.”
“We’ll keep your name from the media,” Jon said. “In fact, we’ll be knocking on your neighbors’ doors too. If your information leads to an arrest and the case goes to court, we’ll make sure you and your wife are protected.”
“Good.” Mr. Whitson nodded. “Let’s take our coffee out back. Been thinking about the view from there, and you might want to take a few pictures.”
