Page 113 of Concrete Evidence
“Easy,” Morrow said.
Marc leaned in closer. “Did you shoot him and leave him for dead?”
“Not just no, but—”
Morrow touched his arm. “Don’t say another word.”
He wrestled with his handcuffs. “I hate this guy.”
Roden took over. “Jake, my partner can be a pain. I get it. And here he is aggravating you after a night in jail. I bet the noise, the smells, and the filth kept you awake. Would me.”
Jake shuddered. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“That’s why I want to help. Let’s talk about you giving us information, and I’ll speak on your behalf to the judge.”
Jake turned to Morrow. When the lawyer gave verbal permission, Jake agreed to hear Roden out.
“You’re a smart man. You’re organized, and I bet you know where everything is. Someone used you to murder because that person knew you’d do a good job and clean up the messes. The person paid you more money than you’d ever dreamed, but the stipulation was that you and possibly your parents would be killed if the information leaked.”
The cuffed man paled.
“I’d feel the same way if my family was threatened,” Roden said. “Whoever hired you set you up to take the blame for all the murders. We found the proof in your garage. Without your help, this guy goes free. You, on the other hand, could face the death penalty. At the very least, life imprisonment, which is worse conditions than what you’ve gone through in here. We learned you deposited ten thousand dollars cash into your account on four separate occasions. So, Jake, what crimes were committed for you to receive the exact amount of money each time? Strange how the deposits coincide with Bruce Ingles’s and Liam Zachary’s deaths, the car bombing in Houston, the supplies and instructions to build a bomb found in your garage, and right after Craig Holcombe went missing.”
“Jake, you don’t have to tell these men a thing,” Morrow said. “We can talk first.”
Jake moaned. “Doesn’t matter. I have no clue who hired me. Allarranged by phone in a weird voice. I ignored it at first, but then the guy told me where to pick up the ten grand—”
“Where?” Roden’s gentle tone caused Jake to blink.
“A spot on our property. In a brown paper bag.”
“What did you do when you found it?”
“Deposited the money into my account. Stupid thing to do.”
“The person called me four days later. I told him I wasn’t going to kill anybody, but he threatened to kill Mom and Dad if I refused. I had no choice. The first person was the Ingles guy.” He shrugged. “Found where he drank, joined him, and slipped a sleeping pill into his drink. The voice would give me a name, and when I carried it out, the voice let me know when and where to pick up the cash.”
“Always the same spot?”
“No. Different places on our land.”
Marc stepped in. “Now you know how upset I am about my father’s death, my mother as a target, and my partner getting shot.”
Fear streaked across Jake’s face. “Look, I had a list. Ingles, Zachary, Avery, and your mother were on it.”
“Did you plant a bomb beside Avery’s car?”
“Yes.” He stole a glance at his attorney. “Avery’s always been good to me, and I couldn’t bring myself to kill her. Afterward, I wanted to make sure she hadn’t been hurt too badly. Not sure why I got paid on that one.”
“You took off when the police and ambulances arrived?”
He nodded. “Wait, what’s your father’s name?”
“Colonel Abbott Wilkins of the Army Corps of Engineers. Worked out of the Fort Worth office. Originally thought he died of a heart attack but later learned he’d been poisoned by cyanide.” Marc heard a level of pride in his voice at stating his father’s name. Strange.
Jake closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I’d give you a name if I had one. But I had nothing to do with your father, and I didn’t pull the trigger on Holcombe.”
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