Page 33 of Sworn to Silence
“We need it now.”
T.J.’s expression turns sheepish. “His daughter is having some kind of birthday party tonight.”
“Call him. Tell him you need that tape yesterday. If he balks, tell him we’ll get a search warrant and he’ll be scraping produce off the floor for a month.”
“Got it.”
“Once you get the tape, I need the cash guy identified. This is a small town. It shouldn’t be too hard.” I turn my attention to Glock. “What about the tire tread and footwear imprints?”
“I had them couriered to BCI. I’m still working on getting imprints of city vehicles and footwear. Probably be another courier fee, Chief.”
“Don’t worry about the budget. How soon can you finish?”
“Today. If you guys give me a shoe imprint before you leave this meeting, that would be great.”
“You got a kit?”
“I’ll just use an ink roller and put them on paper if that’s all right.”
“Should be good enough for a comparison analysis.” I think about that for a moment. “Did BCI give you a time frame?”
“Two days. Three max.”
“Tell them we want priority or I’ll call the attorney general and have him light a fire.”
Glock nods. “Okay.”
My mind jumps to the next subject. “You getting background checks on those people at the bar?”
“A few have come back.” Glock opens a tattered folder. “Aside from Connie Spencer, the only other hit that came back is for a guy by the name of Scott Brower.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Thirty-two years old. High school dropout. Worked at the oil filter factory down in Millersburg, but he got into some kind of altercation with his boss, threatened to cut her throat.”
“Nice guy,” T.J. says.
“I bet he didn’t get the raise,” Skid comments.
Glock meets my gaze. “Boss was female. Anyway, he’s been working as a mechanic over at the Mr. Lube.”
“Did the factory press charges for the threats?” I ask.
“Fired him, but there were no charges filed.”
“Any arrests?”
“Four. Two were domestics. One for slugging a guy in a bar in Columbus. The other he pulled a knife on a guy in a bar in Kingsport, Tennessee.”
“Sounds like Mr. Brower has a penchant for knives.”
“And bars,” Skid interjects.
“Not to mention a problem with women,” Glock adds.
I nod. “You got a current address?”
Glock rattles off the address of a downtrodden apartment complex on the west side of town.
