Page 103 of Edge of Honor

Carolan nodded. “Somebody got to him. I want to know who and I want to know why.”

The tool-and-die shop was south of the city, near a truck and trailer repair company along the Rappahannock River. The entire business was humming and every piece of equipment, from the punch presses and vertical mills to the surface grinders and arm saws, was in use.

Entering the shop, Carolan asked a heavyset man with glasses hanging around his neck if he could speak with the manager.

“I’ll do you one better,” the man replied. “I’m the owner.”

Carolan showed the owner his credentials and stated, “We’re looking for Ricky Russell.”

“Is he in some sort of trouble?”

“We just want to talk with him. Is he around?”

The owner shook his head. “Took the day off. His boy, Jacob, is sick and they’ve been trying to get him into some clinical trial. A slot opened and Ricky and his wife were going up to D.C. this morning to do all the paperwork.”

“When did he let you know he wouldn’t be coming in?” Fields asked. Her head had been on a swivel since entering, alert to any possible danger.

“Called me last night and told me the good news.”

Carolan scrolled to an image on his phone from Russell’s parole file. “Can you confirm his home address for me?”

“They live about twenty minutes from here on Roxbury Mill Road. Not far from the River of Life church in Spotsylvania Courthouse. I canget the exact address from my office if you want. You’re sure he’s not in trouble?”

The FBI man shook his head. “Again, we just want to speak with him. Did he have any other plans that you know of today?”

“Not that I know of,” the machine shop owner responded.

“If you hear from him,” said Carolan, removing a business card and handing it to the man, “ask him to call me, please.”

“Yes, sir. Will do.”

As they left the business and walked back to Carolan’s car, Fields asked, “Next stop the house?”

Her boss nodded.

After doing a long, slow pass, they pulled into the Russell’s driveway and parked behind a purple Toyota missing its rear bumper cover. A small soccer net and an empty kiddie pool sat in the front yard. The roof of the house needed to be reshingled, and in several spots, the vinyl siding was warped.

Fishing the folder with the paperwork out of his briefcase, Carolan asked, “Ready?”

“Are you kidding me?” said Fields. “This place is so depressing, I’m going to need a Zoloft just to get out of the car.”

Her boss didn’t disagree. The Russells had it rough. Their son having a rare disease certainly didn’t help their situation. But there were plenty of other people who had it just as bad, or worse, and didn’t end up turning to crime and going to prison.

As they approached the front door, Carolan noticed a Confederate flag sticker in the window. Nodding toward it, he asked, “Do you want to ring the bell, or should I?”

“Very funny,” Fields replied.

From inside, a television could be heard playing.

Holding the white folder emblazoned with its blue Children’s National Hospital logo so it could be easily seen, Carolan pressed the doorbell.

Someone muted the TV, but no one came to the door. Carolan rang the bell again. Nothing.

Knocking, Carolan said loud enough to be heard inside, “Mr. andMrs. Russell. It’s Joe Carolan. I don’t know what happened this morning, but we’ve got Jacob’s paperwork.”

As he waited for a reply, Fields scanned the windows and sides of the house, making sure they weren’t about to get ambushed. That said, if Richard Thomas Russell was sitting on the other side of the door with a shotgun, all he’d have to do was pull the trigger. The effects would be devastating.

Abandoning the bell, Carolan knocked solidly, “Mr. and Mrs. Russell. If we can’t get you to sign the paperwork, Jacob will lose his slot. This space will have to be given to another child.”