"I think people surprise you." She looked back at the holding cell. "But I think a man who sends a death threat and then watches that man's whole family get wiped out a week later is worth a conversation."
Chapter 21
"Why am I even here?” It was his first question.
Miranda didn't respond.
"You hear me? I asked you a question, lady." There was so much belligerence in his tone, she almost smirked.
Well, wasn’t that interesting? He’d looked immediately at her big menacing shadow, but it was her he’d chosen to address. Because he felt less threatened by her? It was one possible answer. She had four inches and thirty pounds on him, at least. Which meant…so did Aimee Gibson.
Was he looking at Miranda because he wanted to try to take control—and as a woman he thought she was automatically more controllable? Pete shifted in the chair. His left hand moved from the table to his thigh. The empty right sleeve had been folded and pinned against his shoulder. "You had no right to just grab me at work. Hell, they are probably counting this against me. I’ll probably not have a job after this, you give a damn about that?”
“I’m sure once you help us out, everything will be fine. We can speak to your employer, if needed.” Miranda kept her tone almost warm. Helpful. She was better at “good cop” than her big hulking partner, after all. And…they had warrants, he could practically kiss his job good-bye. He wouldn’t be returning.
Knight watched. Miranda waited.
"Seriously though," Pete said. "Why the FBI here for me?”
“We’re here about Derek Gibson. Do you remember him?” Miranda asked.
He stared at her for a long moment, a look in his eyes that said he wasn’t exactly sure what she was asking. “That’s the guy I worked with a long time ago, I think. Guy and his old lady and kids—they all got whacked, right? What’s that got to do with me?”
"You sent him a note,” Knight said. Good old Knight, get right to the point. Impatience was definitely his middle name. “A threatening note. Tell us about that.”
"That’s what this is about? I’m going to lose my fucking job over Derek Fucking Gibson? Yeah. I sent him a note. So what? Not like I was going to doing anything about it. Man pissed me off. Told him what I thought about him, then went out looking for another job. I had child support due at the time. Was already behind."
"'You deserve to fucking die.'" Miranda quoted the note. Not like it took much. It was rather succinct, after all.
“What?”
“That’s what your note said,” Knight said. “Your DNA was on it, as well as a fingerprint. Led us right to you.”
"That's what I wrote? Hell, I barely remember doing it. Was probably drunk at the time, usually was back then. Guy was a real prick. Derek Gibson was a piece of shit. Walking around that factory like his ass didn't stink just because he had some bullshit supervisor title. Looking at me like I was dirt under his shoes. Talking to me like I was stupid all the time. Wrote me up four times in a year, for no reasons at all."
"So you threatened him?” Miranda asked. Pete was being so helpful right now.
"We got into it about some shit on the floor and I told him the truth. There's a difference."
"A week later, he was dead." Knight pointed out.
"And I didn't have nothing to do with that. Not a damn thing. I argued with the guy and wrote a note, so what? People say shit like that all the time. You ever tell someone to go to hell? So what?”
"Where were you when it happened?" Knight asked.
"I don't even know when it happened. Not exactly. Found out about Gibson and his family a little later."
"How much later?" Miranda asked.
"Day of the funeral. My cousin Bry told me, when he stopped by to…visit me after their service. Said the whole family got killed. Wife. Kids. All of them. I thought he was messing with me at first. Derek was a prick, but his wife never did nothing wrong to nobody. And those kids? They were just kids."
"Can you prove where you were when the Gibsons were killed?" Miranda asked.
"Yeah. I can fucking prove it." He lifted his right arm. The empty sleeve hung there. "Lost this the damned week they were offed."
“I’m sorry,” Miranda said. “How?”
"Working on my truck in my garage. Had a few too many beers. Got the sleeve caught in the engine belt. Cut it almost clean off. Doctors had to do the rest of the job a week later. Well, not clean. Messy as hell, actually. Blood everywhere. Thought I was gonna die right there on the concrete of my garage. Not my best day, come to think of it. So yeah, I know exactly where I was when someone killed Derek Gibson. I was at St. Vincent's in Evansville. I couldn't work for six months. Couldn't wipe my own ass for three. Lost my job. Lost my wife. Lost everything. Guess I was still better off than Gibson, huh?”
