“Brier placed him at the Flack murder.”
“Brier placed him at the body,” Stack corrected her. “Everything we’ve got on this kid points to nothing but wrong place, wrong time, all of it.” He leaned forward. “And I’ve got to tell you, the finances give ussomething, which I will explain, but only if you want me to. Before we go there, though, it’s important that you know what I found only backs up more ‘wrong place, wrong time.’ That ‘wrong place, wrong time’ says something, though. It opens doors.”
Fogel closed her eyes and rubbed her temple. “You were far less cryptic when you were a drunk.”
“Corner store is only three blocks up the sidewalk. You’ll have to make the run, though. I’m not much into distance travel these days, and the hill at Klondike Road is a bitch.”
“Not a chance.”
He produced a manila file folder from one of the boxes beside him, set it on the table, and rested his palm on top. “I wouldn’t bring it up if I didn’t think it was important.”
Fogel’s eyes dropped to the folder. “I’ll regret this, won’t I?”
“Probably.”
“Show me, before I change my mind.”
This brought a smile to Stack’s face. He opened the folder and slid a stack of stapled pages across to her. “For starters, our boy is rich.”
“What?” She studied the document. Some kind of trust.
“When the aunt died, she filled the hopper with insurance policies. We’re not sure how she covered the premiums. Rudy’s looking into that, ’cause she didn’t make much. All told, she left him nearly three million dollars when she passed.”
Fogel fell back in her chair. “No shit.”
“No shit.”
“He doesn’t live like a millionaire.”
“That attorney of his has him on a tight leash, also at the instruction of his aunt. It’s all in the trust. He gets a small allowance, but the bulk of the money is tied up until he graduates from Penn State,” Stack said.
Fogel flipped through the pages. “But he dropped out of Penn State.”
Stack shrugged. “I didn’t say he made sound life decisions, just giving you the facts.”
“I suppose he could go back.”
“I suppose so,” Stack agreed. “Until that time, he collects two thousand dollars per month, deposited right into his checking account, which he can access with an ATM card. His attorney’s office covers the bulk of his bills—rents, utilities, and the like, so this is more or less spending money.”
“And you followed that spending money?”
Stock nodded. “We followed that spending money.”
Using the edge of the table, he rose to a stand and went to a map on the wall. “Each blue tack represents a cash withdrawal since he dropped off our radar four years ago.”
Fogel followed him and studied the map. “He’s been all over the country.”
“That he has.”
“What are the red tacks?”
“Those would be our ‘wrong place, wrong time’ events,” Stack said.
“What do you mean?”
He pointed at one in the southern corner of Montana. “August 8, 1994, Billings, Montana. Four people found dead in the hospice ward of St. Francis Hospital. All appearing to be burned beyond recognition, but not really burned. Their sheets, beds, the room itself completely untouched.” He pointed to the blue tack next to the red one. “August 23, 1994. Our boy takes twelve hundred dollars out of a bank one block away from the hospital.”
“Two weeks later?”
