Page 14 of Dead Drunk (Cold Case Psychic #36)

Ronan

“And then there were two,”

Ronan said, when everyone was loaded back into Fitzgibbon’s SUV, after a quick lunch at McDonalds. They were down to two suspects left to interview, Cisco and Bob Oliveri.

“Duncan was telling the truth right, Ten?”

Ronan asked. His head was still spinning over the pay for play scenario MacBain had mapped out for them.

“Yeah, all of it was the truth. He didn’t say it out loud, but he thinks Kirkpatrick has another scheme going.”

“I thought as much,”

Fitzgibbon said.

“He’s got to keep up those house and car payments somehow.”

“How do you want to come at Oliveri?”

Jude asked.

“He’s a decorated officer. We can’t just walk in there and accuse him of being a killer.”

“Jude’s right. We give him enough fucking rope to hang himself,”

Fitzgibbon gritted.

“Fitz, we don’t know that Oliveri’s the killer.”

“Fuck if we don’t, Ronan! There is no way Cisco could have done all of this, extorted suspects, allowed officers to sexually assault women, ordered men killed, all the while building his career and family at the same time.”

“But you’re saying Oliveri could?”

Ronan asked.

“It’s pretty obvious one of them is Doom, but we can’t blow this investigation by having blinders on when it comes to Cisco.”

“He’s our friend!”

Fitzgibbon shouted, his voice boomed through the SUV, rattling the windows.

Ronan sighed.

“Ted Bundy had friends too.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ronan!”

Fitzgibbon’s eyes blazed with rage.

Jude set a hand on Fitzgibbon’s arm.

“Take a breath, Cap. You too, Ronan. We go in there and do our jobs just like this is any other case we’ve worked. You asked some damn good questions with MacBain, we need that Kevin Fitzgibbon to show up when we talk to Oliveri, not this out of control version. Same goes for you, Ronan. Got it?”

Both men muttered their agreement.

“Keep in mind that Oliveri’s gonna blame Cisco if he’s guilty. He’s also gonna blame Cisco if he’s innocent. We need to keep our heads about us so we can read through his bullshit and figure out if Oliveri’s our guy. Ten, we need you more than ever,”

Jude said.

“I want all of you to calm the fuck down and find your happy place.”

With Jude’s speech at an end, Fitzgibbon started the SUV and pulled out of the parking lot. No one said a word as they drove to Bob Oliveri’s house, but Ronan knew what his partners were thinking. Both staunchly believed in Cisco’s innocence, but were also smart enough to know that with two suspects left, the odds were 50-50 that he was the killer.

Fifteen minutes later, Fitzgibbon parked the SUV across the street from Bob Oliveri’s residence. It was a cute little brown cape with white shutters, making it look like a gingerbread house. The lawn was neatly mowed. A large Ford pickup sat in the driveway.

“Is everyone ready for this?”

Fitz asked, sounding like his usual self.

“Yeah, let’s do this.”

Without waiting for Jude’s answer, Ronan got out of the car. He could tell this was a nice neighborhood with lots of families and grandparents, of which Oliveri was one. He had two granddaughters, Paris and London. The girls were he and his wife’s entire world. How the hell could a man who loved like that be a cold-blooded killer?

Fitz rang the bell. The door opened on an older man, in his early sixties.

“Fitz! What the hell are you doing here? Haven’t seen you since my retirement party.”

Oliveri looked genuinely happy to see Fitzgibbon.

“We need to consult with you on a cold case, if you’ve got a few minutes. I’ve got my detectives with me.”

Fitz gestured to the others.

“Yeah, I know all about Ronan and Ten, Jude, not so much. Come in, come in.”

Bob ushered them through the door and into the living room.

“I miss the good old days of cracking skulls. I’d be more than happy to help you boys out.”

If Ronan hadn’t known about Bob’s granddaughter’s the living room would have clued him in quickly. Pictures of the girls hung on the walls and sat, framed on the mantle. Pink tutus spilled out of an over-stuffed toy box, while an army of Barbie dolls sat together staring blindly at the sofa.

“So, you mentioned a cold case, Fitz?”

Bob asked, wearing a happy smile.

Ronan could tell the retired cop was thrilled being asked for his help, but so far, that was all he could see. Bob’s body language was still, indicating he was calm.

“Yeah, we’re looking at Jefferson McGrath’s murder.”

Fitz paused, obviously waiting for Bob’s reaction to the name. It didn’t disappoint.

“Jeff McGrath?”

Bob said, looking as shocked as he sounded.

“That old drunk wasn’t murdered. You must have your cases mixed up.”

“We’re not mixed up, Bob,”

Fitz said, his voice going from friendly to all business.

“He was killed with an overdose of insulin. We’ve found three other similar killings. All four were clients of Fallon Kirkpatrick, who refused to play ball with the under the table legal fees to have their cases dropped.”

Anger flashed in Bob’s dark eyes.

“You boys have been busy, haven’t you?”

“We have, Bob,”

Fitz agreed.

“It hasn’t been an easy investigation. The last thing we want to do is tarnish the reputation of the Salem Police Department.”

“Yeah, well, if you continue investigating McGrath and the others, you’re going to do more than tarnish the department, you’re going to blow it to kingdom come. It’s not every day the chief of police is outed as a criminal mastermind and serial killer.”

“Are you saying Cisco Jackson is the one behind these deaths?”

Fitzgibbon asked, his voice even.

“I am.”

Bob nodded his head in agreement.

Ronan sucked in a deep breath. He was trying his best to keep his emotions at bay, but it wasn’t easy listening to Cisco’s former partner accuse him of being a killer.

“You knew about this pay for play scheme and about the murders?”

“Of course I did. Cisco was my partner. I thought he was my best friend until he threatened to kill me if I told anyone about his under the table payment arrangements. His threats were enough to make me retire in 2018. I might have been able to work with him as a detective, but I wanted out of the department when he became chief after Cisco murdered Alcott.”

“How was he killed?”

Ten asked, sounding mildly interested. Ronan knew that tone well. His husband was on to something.

“Same way the others were, insulin.”

“I thought the old chief had lung cancer?”

Ten kept his full attention on Oliveri.

“He did, but it was Cisco who finished the job.”

Bob shook his head.

“It was awful. There was nothing left to the chief but his bones and a shitload of pain. Can’t blame Cisco for ending his suffering. Of course being promoted to Alcott’s job puts a different spin on what he did.”

“The killings stopped when Cisco became chief,”

Ronan said.

“Guess he didn’t have the time to slip into jail cells and jab drunks with hypodermics anymore now that he was in the big chair.”

Bob shrugged.

“I’m glad this is all coming out into the open. I’ve kept this secret for far too long. If you can arrange for some kind of immunity, I’ll testify in court to what I saw with my own eyes.”

“And you’re sure Cisco is Doom?”

Fitzgibbon asked.

Bob’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“Where’d you hear that name?”

“From another witness,”

Fitzgibbon said, sounding as if the information was meaningless.

“Yeah, that’s what Cisco called himself, all right, ‘cause if the drunks didn’t play ball with him, they were doomed.”

Oliveri shrugged and looked downright bored.

Fitzgibbon stood up and shook Bob’s hand.

“I’ll work on an immunity deal and will be back in touch when it’s in place. Thank you for all your help, Bob. It’s men like you who will help rebuild the Salem Police Department when the dust settles. You might even end up in the chief’s chair.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t want that. I just want to right some old wrongs.”

Bob ushered the detectives to the door.

Ronan could tell the chief’s chair was exactly where Oliveri wanted to be. He rushed out the door behind his boss. Fitzgibbon looked like a man on a mission. Tennyson hadn’t gotten much information from Bob Oliveri, but it seemed Fitz had seen or heard something that pointed the arrow of suspicion clearly at Cisco Jackson. Ronan couldn’t believe this was happening.

When they were back in the SUV, Fitzgibbon gunned the engine.

“We need to talk about this. My house at six. I’ll grab dinner.”

With his white knuckled fists on the wheel, Fitz pulled out into traffic.

Ronan felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach. He could no longer deny the truth.

Cisco Jackson, friend, boss, father, husband, chief of police, was a killer.